24, she/they, addiction to big blue men and scary (hot) women
Requests: I do take them! I just am a bit slow with them, have some to catch up on, but I'm more than happy to do them 🫶🏻
Warning: This blog has 18+ content, please do not interact with me/my blog if you are underage, thank you. Everyone I write for is aged up or already of age, so please, if you have an issue, please do not interact either. There will be NO racism, homophobia, transphobia, sexism or anything of the likes tolerated in requests, comments or even reblogs.
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Masterlist
Completed Requests
Kinktober Masterlist (Done!)
Kinkmas (In Progress)
Arcane Masterlist
Artwork
Navi OC, artwork done by @hyper-byte-ocs (art that I commissioned, go check them out!)
Taking a Chance Artwork, again done by the ever amazing @hyper-byte-ocs
Tags/Warnings - MDNI 🔞: Passively suicidal, eventual smut (but you'll know when), angst, rejected feelings, reader does have some physical description, aged up! Neteyam, riveraly, fluff, found family, plot heavy but not really iykyk, mates/mating, scent, mentions of death, reader does have some ptsd due to experiments -- lmk if any more
These are just overall tags for the bigger story
- Also this is written in a third person view, so there is a lot of she/her
~W.C: 2k+
~Note: I wanted to try and write a Neteyam fic with a plot that's been playing on my mind for ages, this was the tester. But I was in the air about writing a second part, but I really want to so lmk if you want more chapters
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Summary: Y/n was a girl that Jake knew before going to Pandora, she admired him but when he left, her whole life went down hill. She lost people, then taken from her home, experimented on like a rat. Now she's in Pandora breathing their air, living amongst them and yet she wants nothing to do with the life she has. She's tired, but maybe the Sully Family can help her stay awake a bit longer.
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“That’s impossible.” Jake murmured, shaking his head in disbelief. He stared at the capsule chamber which held a human girl, floating in a thick liquid that reflected blue from the light that kept it on. “She looks no older than 15.”
“Eighteen.” Norm corrected. He was in his avatar as he tapped on the tablet trying to access the memory of the pod. “It says this pod is registered with the name… y/n?”
Jake flinched at the name. This pod was found in the depths of the ocean, not too far from the Metkayina spirit tree. It was wedged between rocks and hard coral. No idea of how long it was there, but long enough to know it was deteriorating under the water. Since Jake Sully and his family had connections to the demons, the people gave the pod to them to study — Jake immediately recognised the face of the girl.
“No, that can’t be right. No, if this is really her then she wouldn’t be eighteen. She’d be well over 50 — maybe damn near dead.” Jake tried to argue. They had placed the pod in the back of their marui while Norm and Max looked over the issue. “I know because… I said my goodbyes to her when she was 15 back on earth — there’s no way she’d be 18.”
Norm inhaled deeply, tilting his head in soft conflict. Shrugging his shoulders lightly before he froze, and looked back at the sleeping girl. “I did hear rumours.”
“What rumours?” Jake crouched closed enough to the pod where he could practically feel the vibrations of its mechanics on his skin.
“I heard rumours way before coming to Pandora that they were experimenting on kids.” Norm muttered, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it. “I didn’t think they were true. But what I heard was that they had kids in a program to assimilate them to Pandora’s air, make them learn na’vi ways before sending them here. Get them to grow up here — letting them learn better than any adult. I never heard of success stories though.”
“Wait- so you’re saying she was taken? Experimented on like a lab rat?” Jake almost growled, his four fingered hand balling up in a fist.
“I don’t know why her capsule would’ve been in the ocean, but they must’ve put her into cryosleep.” Norm said, his fingers working fast across the tablet.
“This is insane.” Jake huffed, standing up and weaving his hands in his textured dreads out of frustration. Turning to the entrance of the marui he saw his family peeking in. Neytiri with a look of distain on her face — she did not like this at all.
Just when, after 3 years, their family were getting settled in the reef with the Metkayina. Just when the hardships of war was dying down before the next battle. This human — you, was discovered.
“I’m gonna be honest Jake, this pod won’t make it any longer. Its battery life is great but it’s close to dead. It might not even make it back to High Camp with us.” Norm shook his head. “Heck, she might’ve been in that ocean for at least 10 years.”
“So what’s the situation?” Jake breathed deeply, calming his nerves.
