twy | ˙⋆✮

19. al’ghul family attorney. requests open

[partywithponies]

The number one funniest example of people inventing bullshit reasons ships they don't like are "problematic" that I've ever seen was people calling Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister "like siblings".

Fam.

Have you forgotten the number one most notable trait about Jaime Lannister.

[partywithponies]

ASGDJFKXJDJXJXH

[lover-of-mine]

Buddie supercut masterpost!

Hi everyone, I am finally done with the cuts, so here we have all of them, the first link is for the individual post here, you can click the video to watch it on drive without downloading anything with English subtitles, and the folder link so you can download the video and subtitle. All videos are 1080p 30 fps, if you're an editor, they can be a nice resource.

Season 2: video // folder

Season 3: video // folder

Season 4: video // folder

Season 5: video // folder

Season 6: video // folder

Season 7: video // folder

Season 8a: video // folder

I don't usually add this to my stuff but this is the product of months of work, literally, you don't have to, but if you see this and think "wow, wonder if Anna has a tip button" this is my kofi and you can buy me a coffee.

[thetwylazone]

holy there is no way they are gonna find a way for eddie to save someone from a literal whale’s stomach

[dolly4stxr]

BOOMSHAKALAKA YES GAWD YES GAWD

[54nboo]

‘truth, justice, and the american way.’ clark kent / superman.

summary: you recall the five times your co-worker clark kent uncannily resembled metropolis’ new superhero, superman.

pairing: clark kent x reader

insp by: i dont know but i want to jump off of a train and i want david corenswet’s superman to catch me🤞 stay with me guys

word count: 7.9k

content warning: mentions of kidnapping, reader gets yelled at, abusive language, a bit of violence (slapping and punching and stuff), falling from a very tall height, smooching duh

a/n: my first ever dc fic 😮 i havent even watched superman yet but i think i am love with everyone in it. this is my contribution to the clark kent fandom. this felt really rushed but et me know what you think!!!!

the first time it happened, you had almost missed it.

it was a tuesday in november— one of those bleak, gloomy fall days that always inevitably ended in an absolute downpour as soon as the sun set. the city had been grey all day, sluggish and uneventful. the kind of day where your computer would freeze for no reason and people were a little bit meaner.

it's windy too— so windy that as soon as you had left the daily planet, your umbrella had been swept straight out of your hand by a particularly strong gust of wind. you watched in despair as it flew off into the sky, looking like a taunting red dot the further it fly into the clouds.

that's how you find yourself squeezing under an umbrella with your co-worker, clark. it happened wordlessly— one moment you were standing at the front of the daily planet wondering how you're going to get home, and the next, there's the quiet click of an umbrella popping open above you, and clark is there beside you, offering a sheepish smile as if saying no big deal. just saving you from hypothermia.

he was always like that. clark was sweet— the kind of guy you'd trust to take care of your dog when you go on holiday, and the type who'd also send you updates of your dog twice a day with photos.

he hadn't seemed bothered by the undesirable weather, flashing you a quiet smile whenever you leaned a little closer to escape stray raindrops. he insisted he didn't mind the rain and that he grew up on a farm and was used to a little moisture and mud.

"i'll walk you to the subway." he says, looking down at you through his glasses. there's a few specs of rain sitting on the lenses, but nothing he's bothered by.

"no way." you protest, "it's two blocks out of your way, clark."

he shrugs, "it's alright. i like the rain. it calms me down."

that's when it happens. a freak wave of wind blows straight at you and clark like it has a personal vendetta against you, sharp and cold as it tunnels down the avenue with the full force of an oncoming train.

you instinctively duck your head as it hits, your coat flaring open and your hair whipping across your face. you can feel as the wind pushes the rain towards you, but you don't feel it soaking into your clothes like you had expected it to.

for a split second, you expect to look up and see clark being absolutely destroyed by the wind. you expect to see his umbrella gone, rolling down the street like a tumbleweed or flying through the air just like yours did.

but no— clark isn't budging. not a step, not even a wobble. he's standing so still that it makes you think he's cemented himself to the ground. and surprisingly, he hasn't let go of the umbrella. it stays still in his hand, the other holding you behind him— but the canopy is destroyed.

and most surprising of all is that his hand settles on your waist, almost like he's keeping you extra close just to make sure you aren't swept away. you can feel the warmth of his skin through his coat— almost inhumanly warm.

the wind seems to settle, calmer than before, but now you're standing in the middle of the street in the pouring rain. you dont even think— you just grab a hold of his coat and rush towards the safety of a tree where the rain barely passes through the leaves. it’s not much shelter, but it's something.

you turn to look at clark. he's looking down at you like he hadn't just casually tanked a gust of wind strong enough to make you stumble two steps backwards. there's a softness in his expression— concern, maybe— but it's quickly overshadowed when you realise how absolutely drenched he is.

clark has rain running down the lenses of his glasses and his hair is absolutely soaked, the flattened curls clinging to his forehead. the front of his clothes are a shade darker than the back, and his shirt and coat are sticking to him like he had stepped into the shower fully clothed.

"oh clark, you're drenched." you say it before you can stop yourself, eyes looking at the state of him.

"am i?" he jokes as rainwater drips from the ends of his hair and onto the top of his nose. he gives a little sniff, blinking behind his fogged-up glasses.

you preach into your back and pull out a crumpled pink handkerchief, "here. before you catch pneumonia."

clark huffs out a laugh, deep and sheepish, "thanks". he slips his glasses off carefully. you watch as he starts gently wiping the lenses dry, just as he has a hundred times before.

it's what he does next that that gets to you.

he reaches up and pushes his soaked hair back in one swift motion. it's quick and sharp, almost practiced. just for a moment, you really see him.

it's not that you can finally see his face without all the obstacles— it's that you recognise his face in a way that doesn't make sense. no glasses. hair swept back. a clean jawline that you failed to see under all of his soft awkwardness. there's something oddly familiar about clark's face that doesn't sit quite right in your gut.

and as quickly as it came, it vanishes. clark shoves his glasses back onto his face and his hair flops down onto his forehead again, still wet but dryer than before. he wrings out your handkerchief as best he can, pressing it in between his palms like he's afraid it might unravel.

"sorry, it's a little soggy." he says, holding it up with a grimace.

you force a smile. "it's fine. it was, like, two dollars."

but you're still searching his face. your eyes scan every single curl of his hair, every tiny detail that could possibly explain the strange twisting you feel in your stomach.

it must show in your face somehow. maybe you're staring, because clark tilts his head, looking down at you with his brow quirked in soft concern, "you okay?"

and now he's back. clark. just clark. your sweet and honest co-worker who shares his umbrella with you when it rains and apologises for using your handkerchief to dry himself off.

"just a little cold." you nod and give a little shrug as if you hadn't just had the strangest experience of your life. you point to the destroyed umbrella still hanging from clark's wrist, "unfortunately, we've lost the umbrella."

clark holds up the umbrella, frowning at its state. his furrowed brows and cocked head gives off the impression that he didn't even know it looked like that. "well, that's sad."

although you don't have access to a working umbrella anymore, clark manages to make it work. you're walking side-by-side squished under the large expanse of his coat. it's not the most efficient, but clark acts like he's totally fine acting as your cover from the november downpour.

he drops you off at the subway station with a smile and a wave, and then he disappears back into the downpour. you watch him go, but youre left thinking— that was weird, right?

the second time it happens, you're a little more attentive.

its about a week later. the weather has cleared up a bit, the sun shining through the daily planet's windows and pooling on your desk, warming you up as you sift through stacks of drafts and coffee-stained notes. you pause for a moment to take it in. after so many cold, rainy days, it feels like a small bit of mercy from mother nature.

but then something tugs at you. its like a thread pulls at the back of your mind, calling for your attention before you even realise when you're looking at.

your gaze lands on clark, who's sitting at his desk across from you, scrolling through something on his screen. the sunlight is hitting him now, almost like a spotlight had found its target.

it should wash him out like it does to everybody else, but it doesn't. it hits the side of his face and suddenly the sunlight envelopes him entirely. he almost looks like he's made of it.

"hey, who let him in here?"

the question doesn't make sense at first— not when you're staring at clark— but then you hear the energy in the room shift, like the air has been sucked out of it. you can hear someone's chair squeaking, and then there's more scratching against the floor as they move for an unstoppable force.

you glance towards the commotion. that's when you see him.

a man, wild-eyed and fuming, is moving through the bullpen with far too much purpose. he's not lost, or confused— he's angry, and he's heading straight for you.

"hey!" he barks, jabbing an accusing finger in your face, "you think it's funny to mess with people's lives? you think printing that crap makes you a real journalist?"

you freeze. your chair betrays you, holding you hostage as you stare down the man in front of you. you dont know him. you're sure you don't. but it doesn't slow him down.

you barely have time to process it when clark's already on his feet— not rushing, not panicked. just... there. he moves to stand in front of you without a word, six feet of calm broad-shouldered certainty slotting perfectly in between you and this man.

and for a moment, you feel like you're watching something very familiar take shape, like this isn't the first time clark's put himself in harms way to help someone else.

"sir, you need to take a step back."

and he says it once with that pure and even tone. its almost so polite that you almost miss the edge of warning in it. but the man doesn't listen.

"that little weasel lied!" he shouts in clark’s face, then moves so that he can glare at you, "you think you can write whatever you want and people wont come knocking? that's not how the world works, you freak!"

"i said step back."

this time clark doesn't just say it— he means it. you can hear the change in his voice—deeper, sharper at the edges— almost like the warning hum of power lines before a storm.

the man huffs and tries to shoulder past clark, but clark doesn't move— he doesn't even stumble. he just stands there. the man stumbles back like he's the one that was hit, and for a moment, his anger falters.

lois helps you up from your chair and helps you step back. she's holding an arm out like a shield with zero hesitation, and then shouts— firm and laced with confidence that only comes from being yelled at a lot and never once backing down.