“We can wake her or… this pod dies and she suffocates.” Norm said with a huff, shaking his head in defeat. Jake’s ears, pointed and blue tilted back against his head. How was he going to explain to this girl that she was in Pandora, breathing their air, and now in front of a na’vi that was once a human she knew.
“Ma’Jake.” Neytiri’s voice, sharp and low. Jake turned and she flicked her head signalling him to walk out. He did, standing amongst his children while his wife gazed at him and the pod. “We cannot wake a vrrtep (demon) here.”
“She could die in there, baby.” Jake tried to reason and she silenced him with a shake of her head.
“Then she dies — we cannot let a sky demon who might breathe our air walk amongst us.” She said through clenched teeth, clearly not fond of the idea of a human walking around. “What if she’s loyal to the sky people? What if she tells them our location?”
“She could be a nice sky demon.” Tuk said innocently, peeking behind Neytiri to the floating figure in the pod.
“Nonsense.” Neytiri snapped.
“You said you knew her, father?” Neteyam spoke up, his voice calling everyone’s eyes on him. He stood tall and proud, no longer built like a kid 3 years ago. Braids that grew slightly in length, shoulders broader and long limbs. “Back on your earth star?”
Jake blinked, contemplating saying his story. “I knew her mother, we were in the Marines together.”
After recounting his story, remembering flashbacks of earth before everything, before his family and before his life as na’vi. He looked back at the pod, the girl seemingly at peace with being asleep — however it wasn’t a face he remembered you having a lot back on earth. With that, he made his decision.
“We need to wake her.” He said firmly, earning a hiss of irritation from Neytiri as she turned around to face the ocean. “I’m sorry, baby. But I know this girl, heck I helped raise her-“
“Knew. You knew this girl.” Neytiri interjected, eyeing Jack one more time before whipping the other direction taking Tuk with her. Jake sighed deeply running a hand over his face.
“She’s very pretty for a human.” Kiri commented, making Jake snap back into his thoughts seeing the remainder of his kids had walked into the marui hovering around the chamber.
“Some taste you got.” Lo’ak scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He earned a tug on his ear from Kiri, making him hiss. He was going to retaliate before getting a slap to the back of his head from his older brother.
“So?” Norm said. Jake nodded his head, they decided to wake her up. “Okay, we’re doing this.”
||
Night fell slowly, the capsule was now drained of its liquid but still buzzed with energy as her body laid on its back still fast asleep. Now the rise and fall of her chest was very clear as she breathed.
Neytiri was in a bad mood that Jake needed to rectify, so he left both his boys and Kiri to watch over the sleeping girl.
“You reckon she has cool stories of earth? If she knew dad before maybe she has some funny stories.” Kiri says softly, sitting on the ground but big enough to rest her arms on the open pod looking at the girl.
“Maybe, or maybe she’s a scary monster.” Lo’ak teased, growling playfully as his sister who rolled her eyes looking back and seemingly playing with the human’s hair.
“We just need to be careful, no telling whose side she’s on.” Neteyam said calmly, he stood behind the pod against the wall. Arms crossed over each other above his chest as he watched the opened pod with a steady gaze. “This girl could be a friend or a threat. For now, we need to treat this situation carefully.”
Lo’ak huffed, unfolding his arms before kneeling next to the pod and propping his head up by the chin with his hand. He had gotten bored of the seriousness of the situation but had a remote curiosity of the girl. Lo’ak, lost in his own world poked her hand before looking at his own — the same.
“Don’t do that-“ Neteyam said as he leaned over her body, waving Lo’ak’s hand away. Huffing, a bit irritated at the curiosity of this sleeping girl from both his sister and brother. “Stop touching her. Go. Go rest, tell dad I’ll keep watch for tonight.”
Both Kiri and Lo’ak rolled their eyes, sighing loudly. Lazily getting up as they left the marui, which was originally theirs, but seeing as Neytiri didn’t want to sleep in the same place as this human they had to go somewhere else.
Neteyam sighed deeply, taking Lo’ak’s spot on the ground and stared at the entrance. Silence, nothing but the night lights pouring in and soft crashes of the waves, pairing themselves with the gentle vibrations of the dying pod. Neteyam turned and looked, eyeing the body, laying there in white shorts and a white top that clung to her skin. He tilted his head, staring longer than he should’ve then looked at the hand that Lo’ak had touched. Hesitant, he too poked at the four fingered hand tracing each other with his long slender ones before lifting it.