"hey," she snaps, stepping fully in front of you and standing right beside clark, "whatever was written was true. you dont like it? file a complaint. hell, scream into a pillow. but you do not storm in and threaten us."

the man opens his mouth, but lois shoots him a glare so deadly that it almost makes you feel bad for him.

"touch my colleague, or any of us, and you'll have me to deal with— and trust me, i'm a lot scarier than clark here.”

clark, still planted like a marble statue, hums, "she's not lying."

there's a beat of silence, and before the man can open his mouth to scream more obscenities at you, security swoops in and drag him out of the building. he's still yelling, but it's mostly just noise now, garbled and distant and forgotten by the ringing in your ears.

you're still shocked, adrenaline buzzing in your limbs when lois gives your arm a soft squeeze. "you okay?"

you nod even though you're not sure.

"hey, you shouldn't worry about scumbags like that." she leans in closer, "your story rattled him. that means it made a mark."

"i didnt even—" you suck in a breath of confusion, "i wrote a story on how the city's recycling infrastructure isn't equipped to handle commercial-grade composting. thats it. that's what he was yelling about."

lois blinks.

you both glance towards the elevator where security is hauling the man, who's still going on about 'biased reporting' and 'spreading lies'.

"composting?" lois echoes.

"composting." you confirm.

"unbelievable." lois snorts as she slaps a firm hand onto your shoulder, "you know what that means?"

you blink, "what?"

"you're really good at your job."

before you can say anything else, lois' phone rings. she pulls it from her pocket and excuses herself, striding away like the incident was just another wednesday at the daily planet.

your eyes trail after her, but only for a moment, because then your eyes just— involuntarily— to clark.

he hasn't said much since security had escorted the guy out. his hands are tucked into his pockets and there's a looseness in his shoulders that hadn't been there a moment ago, like nothing had even rattled him.

you cant stop thinking about how that man had tried shoving him— really shoved him— and clark had endured it like it was nothing. not a shuffle, nor a shift of weight— just solid. it reminded you of the week earlier when he had stood his ground against a rogue gust of wind and won.

you think about the way he's standing now— like he's still protecting you even though the threat is long gone.

his eyes flick over you, subtle but careful. he notices you're already looking at him.

"are you okay?" he asks, voice gentle as ever.

"i'm okay." you nod, still watching him, "are... you okay?"

there's a hint of confusion in his face before he nods, "i'm fine.”

"you sure? not even a scratch?" you eye his shoulder where a scuff mark sits on his crisp white button-up. your eye twitches.

"not even a scratch." he echoes with a small smile.

“okay. cool.”

you both make your way to your desks, awkwardly scooting past each other as you do so, the office returning back to its mundane state just as it was before. clark settles into his seat across from you, slipping his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

you steal another glance at him, and he's still so quiet and so warm and so very clark— and the contrast between someone so gentle yet so immovable at the same time almost knocks you off your feet.

you look back to your screen. you try to focus on something else. you don't say anything, but things are starting to add up.

the third time you had noticed it, it had happened in a cramped meeting room somewhere in the higher floors of the daily planet.

it was only about a week later when you, clark, and lois had been called to a staff meeting with the big boss. the boss, perry— or whatever his name was— is talking about the future of journalism like it was something you could cram onto a spreadsheet.

and not to be weird or anything, but you were slightly distracted by clark's hands. you were occasionally glancing at him, making sure to look when perry wasn't busting your balls about the lack of 'real human stories' in your articles.

(whatever that meant. you had literally just written a story on how a local man collected abandoned shopping carts and repurposed them into gardens for low-income households. if that wasn't human, then what is?)

clark had his shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms out and fingers tapping anxiously on his thighs like they weren't holding all kinds of strange information. big hands— steady hands. the kind that look like they could crush coal into diamonds, but now they were fiddling with a paperclip like a vice for his anxiousness.

you had told yourself it was for scientific research, but you weren't a scientist and staring at his hands wasn't exactly giving you any actual answers.

then perry said something that had grabbed your attention.

"corporate's interested in... making changes." he states, hands pressing firmly against his desk, "there's talk about integrating artificial intelligence tools for a quicker turnaround. less human error. possibly... replacing a few positions down the line."

you weren't sure if your coffee had gone stale or if perry was actually talking about this like this didn't involve actual people.

"sorry..." lois shakes her head like she's having a hard time understanding, "what do you mean by that?"

perry exhales, slow and heavy, and then purses his lips, "there is a chance that artificial intelligence may replace some of the journalists in your division."

you all go quiet— the quiet of what the hell did we just hear? you can almost hear the collective blinking and the way that everyone is trying to wrap their minds around such an idiotic concept.

lois leans back in her chair like she's just been told that the sky is pink. you blink once, then twice, just waiting for perry to say just kidding and give you all raises instead, but he doesn't.

and clark? clark's jaw shifts almost imperceptibly, but otherwise, he's sitting still— stiff, almost.

"but hey— don't sweat it." perry gives you all a selfish toothy smile, "you three will keep your jobs. your stories garner the most attention out of the entire division."

the relief that should've followed doesnt. the news hangs heavy and awkward in the air because keeping your jobs while other lose theirs doesn't exactly feel like winning.

"with all due respect..." you start, but pause, glancing at lois briefly before finishing, "that is really messed up."

lois leans forwards and places her hand on the table, "yeah, perry, what are we supposed to do? smile while the rest of the team gets axed?"

perry sighs as he rubs the back of his neck, "look, it's corporate's idea, not mine. i'm just the messenger. i don't want this either."

then his gaze flicks over towards clark, who hasn't said a word since they've walked in, "kent, you've been quiet. you have any input?"

clark stills for a moment like he's thinking. "yeah—" then he sits up a little straighter, his brow furrowing just enough to show that he's taking this seriously, "i do."

perry gestures, "go ahead."

clark sucks in a slow breath, his voice firm but calm, "if you replace journalists with artificial intelligence, you're not just cutting our jobs— you're cutting the heart of everything we do here. you can't generate empathy. you cant teach a machine to care about the truth. you'd be completely erasing the human experience. it demeans everything we stand for."

he's not loud, or demanding— its passionate. even perry is looking at clark like he hadn't expected such fire from him.

"journalism is supposed to stand for something— truth, justice, and the american way. if we hand out jobs over to a machine, we're saying those values can be copied and pasted. they have to be lived everyday by people willing to stand up for them."

wow.

it's quiet again after that. clark doesnt look angry. he looks resolute, like he's proud of himself— like there isn't a single part of him that would ever back down from what he had just said.

you glance at lois, who's staring at him with her brows slightly raised like she's seeing him properly for the first time in a long time.

because that didn't sound like mild-mannered clark kent from the corner desk. that sounded like someone who knows how to stand up for themselves— for something.

perry huffs out a laugh, more out of surprised than amusement, "i agree with you, clark, i really do." he points a pen at him like clark had just given him a really good story idea, "how about this... i'll pass the message along. let them know you guys aren't backing down from this."

"okay." clark nods, "sounds good."

when perry gathers his papers and strolls out of the room, it feels oddly quiet, like nobody knows what to say next. then lois shifts in her chair, turning to clark with an impressed expression. you follow suite,

"what was that, clark?" lois exclaims, gently slapping his arm in disbelief.

he glances between you and lois, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips. then— just for a moment— his gaze lingers on you for a little longer, his eyes steady and warm, like he's trying to read how you feel about his sudden boldness.

"i'm just..." he blinks, "really passionate about journalism."

you grin, "you probably just saved everyone's asses."

clark's smile widens, a hint of relief flicking through his eyes. he shrugs modestly, "well, someone had to."

it's hard not to see how easy it was for clark to defend people. he had done it just now, just as he had with you against the rain and the angry man. it was effortless— his second nature.

and the thought creeps in, uninvited but terribly impossible to ignore— when had you ever seen clark and superman in the same room?

the fourth time was less than unexpected.

"i was wondering if you wanted to get a coffee after work." clark had asked you, his voice so casual that you didn't even have time to completely render the fact that clark kent had just asked you out.

it was about an hour before you both meant to clock out. you were halfway through typing an article when he had rolled your way on his chair and tapped you on the shoulder.

your eyes widen a little in your surprise, and maybe your mouth fell open a little too, because he had immediately cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"i mean— work related." he quickly adds, his hands waving in that nervous way he always does, "and as friends. obviously."

you weren't sure which was more shocking— that he had asked at all, or that you were a little disappointed at his clarification.

your brain is trying to catch up, but it fails. you just kind of awkwardly nod and smile, "yeah, of course. work stuff. coffee sounds great."

for half a second, clark freezes like he wasn't actually expecting you to agree to it. then his whole expression changes, the corners of his mouth pulling into a grin that felt warmer than the coffee he was offering.

"great!" he beams, but the word comes out a bit too quick, like it had been bubbling in his chest just waiting to leap out. he adjusts his glasses, a faint brush creeping up the side of his neck and flushing his cheeks, "i mean, uh— good. that's good."

your shift ends relatively quick now that that the two of you are expecting this date. time passes faster when you're actively trying to ignore clark, who is glaring holes into the side of your face.

the cafe clark takes you to is the kind of place that looks like it came from an old movie— soft yellow light spilling from the overhead lighting, baby blue curtains framing the windows, the smell of espresso and fresh bread wafting through the air, and the small bell above the door ringing as you two walked in.

of course clark holds the door open for you with a small polite nod like it was a normal everyday gesture. but when you looked back at him, there was something else— a subtle glint in his eyes that suggested bringing you here was more important to him than he let on.

"i didn't know you had such a refined taste in cafes, clark." you grin as he pulls the chair out for you, "have you been here before?"

"once or twice." he shrugs with a small bashful smile as he tucks you in and makes himself comfy on his own chair. he shrugs off his coat, "i thought you might like it."

you look around, "i do. it's cozy."

he passes you a menu. you skim it, pretending to focus on what you want to order rather than clark, who was watching you from over the top of his. every time you glanced up, he had looked away just a fraction too late.

when the server came, clark let you order first and then asked for the same thing, like it didn't matter what it was as long as it matched yours.

"so..." you leaned back in your chair, fingers curled around the edge of a napkin, "what work related stuff did you want to discuss?"

you can see the exact moment it hits clark that he'd forgotten he had used that excuse. "right... that. it was more of an... excuse." his lips press together and he clears his throat, "i just... wanted to get to know you outside of the office."

"that sounds suspiciously like a date, kent."

"i was only gonna call it that if you said yes— and you did, so yeah. this is a date." clark lets out a small laugh, then he looks down at the table, "i've actually been looking forward to this all week."

"all week?" you raise your brows, "you only asked me out today."

"well, i was planning on asking you sooner, i just... didn't know how to find the right moment." he admits, his cheeks tinting the faintest shade of pink beneath his glasses, "every time i was going to say something, some random bad thing happened— like that rainy day, or that man, or that meeting with perry..."

you swear your heart is going to explode in your chest. you grin, folding your hands together, "i'm glad nothing bad happened today."

"me too."

when the server arrives with your drinks, you two instantly dive in. you wrap your hands around the warm mug, taking that first satisfying sip.

clark lifts his mug like he's been waiting for this all day. he takes a sip and nods in appreciation, like the coffee tastes better because you're here. a ringlet of his hair falls down to his forehead, and your mind starts running again.

you shouldnt bring it up— it's silly and borderline embarrassing— but curiosity has been eating you alive ever since that day in the rain. if you don't bring something up, then who will?

clark's sitting across from you, relaxed and content, sipping his coffee like the most patient man alive— completely unaware that you're debating whether or not to compare him to the most famous hero on the planet.

"so..." you run your finger along the rim of your mug, trying to act casual, but you're sure you just look like an idiot, "have you heard what superman's been up to lately?"

clark pauses mid-sip and looks up at you from the inside of his mug, "uh... depends on what you mean by 'lately'."

you shrug, pretending to examine the foam in your cup, "i mean, i read that he stopped a massive bridge collapse in east metropolis a few days ago. he practically carried the entire thing on his back."

clark lowers his cups, his fingers gently interlaced through the handle. he nods along, "oh, yeah. i heard... about that."

"you don't sound too impressed." you tilt your head, watching his eyebrows crinkle every so often, "what? not a fan?"

his lips twitch like he's hiding a smile, "i'm not not a fan, i just... think that people give him a little too much credit sometimes."

you nod like you accept his answer, trying your hardest to look casual, but your pulse is doing this ridiculous quick-step in your chest. god, what if he really is superman but he decides you know too much and drops you off into the middle of an ocean?

but you shove that thought away— it's absurd. even if he is superman— which you're not saying he definitely is, but if he were— you firmly believe he's still clark, and clark liked you.

you try another approach. you take a slow sip of your drink, deciding to play it cool.

"i actually think he's kind of cute."

clark nearly chokes on his coffee, "cute?" he repeats, his voice a pitch higher than usual.

"yeah." you nod, biting back a grin, "he's tall, has broad shoulders, a really nice smile... and he's ridiculously charming."

clark's jaw shifts like he's trying very hard not to react. his fingers drum oddly against the ceramic of his cup as he nods along to what you're saying.

you're not even sure if this is helping your clark/superman investigation. you just really wanted to see how he'd react. judging by the way he keeps shifting in his seat and refuses to make eye contact for longer than five seconds, you'd say you've struck gold.

"honestly, you two could be brothers." you confidently add.

he raises his brows. he's interested in where you're going to go with this, "you think so?"

you nod, "yeah. you're both handsome and you both have that 'always there when you need him' thing about you. it's almost like you guys are cut from the same cloth."

"you think i'm handsome?" he blinks like that's the only part he heard.

"of course, clark."

you dont miss the way he smiles, his dimples cutting in like they've been waiting all day to make an appearance.

if clark is superman, you thought it was kind of adorable how humble he had managed to stay. you imagined being one of the strongest forces on earth and yet the most criticised was incredibly hard. it only made the quiet way he carried himself even more remarkable.

you both let the moment fade into something lighter— you talk about work deadlines, weird metropolis weather, and a story that lois is working on that clark thinks will make the front page. he even pointed out a bakery a block away that he said had 'life changing' cinnamon rolls and that you both had to go there, almost like he was already planning a second date. by the time your cups are empty and your stomachs are full, the conversation feels so very comfortable.

clark had walked you three blocks to the subway. although you told him it was fine, he had done the clark thing and insisted it was 'date etiquette' and walked with you anyways like the gentleman he is.

the fifth time it happened was less than an hour later.

you were on the subway watching the reflection of other passengers ripple across the windows. there isn't many people in your carriage— just a handful of work commuters and an older lady.

you're zoning out to the rhythm of the tracks when the train gives a violent jerk. it wasnt the kind that felt like a bad rail or an accidental lever-hit from the train driver, it felt like something had landed on the train.

people scream as the lights flicker. you watch the older woman get thrown from her seat onto the floor, her grocery bags spilling apples all over the floor that then roll unevenly down the aisle. you lean down to help her up, but the train gives another violent lurch, sending you and other passengers to the walls.

the intercom in the train crackles to life, booming, "attention, passengers. your regularly scheduled commute has been... delayed."

your stomach twists. whoever is speaking sounds amused, their voice distorted as if speaking straight through the electricity. the lights stutter again as the train jerks, plunging your carriage into darkness. you hold the lady to your chest as she lets out a cry.

"don't panic." the voice tells you, "i just have a message to send— and lucky for you, you're the delivery."

unsurprisingly, that sends everybody into a panic.

your pulse is pounding so hard that you can feel it in your fingertips. you hate yourself for thinking it— but god, you really, really hope that clark is superman, because clark had dropped you off less than an hour ago. if he's superman, then he's not far and you might actually survive this.

the lights stutter again, but when they flash back on, you see him— a man in a black suit with a jagged black mask that covers his eyes— walking down the train. he's scanning the people like he's deciding something sinister.

it's very clear that he's a villain or a rogue, but you aren't sure. you've ever seen him before, which is slightly terrifying because you have no idea what he wants or what he can do.

people shrink under his gaze, but his glare slides past them like they're just props— until he stops on you. his lip curls upwards, not necessarily into a smile, but with something that shows he's already made up his mind.

"you." he points at you, "on your feet."

every pair of eyes are suddenly on you. the old woman keeps her hold on you like she doesn't want to let you go. you feel your knees turning to jelly as he grabs a hold of your wrist and pulls you towards him.

"wh—" your mouth goes dry, "why me?"

"because i'm trying to get a hold of superman, and you look like the type of person he would save." he smirks beneath his mask, "pretty... scared... the perfect bait."

the words make your skin crawl, but what makes it even worse is that you can't argue. a part of you hopes he's right and superman will be here any second to save you.

but he isn't here right now and you aren't safe.

the villain yanks you up and drags you towards an exit. he digs his fingers into the grooves of the train door and wrenches it open like its nothing. the cold air from the tunnel whips you in the face. the train is still moving, but it wavers along the tracks like something is wrong with the wheels.

the tunnel ends in a sudden wash of light and the villain hauls you towards the door like he's been waiting for this moment. you brace for when he inevitably shoves you out and you fall to your death, but his arm wraps around you instead, locking you tight to his side. with a sharp, jarring movement, he jumps and you feel yourself flip, your feet hitting the metal of the train roof.

the city rushes by in a blur. your knees buckle, and you have to claw at his arm to keep yourself from toppling off of the edge. from up here, everything feels exposed. you can see blocks for miles in every direction, and you realise why he's brought you here. there's no crowd to hide in— no cover from anything— just a clear vantage point for anyone who might happen to be flying overhead.

there's a helicopter heading straight towards you, flying above you with a blinking red light. you can make out 'metropolis news 8' stencilled on its side of it as it nears, close enough now that you can see a camera rig hanging from its underbelly swivelling to capture you and this man like its just another headline and not your life on the line.

"perfect." he mutters in satisfaction. he reaches up and grabs your jaw, tilting your head to face the helicopter. "smile for the camera, sweetheart. lets make the front page, shall we?"

before you can even render what he said, his grip shifts. you feel him let go of your waist as he grabs you by the collar of your shirt, dangling you off of the edge of the train. the fabric bites into your neck as you let out a terrified yelp.

"you hear that, superman?" he yells into the air, his voice booming as if through a megaphone, "i've got a damsel that needs saving!"

you would normally hate being called that— you know how to save yourself without help and you've done it before— but there's nothing you could possibly do in this situation. it's not like if he dropped you right now, you'd suddenly sprout wings and fly.

the helicopter's camera is fixed on you, and there's no doubt in your mind that this is being live-streamed for the entirety of metropolis to see— every ragged breath and scared pant, every desperate twitch of your fingers against the villain's iron grip, and every plead from your mouth begging him not to drop you.

your eyes search the skies, hoping— needing— to see a flash of blue and red. but there's nothing. no blue or red, nor is there any hope of rescue in the emptiness above you. there's only the horrible roar of the train and the wind hitting you in the face.

the villain tilts his head, almost like he's disappointed. in what, you're not sure, but you know it won't end well for you.

"guess the big man in red and blue only shows up when it's convenient." he tuts, frowning, "some hero he is."

and then he lets go.

the world drops out from under you, a guttural scream tearing itself from your throat as the train shoots away from you. you're falling now and there's no stopping it.

and strangely, as you scream, a thought slips into your mind. if this is how you died, you really couldn't be too mad about it. you had a great job and a lovely little apartment. you'd even gone on a date with quite possible the cutest guy in the world an hour ago. it wasn't a perfect life, but it was yours.

you just hated that this was how it was ending— loud and public, plummeting to your death in front of thousands of people who were not only standing just below you, but also probably watching at home in high definition. a spectacle— another person added to the tally of those caught in the crossfire of villains trying to get close to superman.

you're absolutely certain this is the end, the hard pavement getting closer and closer until—

there's a rush of air, a blur of red and blue, and an arm as strong as steel locks around your body. the world jerks violently as youre swooped from the air, a mere centimetre away from the pavement.

it's him. it's superman.

"it's okay, i've got you."

a wave of overwhelming safety washes over you like a freak tsunami. your heart is beating against your chest, but it's steady— calm. without thinking, you press your cheek against his chest, trying to anchor yourself by listening to the beating of his heart. the chaos around you fades, replaced by the undeniable comfort of being held by someone who truly cared.

then it hits you— the smell of coffee and cinnamon. it's oddly familiar. then you think about the arm locked around your waist. his forearms are locked tightly against your back, but his hands press against your back with the same gently pressure that clark had on that day in the rain. his voice is so deep, yet so full of hope and calm, just like clark had when he was defending his coworkers from unemployment.

it all clicks, and suddenly, you don't doubt it anymore.

"clark." you whisper.

you can feel his body stiffen. you're not sure if he even knows he's holding you, but you almost hope he does. he pulls back just enough to look down at you and you berate yourself for being so blind and not seeing it sooner. this was clark, and it had always been clark.

with the same carefulness he showed from the start, clark lowers you down onto the ground in a quieter area away from peering eyes. you both land with a light thud, clark's hand lingering around your waist for a moment longer before he steps back slightly.

"are you okay?" he scans you for injuries, concern evident in his sharp gaze. he doesn’t care about your obvious shock at his identity and instead runs his hands down your arms just to make sure you aren’t hurt.

"what the hell, clark?" you blurt out before you can stop yourself, "you're superman?"

his eyes widen— in surprise or relief that you're well enough to yell at him, you're not sure, but you don't miss the softness in his eyes knowing that you're alright. he offers a small— almost shy— smile before clearing his throat.

"i didn't want you to find out like this. can we..." he starts, voice hurried and a little breathless, but still so full of something hopeful and gentle, "can we talk about this later?"

you nod, still catching your breath.

"okay." he says with a small smile, relief flooding his face, "can i come by your place later? i'll explain everything."

"yeah." you manage.

his eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he takes off in a blur, leaving you standing there like an idiot.

you were— to put it lightly— utterly and entirely gobsmacked. maybe it was the fact that you had almost plummeted to your death not even a minute ago, or maybe it was also the fact that the guy you had a big fat crush on was superman. or maybe it was the fact that you were right about him being superman.

you don't go to the hospital to check if you're fine, or to the police station to file a report— you walk home. it doesn't take you long, maybe a ten minute walk, but you tell yourself you need it.

everything feels surreal, like you had just woken up from a confusing dream and are having a difficult time trying to piece together what had even happened. your head is still pounding from the fall, and the overwhelming revelation that your clark is the superman makes it hard to focus on anything else.

you really just need to sit down.

your door clicks shut behind you as you place your keys into the tray by the entrance. you drop your bag onto the floor as you sink into the sofa. without really thinking, you reach for the remote and flick on the tv.

the screen flashes to the news channel— superman locked in a fierce battle with the villain who had held you hostage. the reporters voices are tense, almost like they're commentating an intense sports game, and your breath catches. you sit there and watch for five minutes until superman lands the final blow, the villain stumbling in defeat. superman vanishes from the view and the tv feed clicks back to the reporters.

its over in a moment, a short and anticlimactic battle for something that might scar you for the rest of your life.

before you can fully process it, there's a knock on your door. the sound shocks you, dragging you out of your daze. you push yourself off of your sofa and cross the room.

you know it's him before you even touch the handle.

when you open the door, it is him— clark. he's wearing his glasses now, a large trench coat draping over his shoulders and buttoned to the top, the smallest slither of blue peeking out from the neckline. his hair is slightly fluffy from the wind, and he looks worried, eyes searching your face like he's checking if you're really okay.

"hi." he says, quieter than usual, "can i come in?"

you step aside, letting him pass and close the door.

he steps inside, his trench coat shifting as he looks around like he's cataloging every single detail of your apartment— every single intimate part of you.

"you've got a nice place." he says, warm but tentatively, like he's trying to ease into it by delaying the inevitable, “cozy.”

you blink at him. you're still trying to connect the dots between the man standing in your living room and the man you had just seen live on the news less than five minutes ago.

finally, you blurt out, "you’re really gonna start with small talk?”

you’re not mad at him. in a way, you understand why he isn’t just going around telling people that he’s superman. you didnt expect him to have spilled the news to you straight away, but you didnt also didn’t expect to find out mid free-fall.

part of you is still standing on the train, part of you is still in his grip, and part of you is standing here now, trying to stitch those versions of reality together.

his brows lift a little, caught between sheepish and defensive, “i thought maybe it’d be easier than—“

“easier than ‘hey, surprise— i’m superman’?” you cut in.

“yeah. easier than that.” he shrugs slightly, almost guilty, “i really didnt want you to find out that way, but i wasnt going to let you just hit the ground. i would’ve never forgiven myself if that happened.”

he's standing close to you, close enough that you can hear the stammer in his breath when you place your hand against his chest. his heartbeat is strong underneath your palm, but its almost a little too fast, like he’s almost as overwhelmed as you are. he still smells of coffee, and the scent envelopes you.

you dont care that he’s a superhero or that you almost died. you just care about feeling warm again.

“thank you, clark.” you say softly, your voice catching more than you’d like, “for saving me.”

the smile that grows on his face is so sincere that it makes your heart hurt. he places a strong hand against yours, pressing it against his chest as if to anchor the both of you.

“i’d save you no matter what.” he murmurs, “every time. always.”

your chest tightens, and before you can think twice, you’re leaning in and closing the gap between the two of you. his lips meet yours with a warmth you havent felt before— soft, reassuring, and full of unspoken promises.

he leans down into your lips as if trying to memorise your taste. his hands slide up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs brushing softly against your cheekbones. you cling to him, needing the closeness and needing to know that he’s right here.

when you finally pull back— though clark hesitates— it’s only to breathe. your foreheads rest against each others, breaths mingling. his eyes search yours, shining and wide, maybe to see if you’re enjoying this as much as he is. he laughs.

“i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” he says, voice low and tender. you giggle as you give him a peck on the corner of his mouth, and then another on the tip of his nose. “those questions during our date—“ you cut him off with a kiss and it takes all of his willpower to pull away from your lips to finish his sentence, “you knew, didn’t you?”

"i had an inkling.” you grin, “i kinda figured it out when you mentioned truth, justice, and the american way in that meeting with perry."

clark stumbles a bit when you press a sweet kiss to his blushed cheek, grinning as he looks down at you, "it was corny, wasn’t it?"

"a bit, but it's okay." you murmur against his cheek, leaning in, "just kiss me, superman."

[stevebabey]

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come. 

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things. 

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so. 

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently. 

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you. 

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort. 

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time. 

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in. 

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love. 

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours. 

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. 

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met. 

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days. 

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often. 

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.) 

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile. 

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response. 

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?” 

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe. 

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart. 

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?” 

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back. 

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’. 

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point. 

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing. 

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees. 

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to. 

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing. 

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it. 

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here. 

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing. 

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt. 

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet. 

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ? 

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

 “They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?” 

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up. 

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t. 

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?” 

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?” 

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.” 

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon. 

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them. 

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?” 

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out. 

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.” 

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets. 

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again. 

“Clark?” 

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk. 

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised. 

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady. 

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away. 

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him. 

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual. 

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising. 

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge. 

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me. 

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs. 

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone. 

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up. 

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?” 

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to. 

“You’re already home, though.” 

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment. 

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology. 

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching. 

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.” 

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.” 

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling. 

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it. 

You remind him, “You like surprises.” 

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything. 

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet. 

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed. 

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly. 

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper. 

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?” 

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours. 

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?” 

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence. 

You melt in his lap. 

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend. 

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low. 

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly. 

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.” 

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly. 

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes. 

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads. 

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it. 

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue. 

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder. 

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night. 

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.  

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it. 

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary. 

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means. 

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes. 

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it. 

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me. 

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all. 

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide. 

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.  

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good. 

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.” 

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.” 

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest. 

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely. 

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget. 

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease. 

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later. 

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—” 

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease. 

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you. 

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon. 

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you. 

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door. 

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye. 

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list. 

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

now with a prequel x

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

[warrior-of-storms]

Okay but do you know what really gets me?

There's no one left in-universe who can or will talk about Jaybin as he really was.

Bruce is the founder of the Jaybin Slander Department;

Alfred is no better.

Dick wasn't around much, didn't know him that well.

If Barbara ever interacted with him in his original run, I haven't found it yet.

I mean, he had some interactions with the Teen Titans, but was he really close with any of them?

I suppose Gordon could, assuming he isn't in on the Jason-bashing. I haven't seen it but I could be missing something.

And, well, Jason... somehow, I don't think anyone's asking Jason what he was like as a kid, nor is he really a reliable source. Autobiographical memory is weird.

No one in-universe will ever really talk about this bright, friendly, eager kid, and it's a tragedy.

He was smart and clever and had so much compassion.

He wanted so badly to help people, and he found joy in his work as Robin.

He had a dramatic flair and he was kind of a nerd and he was really funny on occasion.

He was so deeply, fundamentally good, and the fact that somehow his legacy has been twisted into one of anger and recklessness is honestly a crime.

It makes me so desperately sad that there's not a single character who can even start to undo the lasting damage of a four-decade smear campaign against a kid who did nothing to deserve it.

[midniqhtt]

ᯓ★ clark kent - superman

𝜗𝜚 masterlist • dc • 07/24/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs three II one I two II gif credit - @/junkfoodcinemas

here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut I

ꨄ︎ immune I @ggclarissa I F

in which your psychic abilities work on everyone except clark kent — and the more you try to figure it out, the more everything starts to make sense.

ꨄ︎ love, meteors, and clark kent’s accidental flight I @stevebabey I F

Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is.

ꨄ︎ you are in love I @auroralwriting I F

clark kent had always been a good friend to you at the daily planet—but as the two of you fall head over heels for each other, you can’t help but notice the striking similarities between him and superman

ꨄ︎ hope I @toxicflowergirl I A + F

Clark saves you.

ꨄ︎ in every universe I @bellasweetwriting I F

keeping a relationship a secret is never easy, specially when two people really love each other, and specially when one… loses their memory.

ꨄ︎ hair falling into place like dominos I @alwritey-aphrodite I F

ꨄ︎ made you blush I @hoult-nicholas I F

ꨄ︎ kryptonite poisoning I @kindnessistherealpunkrock I F

ꨄ︎ drabble I @skeltnwrites I F

even when you throw yourself into danger clark can't stay mad at you

ꨄ︎ to whom it may concern I @cursedheartsclub I F + S

You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.

ꨄ︎ soulmate imagine I @kirietown I S

ꨄ︎ play pretend I @bloatedandalone04 I S

Once the work day is done, you and Clark are free to be just that - You and Clark. That means you get spontaneous visits and dinner made for you, and Clark gets all he will ever need. You.

ꨄ︎ soup deliveries I @starluved I F

You don't come to work for a while, Clark worries about you and brings you soup.

ꨄ︎ pet I @honeybunnyale I S + A

Had Clark seen the second half of the transmission... 

ꨄ︎ to trust and trust till you can no longer bear it I @heartburriedinvenice I A + F

in which you vowed to never let anyone into your life anymore until one day you met clark kent. and now you wonder if maybe that was all a big mistake.

ꨄ︎ you’re a witch I @maikorian I F

Clark didn’t expect his girlfriend to be the newest hero in Metropolis. The red witch.

ꨄ︎ the other man I @honeypiehotchner I A + F

You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

ꨄ︎ drabble I @mcrdvcks I F

ꨄ︎ 2 for 1? I @anonymousfangir1 I S

What if you were seeing both Clark and Superman? And no, you didn't know they were the same person.

ꨄ︎ not our universe I @saltcxrcle I A + F

you've had a complicated relationship with being a metahuman, but after taking a look into the multiverse—you've never hated having your powers more.

ꨄ︎ request I @headkiss I F

ꨄ︎ i got it I @lomlsatoru I HC

you tell clark “i got it.” so many times and he is sick of it.

ꨄ︎ going home/staying home I @softestqueeen I F

while trying a viral trend on your boyfriend clark kent, you realise how much you really mean to him.

ꨄ︎ in case you’re reading this I @hangmanwrites I F + A

You, a hopeless romantic who leaves a note in a library book on a whim, and him, the quiet stranger who writes back signing only as “C.K.” It wasn’t meant to be anything, just a moment, a message, a maybe, but somehow it becomes something more.

ꨄ︎ field trip savior I @caoimhewritesfics I F

Your field trip gets rudely interrupted by another inter-dimensional monster. Superman saves the day and steals your heart

ꨄ︎ order for superman I @illumoria I F

ꨄ︎ slow down I @ficsbyfrankie I A

y/n has had an obsession with superman for ages. like, in a crush kind of way! lucky for her, her best friend is the best wingman ever.

[thetwylazone]

i loveee when it’s lois who figures out clark’s identity and not him telling her

[thetwylazone]

unmasked

In which you want your boyfriend, not superman, to save you

clark kent x fem!reader

cw : canon typical violence, no y/n

Clark had known something was wrong when you hadn’t shown up that night for Monday movies and takeout Thai food. It was your turn to pick the movie and you had been raving about a romcom that had just released so you wouldn’t have just forgotten about it - not when it had been the topic of even just the night before.

His second, far more certain hint, was when he focused in on your heartbeat and heard the tell tale tick-tick-tick-tick of a heartbeat pumping entirely too fast. He was changed and barreling towards the sound before even dropping the carton of food.

The closer he got to the sound, the more sure something was wrong. As the terrified beat picked up in volume the more flickering the streetlights became. With the little focus he had besides finding you, he recognized one of the streets as the topic of your new article. A string of drug-related deaths had begun to spring up across the city and Perry had put you on the case due to your propensity to stick your nose in places they didn’t belong. It made you an anxiety-causing girlfriend but a damn good reporter.

Though, right now, Clark is starting to wish you were a worse one. The closer he gets the more foggy his hearing becomes. He tries to differentiate the millions of noises his super-hearing picks up but in his all-encompassing fear all of them begin to blend. All but yours - a pitch he’s so totally attuned to in his everyday life he could pick it like a needle in a haystack.

Clark knows your voice because he knows you.

He knows how your pitch ticks when you’re anxious or how you hold bated breaths when you’ve got a good flow going in an article. He knows the little noises he can pull if he kisses your neck just right and groans when he makes terrible jokes.

All this to say - he knows you - and he knows when he hears a grunt of pain that it’s coming straight from your lips.

Clark manages to zone in on a random warehouse, clattering through a window as he enters. He’s partially horrified and partially relieved when he sees you hunched over a metal chair; your legs and hands are tied together but you’re blissfully alive.

You’ve got blood dripping down the side of your cheek from a knife cut. Your wrists and ankles are blistering due to the rope and you’ve got nasty maroon-violet bruises littering your face, arms, and stomach. The most noticeable bruise being a hand shape across the expanse of your neck.

The men in front of you - both with matching neck tattoos that look suspiciously like the LexCorp logo - snap their heads to the sound of the window shattering. All former looks of glee and excitement now replaced with white-knuckle fear. Clark wrinkles his nose at the scent of piss and the sight of a darkening jean leg.

“What the fuck are you doing-” The man doesn’t even get to finish his sentence before Superman is grabbing him by the shirt and tossing him like a hacky sack into a stack of crates. The next one follows just as swiftly and lands atop his friend in a thump.

Superman listens for the briefest moment to make sure they’re breathing before he flies to your side. He rips open your binding as though it was nothing but silk.

You’re gasping as the restraints fall and on instinct swing a fist wildly at his face. Superman grabs your hands in one of his own and eases you out of the chair.

“You’re alright now Miss,” Superman says softly, trying not to let his facade crack amidst his own panic at the wounds decorating you. He uses his X-Ray vision to check for any signs of internal damage and is grateful to find none.

“Clark I-” You gasp, breaking off your sentence to shove your face into the crook of his caped shoulder, “I want Clark!”

Superman hesitates. You’ve been together for a few months now and with everything happening in Jarhanpur the time just hasn’t seemed right to tell you about Superman being Clark Kent.

But you’ve started to sob, tears soaking into his skin through the blue fabric of his suit. Superman wraps his arms around you, hugging you in an almost detached way. It wasn’t the right time, he rationalizes, you’ve just been in a traumatizing situation and hearing that your boyfriend is secretly an alien will be too much for you.

“It’s alright, Miss. You’re safe now.” Superman promises, patting your back while everything inside him screams to squeeze you and never let go.

You shake your head like he isn’t understanding, tugging at his cape.

“Not Superman,” You gasp, hitting his back because you’re too overwhelmed to keep still, “Please, I want Clark right now, I want you to be Clark.” Taking a shuttering inhale, you put the nail in the coffin of his hesitation and beg, “I want you to be my boyfriend right now, not a superhero.”

His resolve cracks. Later, he’ll wonder how you figured it out, and you’ll tell him he isn’t nearly as clever as he thinks he is. But right now, Clark kisses your cheek and murmurs your name.

Clark repositions you both in the blink of an eye. He’s on his knees, large arms wrapping you up so thoroughly no bad could possibly touch you. Your head is guided to his chest as his fingers twist into your hair and he presses butterfly kisses everywhere he can touch. Between each press of his lips he mutters some assortment of, “I love you, I’m sorry, You’re safe now.”

And for the first time all night, you believe him.

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.

"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.

matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.

matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.

matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.

matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.

matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.

matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.

matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)

matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.

matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.

matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.

matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.

matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.

and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.

get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.

[luveline]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

gold rush | c. kent

a/n: i LOVED Superman 2025 guys it was so good i saw it twice i have been. thinking a lot of thoughts and krypto is the best character in the film so. in a tag full of clark kent smut i knew i had to write some angst. warnings: cursing, clark being the best boyfriend, angst but also fluff so, head injuries, hospitals, autistic clark i mean what who said that, canon typical violence, torture (nothing too crazy), kidnapping, i do NOT know how photography, darkrooms or concussions work, pet names, nightmares, lots of kissing, established relationship, not proof read, probably some other stuff but oh well <3 wordcount: 6.4k summary: your boyfriend's dog gives you a concussion and it's not even the worst part of your week. now playing: gold rush - taylor swift "what must it be like to grow up that beautiful?/with your hair falling into place like dominoes/my mind turns your life into folklore/i can't dare to dream about you anymore."

MINOR SPOILERS FOR SUPERMAN (2025) AHEAD!

Sunday

The dream starts out like any other. The sun is shining—It’s always shining when Clark dreams. This dream is warm, it feels real.

He’s sitting next to you on a porch swing.

The dreams always start out like this.

Your hand is on his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into your touch.

And in an instant, your hand isn’t your hand anymore—Instead, your skin turns a robotic black and feels like sharp metal against his face. Nanites spread from the tips of your fingers into his nose, and into his mouth—

He’s panicking, using both hands to try and claw the nanites out of his mouth, but they’re like sand, he barely shovels a handful out when twice as many show up, now traveling down his throat to his lungs and up his face.

He can’t breathe. He looks to you for help, but you’re no longer there—The sun is no longer shining, and Superman is all alone. He can’t breathe.

The nanites take over his eyes next and he is plunged into darkness—Alone, scared and unable to breathe. He can’t think, he must be dying. He must be.

“Clark,” He hears a voice from far away. He knows that voice. It’s your voice. “Clark, baby, wake up,” And he can’t tell if he’s imagining it, but the darkness starts to shudder like someone’s shaking him. But he follows your voice, stumbling his way through the darkness, attempting to breath until—

He wakes up gasping for air, sitting up in bed, this panicked, frenzied look in his eyes. His hand comes up to his mouth to check for nanites but all he finds is saliva and tears. His heart is racing, but he needs to check if you’re okay. His head turns towards you, and there you are, hair messy from sleeping, in a Smallville Decathlon tee shirt that he outgrew a few months after he got it, and sleep shorts. 

His hands come up to rub his face as he attempts to refocus. Everything is fine, he reasons. But everything isn’t fine. Superman doesn’t have nightmares.

Your voice cuts through the sound of him trying to steady his breath as your hand rests on his back, rubbing gentle circles on it.

“It’s okay, baby, It was just a nightmare.” Your voice is sleepy and far away, but what little energy you can muster at—Clark checks the time—four thirty-two in the morning is focused on him. So much for sleeping in on a Sunday. And after a few minutes he hears you ask, “Wanna talk about it?”

He wonders how much you already know, if he was talking in his sleep. But he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” His throat feels dry, “I didn’t mean to wake you,”

“Don’t be silly, Clark,” You mumble, your hand traveling up now from his back to the ends of his hair, twisting your fingers between curls. You don’t bother saying that it’s fine to wake you if he’s having a nightmare, that he might be Superman, Krypton’s last son, destined to save humankind, but you’d travel to the ends of the earth to help him get a better night’s sleep. You don’t bother saying it because he already knows it.

He just nods before laying back down, trying to focus on deep, soothing breaths. Your brain searches for anything that could be comforting in this moment, but your brain only finds one thing you could do for him in your sleepy state.

“How about I make you some breakfast?” You wonder, because you know that no matter what he says or does, part of him is still in Kansas, always longing for his Pa’s cooking (and conveniently enough, you had been taught by Pa Kent himself how to make French toast just the way Clark likes it the last time you had visited).

Clark smiles just a little.

“Yeah, that would be great.” He says softly, and you move to get up, but he grabs your arm, “Wait, just..” He avoids your gaze as his thumb rubs your skin, “Just.. lay with me a while?”

You smile.

You don’t hesitate to melt back into bed, finding yourself wrapping your arms around him, and he pulls you close like you’re made of feathers. He pulls you up so your head is on his chest, listening to the sound of his now steady heartbeat. Something about the weight of you on top of him, so alive and real, soothes him.

You both fall asleep with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

Monday

He had only left the room for a minute!

But, for Krypto, a minute was all he needed. He had only agreed to let Krypto visit his apartment after you begged him all day, having an extreme soft spot for his cousin’s awful dog (whom you couldn’t help but fawn over).

Really, Clark couldn’t find it in himself to deny you anything, especially when you asked with the manners of a lady (even though at lunch that day you had eaten tacos with your hands and gotten siracha all over your face).

But he really needed to go take a shower, so—

“Are you sure you’ll be okay with him while I shower?” He wonders, and you just laugh.

“Clark, I know he’s a handful,” He watches as Krypto tugs you around the room by a length of rope you had bought to play tug of war with him. You giggle and stumble around Clark’s living room, “But he’s just a dog, and he likes me! Watch,” You turn to Krypto and say, “Krypto, Sit!” And after raising his ear to listen to you, he sits easily, mouth still latched onto the rope. You grin and begin to pet him, “Good boy, Krypto, who’s my special man?” You coo, and Clark just rolls his eyes.

He looks to Krypto with a defeated sigh, and points to him.

“Hey, dude,” He starts, but Krypto doesn’t stop wagging his tail and staring at you. “Krypto,” He says, and his attention is finally turned to your boyfriend, “Be good, okay?”

Krypto just lets out a bark in response, before beginning to drag you around the living room, and Clark is comforted as he walks out of the room to the sound of your laughter.

Which lasted all of a minute, while he turned on the shower, took off his glasses and loosened his tie—

Bang!

Something had hit the wall next to the bathroom. Clark doesn’t even bother turning off the shower before running back to the living room, met with the sight of you settling onto the couch with Krypto whining by your feet, a fresh head shaped hole in Clark’s wall.  

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” You coo at the dog, barely noticing Clark, “I’m okay,” But your blinking is slow, and all Clark wants to do was panic. He knows Krypto’s strength, but Krypto hadn’t seemed to realize that you aren’t like him or Kara—your head can’t just take blunt force like theirs could.

“Krypto,” Clark’s voice is sharp in a way neither you nor Krypto are used to, and you just frown,

“It’s not his fault! He just didn’t know,” You start, “Please don’t be mad at him, baby,” You beg. Clark bites the inside of his cheek, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to deny you anything. If Kryptonite was Superman’s only weakness, you are Clark’s.

He goes towards you, looking down to Krypto with an unapproving stare, gently tapping the dog with his foot to get him out of the way. To his credit, Krypto does seem guilty, like he really wasn’t aware of his own strength. With Krypto settled next to your feet, Clark kneels down, his hands resting on your knees.

“Sweetheart,” he starts with his soft, Kansas farm boy voice, and you could melt,

“Hi, baby,” You hum, and he can’t help the slight smile he gives.

“Sweetheart,” he repeats, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“..Why?”

Clark sighs. This is going to be tougher than he thought.

“Because I think Krypto gave you a concussion.”

“…Krypto is here?” You wonder, and that’s when Krypto lets out an ‘arf!’ by your feet, causing you to giggle and go to lean down to him, but Clark’s hand gently comes up to your chin, tilting your head back to look at him.

“Can you focus on me for a second?” His voice is soft, but it demands your attention. “How about we go to the hospital?”

Your face falls into a frown.

“I.. I don’t like hospitals, Clark, you know that.” And he does. Needles frighten you, and it’s often bright and overstimulating in a way he doesn’t know how to fix.

“I know, honey,” He says, “But if you’re hurt, a doctor could help in a way I can’t,” and there’s really no ‘if’ about it, you have all the classic signs of a concussion.

“But you’re superman!” You whine, and Clark nods,

“I am, but Superman doesn’t have a medical license,” He reminds, and you huff. What’s even the point of dating Superman then?

“I’m not going to the hospital,” You grumble, and Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell you he will go put his suit on and fly you over to the hospital if it would make you go.

“C’mon, honey, what can I do that’ll make you go to the hospital?” He wonders, and your hands find his tie, your fingers curl around the silky fabric.

“..Anything?” You wonder, your eyes wandering up to his pretty face. And because Clark is head over heels in love with you, his answer is instantaneous,

“Anything.” Your hands play with his tie as you bite your lip, a mischievous smile on your face. For a second Clark wonders which of your many wild fantasies you’ll pull out, when you say,

“..Will you let me photograph you as Superman?”

Clark is grateful for your concussion because you don’t notice his momentary hesitation. Clark knows that everyone, including you, is jealous of how often Clark is able to ‘interview’ Superman, but it’s different for you than it is for Lois or Jimmy—you have been trying to get a good photo of Superman for years, you couldn’t give less of a fuck about interviewing Superman; but if you could get photos of Superman, you’d be one of a kind. It would do great things for your career.

But you had never asked Clark.  How could you? You didn’t want him to feel like you only started dating him because of his being Superman—It felt wrong. But to be fair, you weren’t exactly in your right mind.

But you hate hospitals.

“Sure.” He says, and it takes you by surprise.

“Really?” And when he nods, you grin and throw your arms around his neck with a giggle. He hugs you tightly, mumbling into your hair,

“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, okay?”

“Okay, baby.”

Tuesday

“Can you tilt your head to the left?”

“Like this?”

“No,” You shake your head with a sigh, stepping towards him and tilting his chin just right in the direction you wanted. He looks ethereal, but real. You snap a few more shots before saying, “Can I get a few shots of your hands?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow, but he holds out his hands for you.

You had decided that the roof was the best place to take Superman’s picture and today was a bright and sunny day in Metropolis. The cool breeze of late spring moves his cape like he’s the main damn character and you can’t help but wonder if he is.

After a doctor had looked at you and your head yesterday, they also did a couple of scans which did in fact confirm that you had a concussion. But they advised your boyfriend that it wasn’t too bad and that with some rest and Tylenol, it would be good to go back to work on Wednesday.

Clark, being the loving and devoted, and a little overprotective, boyfriend he is, decided to spend the day tending to your every need.

Of course, when you woke up this morning all you wanted (after some Tylenol) was to take pictures of Superman (a deal Clark should’ve known you would remember, despite your concussion). He had managed to get you to relax in the morning, but you were persistent.

“Do our readers want pictures of my hands?” He asked, and you shake your head.

“No, but I really like them, and I am the photographer, so..” You shrugged. You had got plenty of good shots, but you knew you wanted to get the shot. In the rest of the photos that most newspapers, including the Daily Planet, published, Superman is a red and blue streak, barely visible. Which meant that you already had the best shots that anyone in your business had, but you were ambitious—

You wanted the shot of Superman, the one that would be used in years to come, the embodiment of the last son of Krypton.

But you must be staring at him, because he blushes and asks,

“What’s that look for?”

You snap a picture of his pink cheeks.

Then, you say,

“Do me a favor, uh, kind of.. float up a few feet?” You ask, and he does, just a couple of feet off the ground. His cape is still floating in the wind, so you curl your hands into fists and place them on your hips, arms slightly bent. “Okay, pose like this,” Your doting boyfriend obliges and mimics your pose. “Okay, and big smiles,” You direct. Clark attempts to smile, and suddenly you put the camera down, letting it hang around your neck. “Seriously?”

“What—What did I do wrong?” He asks, and you just look at him. His smile was, at best, awkward.

“Your smile, it looks very forced.” You tell him, causing him to sigh.

“It’s hard,” He defends, “I don’t really like getting my picture taken,” And you do know that to be true. When you first started working at the Daily Planet, one of your first assignments was to take updated profile photos for the Daily Planet website. It had made you roll your eyes at first, but in hindsight, you were grateful for it. It was a good way to introduce yourself to everybody.

Lois’ picture came out perfect the first time you took it, her skin practically glowing as you photographed her, asking about your career so far, politely answering questions about hers. You had become fast friends over the ten minutes it took you to capture how beautiful she is. Jimmy used his in his Tinder profile, that is how good you are.

And Clark.

You had immediately been smitten by handsome he was, but you wanted to focus on getting these portraits done. It took you ages to get him to smile in a way that didn’t make him look awkward. Finally, something you had said made him genuinely laugh—

“I guess being that pretty doesn’t mean much when you can’t smile for a picture,” Your voice wasn’t mean, it was actually very warm, and even a bit flirty, “I knew there had to be some kind of catch.”

 You two were fast friends, and then you were fast lovers. Why wait when you know something is good?

And after you started dating, you took plenty of pictures of him; Some with your actual camera, some with your phone, and a couple with your polaroid camera. Clark looked good on vintage film.

But he still hadn’t mastered the concept of smiling on command. Maybe it wasn’t really a thing on Krypton, not second nature like it is for you, but you know it’s a weak excuse. You’re pretty sure your handsome boyfriend is just that awkward and humble.

“But you’re so pretty,” You whine, and you see Clark’s lips tug up a bit. “C’mon, think about something you like. Something that makes you happy.” You request, and you watch as Clark’s eyes shut for a moment, as he takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes.

When his eyes land on you, a natural, handsome smile falls onto his face. You act quickly then, kneeling next to him and taking a few shots of him where he looks.. heavenly. The sunshine of the photo highlights how super he really is, and you can just tell that you got it.

Clark can tell too, because you watch as he releases the pose he was in and rests his feet on the ground.

“Got what you need, Miss?” The Superman voice makes you smile, and you walk over to him.

“Need just one more thing,” You hum, your arms wrapping around his neck just as his wide hands rest on your sides. He is inhumanly warm. When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway, and suddenly you’re kissing Superman, and he is so good at it—like he is with everything else he does. Except smiling for pictures.

You don’t even mind when you feel your feet being lifted off the ground, too caught up in the way he grips you tighter to distract you.

Wednesday

Not much had changed in the day that you and Clark were out.

Lois and Jimmy bicker, Steve makes fun of your boyfriend (you threaten to kill him), and Cat asks how your day off was. You don’t bother to try to hide your smile as you tell her you got some good pictures.

“I can’t believe on the day you’re supposed to be resting after a concussion; you decide to take pictures.” Lois says, and you shrug, leaning against her desk.

“They’re really good pictures.” You smile, “I got lucky.” And you had, in so many ways. Besides, Lois would do the same thing in your shoes. You glance over to Clark’s desk and see him absent, so you check your watch. He’s twenty minutes late.

There’s a shot he got caught up doing hero things, but there’s just as good of a shot that he got distracted or something, and you’re really not sure when he’ll be here.

“Where’s boy wonder?” Lois asks, following your longing gaze. You shrug with an adoring smile.

“Probably washing his cape, or something.” You say affectionately, and Lois shakes her head. Whipped, the both of you. “Anyways, I’m gonna go to the darkroom to get some good physical versions of these pictures. Need anything before I go?”

It’s a habit of yours to ask—Sometimes you feel like all you do is take and process pictures, like your job is easier than everyone else’s but your coworkers know that’s only because you love your job so much.

Lois shakes her head and tells you she’ll let Clark know where you are when she sees him. You thank her and take your leave, setting up camp in the darkroom, knowing you’d have to take your time to process each photo. Sure, you could just send Perry digital copies, but the presentation of these physical prints would be too good to miss out on.

You’d have people begging to buy these photos, and it thrilled you. You’d have to give Krypto a big treat next time you see him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed in the darkroom, but you were about three quarters of the way through your process when there’s a gentle knock on the door. You don’t even look up, you know who it is, and it’s only confirmed when warm, strong arms wrap around your torso from behind as you hang a photo to dry.

“Hi,” he says, watching you as you work.

“Hey,” You hum, leaning against him with a soft smile. “Late again, huh?”

“Had to help a little kid repair his solar system project after he dropped it on the way to school.” Your heart melts.

“Well, no wonder you’re late.” You say softly, but before you can say anything else, he turns you around with his hands on your hips before his lips are on yours. He tastes like mints and coffee, and you think you could die and go to heaven right now. Your hands rest on the back of his neck, the tips of your fingers barely brush against his hair.

His hands lift you with ease and sit you on an empty space next to your equipment. He stands between your legs, his glasses pressed against your face, and in between kisses, you push his glasses up to rest in his hair, not wanting the teasing that would come with the mark that they would leave.

He deepens the kiss a bit, but before he can stop himself, he’s mumbling, “Gosh, you’re so pretty,” as he continues to kiss you, and you find yourself smiling against his lips. He’s a sweetheart, your boy.

Your hands travel up a bit, unable to stop yourself from tangling your fingers within his dark curls. He lets out a content sigh against your mouth and you take the opportunity to slip your tongue through his parted lips, and it seems to egg him on more.

After a moment, you realize you need to breathe, but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Clark’s. Your hands squeeze his biceps, trying to get his attention, but his hands begin to travel up and down your sides, until you eventually pull away, but his mouth chases yours,

“Clark,” You say breathlessly, “Baby, I gotta breathe,” you say, and he just nods,

“Sorry,” he starts, pressing a kiss to your lips quickly, and then to your cheek, “I’m sorry,” and then a kiss to your forehead, “I’m sorry,” and he means it. He forgets that you can’t hold your breath for an hour like he can.

You just smile and lean your forehead against his as you try to catch your breath.

“I’m okay,” You promise, and Clark nods, his lips plump and pink. He looks pretty. After a moment, Clark’s eyebrows furrow when your stomach growls loudly.

“When was the last time you ate?” He wonders, and all you do is shrug. You have that bad habit of forgetting to eat when you get focused on work, and Clark has noticed. Oh, how Clark has noticed.

“Uh,” You shrug, “I had a cup of coffee this morning,”

“That doesn’t count,” He reminds, and then sighs. “Well, I’m starving. Thai or Chinese?” He wonders, and you shrug in response.

“Indian?”

Clark’s lips catch yours in a long, soft kiss. When he pulls away, he says, “Perfect.” But the way he looks at you, you’re not sure he’s talking about the suggestion.

Thursday

You can’t contain the grin on your face as you bounce from Perry’s office back to Clark’s desk. You hold today’s issue of the newspaper, and Clark’s article sits on the front page, with your photograph printed above it. His name and yours sit next to each other on the page and Clark is seriously considering getting it framed.

“It’s a great photo,” Lois compliments, looking at her own copy. You grin to her,

“Thanks,” And that’s when Jimmy sighs as he sits back in his chair. You lean against Clark’s desk, who cannot stop staring at you.

“Alright, I give up.” Jimmy sighs, “You’re the better photographer. I mean, you were able to get Superman to what? Pose for you? How’d you do it?” He wonders, and all you can do is shrug, the way you’re smiling has Clark whipped.

“I know a guy,” You grin, and you don’t even look at Clark. He’s so in love with you.

Lois and Jimmy go back to their work, and you finally turn your attention to your adoring boyfriend.

“We should celebrate.” He grins, “Dinner tonight?” He wonders. Admittedly, the two of you would have dinner either way, whether there was something to celebrate or not.

“Sure. What did you have in mind?” You ask, and he smiles.

“Sushi?”

“Sushi.”

Friday

Sushi does not wind up going as planned. In fact, you don’t make it to dinner at all—You get stuck at work after someone spilt coffee on half your prints, so you resign to the darkroom while Superman fights off some big alien robot—

Clark promises to make it up to you, and you just smile affectionately and tell him to go save lives.

It’s technically Friday when you make your way home, Superman is still fighting that robot, but you were spent. Your eyelids were heavy, and your bones ache. You daydream about a relaxing weekend with your boyfriend, not knowing that the next few hours would be some of the worst of your life.

You listen to the sounds of Superman punching robots while you walk home and you have this goofy smile on your face. You’ve never been so in love, and it makes it hard to focus on much else—

Including the sound of footsteps approaching.

Later, you would kick yourself for your stupidity, for your carelessness. How could you not hear the heavy footsteps of a man with ill intent?

But you’re knocked out by the butt of a gun before you can hear anything other than the sound of your boyfriend’s laser vision from almost a mile away, marking your second head injury of the week.

When you wake up, your head is killing you, and when you go to rub the sleep out of your eyes you find that your arms are tied to the chair you sit in. You blink away exhaustion and realize you have no idea where you are. This warehouse—You assume it’s a warehouse—is dark and smells like the sea. When you look down, you see dried blood on the floor.

Your heart rate begins to increase, pounding against your chest—but you’re comforted, if only briefly, by the fact that you know as soon as he can, Clark will be here to get you. Then, you remember the robot infestation, and his preoccupation. You might be here for a while, and you have no idea who’s taken you.

Your head hurts.

You begin to wiggle your hands and arms, trying to figure any weak spots in the binds, trying to get out of here before Clark even realizes what has happened.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A voice pierces through the darkness, and you freeze. You try to remember what Clark said to do in this situation, but your brain is fuzzy and full of fear.

“Whatever it is you think I have,” You force your voice to be stern, unshaken, “You’re wrong.” You say, and the voice laughs. From the darkness comes a small group of people, three or four of them, all dressed in black. On their necks, you see a tattoo—No, not a tattoo. A brand.. A large ‘L’ encased in a circle is branded on each of their necks.

“We’re going to make this very clear for you.” Another one of them talks, “Answer our questions, and we’ll let you go. Give us bullshit, and well..” She gestures to the biggest of them. He’s as tall as Clark, looks as big as him too. “Our friend here has an anger problem. Would be a shame if he had to take it out on you.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

Where is Clark?

“What do you want from me?” You ask, and one holds up Thursday’s Issue of The Daily Planet. The one with your picture of Superman, his heroic smile as bright as the sun behind him.

“You took this picture, right?”

“That’s my name under it, isn’t it?” You ask, your answer dripping with sarcasm—you can’t help it. Under your fear, you’re angry. What right do these assholes have to torture you? But your sarcasm is met with a sharp slap across your face by the big man you were threatened by. Your ears are starting to ring, and your vision unfocuses for a second, but then you nod, “Yes! Yes, I took that picture, Jesus—” You huff.

Of course this is about the picture. No one else in Metropolis has been able to get Superman to pose for pictures.

“How’d you get Superman to pose for you?” One asks, and you shake your head.

“I-I don’t..” Your throat is dry. How could you tell them that his dog gave you a concussion, so he owed you one, on top of the fact that he was the love of your life?

You don’t get the chance to finish, because the big man’s hand comes down in a powerful fist, and hits you in the stomach. You groan in pain, leaning over as you try to catch your breath. Someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back up so he can land another punch to your stomach—and you’re gasping for air, trying to catch your breath after hearing a sharp crack! of your ribs.

This is bad.

Where is Clark?

“How’d you get him to pose for you?” They ask, because of your pain, your vision is blurred, so they all blend together as one—except for this big guy, who stands looming over you.

“He.. He saw me.. taking photos on the roof.. asked me.. if I was okay.” The lie comes out between panted, labored breathes, “I asked.. I swear that’s all..” You say, because you feel tears coming on, and you don’t want them to see you cry.

This goes on for a long time—or maybe it’s not long, you really can’t tell, not between the pain and the fear—the fear of dying, the fear of not being able to see Clark again, the fear of accidentally slipping up and telling them exactly what you know—time becomes a blur.

By the time they ask their last question, you feel like you really might die. You spit blood onto the floor, your vision is unfocused, and your entire body is shaking—from the pain or the fear, you do not know.

But the last question really fucking scares you.

“What’s Superman’s secret identity?” They ask, “Who is he?”

Your face is swollen, bruised, and bloody.

“His name… is Kal-El,” You say, because it’s true, it’s what everyone knows, “He comes from the planet Krypton—” You cry out in pain when you’re hit again, and all you can do is cry, because you just cannot help it. You have nothing left.

Where is Clark?

“He has to be someone in his day-to-day life! Who is he?” They ask again, and you shake your head even if it hurts.

“I don’t know!” You cry out, “I don’t fucking know!” And it’s a lie. Of course you know who he is. You know every detail you can possibly maintain about who Superman is when he’s not saving the world. You know how he loves mandarin oranges and how they look so small in his hands, you know how he ‘doesn’t care for’ pickles because he cannot bring himself to really hate anything, you know how one day, he wants to have two kids, a boy and a girl, you know how eye contact turns him on, and you know how gentle he is despite his size. But you can’t tell them any of that.  

You’re about to pass out. You can’t take much more of this, and they know it. Your chest is heaving, up and down with labored breaths. It hurts to breathe. You can barely make out the image of someone pulling out a gun, probably the same gun that had knocked you out earlier.

And then it all happens in an instant.

To your right, you hear the smashing of glass as something—no, someone, someone flies through the window, and before you can even turn your head, strong, warm arms wrap around you, snapping the ropes around your arms and flying off, out of this warehouse and into the sky, filled with the warm yellows and oranges of dawn.

There he is.

Wind whips through your hair, and you relish the idea that you’re alive. You know your injuries are not life threatening, you’ll be okay.

Through the sounds of the wind and the ringing in your ears, you can hear him talking, gently, as if he’s afraid that speaking louder might hurt you, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry,” and despite how badly you want to reassure him that you’re okay, all you can do is curl into him as your vision fades, and you’re plunged into darkness.

Clark pushes himself to fly faster when he feels you go limp in his arms.

When you wake up, you’re in a hospital.

You hate hospitals.

You’re not strapped down or anything, not hooked up to anything.. but your wounds are cared for, and instead of pain, you feel kind of.. floaty. Whatever they gave you for the pain is working wonders. Maybe hospitals aren’t as bad as you think—

Where is Clark?

As if he can read your thoughts, and in your high on pain killers state, you think maybe he can, he walks back in. He moves quickly to sit by your side, his hands clasping around yours. If he owed you one for Krypto giving you a concussion, he owes you a million for this. He’s sick to his stomach at the sight of you, and all you want to do is pull his stupid glasses off his face.

“Hey,” You smile, and somehow, Clark’s frown only deepens.

“Hi.. How are you feeling?” He asks, and you shrug.

“Mm.. Floaty.” You confess, and it seems to take him off guard.

“Floaty?”

“Yeah, whatever they gave me for the pain is really working.” You confess, and you see him smile just a bit. You think about his awkward forced smile when he’s asked to take a picture, and you begin to giggle, even if it hurts your ribs.

“What’s so funny?” He asks, his chin rests on his hands that encompass yours, and  his voice just a murmur, because nothing about this is funny to him.

You just shake your head, and ask,

“Can we go home?”  His blue eyes stare into yours, and he sighs,

“The doctors say—”

“Clark, I don’t care.” And the slight break in your voice makes him stop, “Please, just.. take me home. I want to shower, and eat something, and—” he nods.

“Okay, yeah. Let’s go home.” He says gently, helping you sit up. He can tell you’re exhausted and even though you’re feeling no pain right now, you’d be much more comfortable at home. Besides, Clark had taken every single word the doctor said to heart, so he knows how to take care of you from here, he could probably recite it in his sleep.

On the way home, Clark fills you in on everything—The people who took and tortured you were Luthorcorp Followers, devoted to find out everything they could about Superman in the name of their old boss. Having taken the only good photos of Superman currently in the press, you had become an immediate target for them. Clark had spent a long time feeling guilty about these facts as he waited for you to wake up.

If your head wasn’t cloudy, you’d notice the longing stare of your boyfriend, who’s fingers twitched to scoop you up and fly you home, keep you there forever, and never give the world the chance to hurt you again. You got hurt because he was Superman, and he’s not sure if he can forgive himself for the position he put you in.

What would have happened if you were more seriously hurt? …What would have happened if he got to you a moment too late?

It’s all Clark can think about as he watches you down the sandwich he made you, hungrier than you had been in ages. And you’re so tired. But you frown when you watch Clark across the table, looking.. sad. But he had saved you, what was there to be sad about?

Wordlessly, you push the plate in front of you with half a sandwich towards him. Immediately, he shakes his head and nudges it back towards you.

“You’re starving,” He reminds, “And besides, I’m not hungry.”

You give him a look.

“You’re always hungry, baby,” You remind, pushing the plate back to him. He shakes his head,

“Not tonight.” He says, and you sigh.

“Denying yourself food won’t change what happened. I’m fine, Clark—”

“But you aren’t.” He says, and his voice is tight like he’s terrified of the reality of it, “You got kidnapped, and.. and really hurt, because I’m Superman, and I can’t.. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt worse, or..” He trails off, because even saying it is too real for him. He’s looking at you, cut up and bruised, holding half a grilled cheese, and he wishes he could take this entire week back.

“But I’m okay.” You remind. “And I love you. I know what the risks are, okay? But I love you too much to stay away from you, and I love you too much to ask you to stop fulfilling your life’s purpose. This might have happened anyways.” You say, and nudge the plate towards him. “Here. Eat. For me, please?”

And because Clark can’t deny you anything, he reaches forward and takes the second half of the sandwich, and the two of you eat quietly, tears brimming both of your eyes, the day finally catching up to you.

Saturday

You wake up gasping for air. You can’t remember what your nightmare was about, but Clark’s arms are around you before you even turn your head to look at him.

He holds you close, petting your hair.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you.. It was just a nightmare, sweetheart. You’re alright.” He says gently, and he listens to the sound of your heartrate slow. Tears are running down your face, and you attempt to mumble out something—an apology or maybe an explanation—but he just shushes you softly. “It’s okay.” He assures, and it is.

Because Superman protects people—It’s what he does. And you’re his favorite person. He’ll always come to find you, to make sure you’re okay, that you’re safe.

The thought alone is enough to drag you both back to sleep, with a mumble of a promise to make breakfast in a few hours.

[deviouz]

just watched superman !! i got a lot to say and absolutely none of it is family friendly :D

[penandinkprincess]

*a loud and echoing "FUCK YEAH 🤘"*

[commiescummie]

i said what i said

[trelleste]

Toothpaste. It's just frozen toothpaste.

[commiescummie]

[danidoodels]

stephcass prompt for dcforgaza<3