He blinked, swallowing hard wondering why he was indulging in this action but he did. He pushed the human’s hand upward, trying to mirror the actions by holding his hand against hers. It didn’t fit, his hand was bigger than hers by a long shot and she had an extra finger than him. Neteyam’s ears flicked as he tilted his head in amusement.
He wasn’t a stranger to humans, but he kept his distance from them. He didn’t linger around them longer than he needed to, but he felt strangely towards this one though. An extension of his father from earth, not only had he felt different for being the eldest son of Jake Sully — Toruk Makto, and Neytiri but he presented to be more na’vi than his siblings. Far more detached to sky people and their star.
Neteyam leaned closer, studying the face of the girl. Dark hair that fell short just before her shoulders, small like most humans and sharp features that he almost compared to that of his mother’s. Maybe this extension of his father was his connection to the star that his brother always talked about.
“Hello Little tawtute, I’m Neteyam.” He said softly before settling in the silence.
||
Neteyam woke up in a gasp, shooting up as he heard commotion from outside. He turned to the pod — the girl was gone. A ping of fear shot in his chest as he whipped for his bow before rushing out.
When did he even go to sleep? How did that little human even get past him — where was his knife? He almost froze when he no longer felt the weight of the carved bone on his hip. It was gone.
He rushed to the scene where the Metkayina people hovered with their loud voices and torches high in the air. Some mothers hiding their kids behind them as their men stood defensively.
Neteyam started seeing everyone surrounding a large palm tree. Its trunk was big, not big enough to hide someone as large as him but he could see na’vi alike reaching and awkwardly crouching trying to use tactics to lure whatever was inside the trunk out. He could see a human’s hand shoot out waving a knife — his knife. People backed away, hissing loudly.
His family rushed over not long after him. Jake let out an agitated sigh. “You said you were watching her.”
“Sir I was-“ Neteyam couldn’t finish his sentence before Jake pushed forward with Neteyam, like the mighty warrior he was, just behind.
“It’s okay! I got this.” Jake said, standing protectively in front of the trunk with his hands in the air. Tonowari and Ronal looking shocked as they stood protectively in front of their clan. Arguing that this human, this demon, was of no use and a danger to their people.
While Jake protested Neteyam turned, bending down trying to look into the hollow trunk before the arm shot out once again. His knife’s blade just barely scraping his cheek making him push back, feeling a warm ooz of blood trickle down his face. People gasped, Neteyam blinked feeling his cheek before he saw faint colour of red on his finger tips.
“Go away!” The human said in English. He understood that much although it wasn’t his strongest language.
“Hey- Hey! Specs!” Jake said, turned kneeling as he held his hands beside his head like in a surrender. “Specs. Listen to me!”
The hand stopped waving, frozen in air before hiding back inside the tree. Neteyam could only see a faint shadow of the figure before it slowly and carefully moved towards the light at the nickname. His breath got caught in his throat as he saw her face.
Narrowed eyes with brows that frowned, round eyes that still somehow pulled near the ends. He thought this before but her eyes did truly resemble his mother’s — strong and fierce. Eyes that looked outside the trunk but with plump lips that were pursed.
Summary: The secret you shared with Neteyam had taken shape, breathing and growing within you.
Warnings: 6k+ words, aged up! neteyam, rivals to whatever that they are now, no smut, angst, a little fluff, you are still an idiot at the start (avoidant final boss), but you got the ending you deserved.
Chapters: friendly fire, friendlier fire, friendliest fire, frozen fire, seed of fire
"He has arranged it," Neteyam finally looked at you, and the sheer agony in his expression made your breath catch. "I'm to be engaged. To the daughter of one of the lead warriors. Someone worthy of the future Olo'eyktan."
The words felt like a physical blow to the chest, harder than any strike you'd ever taken in training. The "we" you had finally started to believe in shattered into a thousand pieces.
You didn't let your hand shake. Instead, you sat down, reached for your sharpening stone, and ran it along the edge of your blade, anything to keep you busy so you don't break. The screech of metal on stone filled the silence.
"Then congratulations are in order," you said. You didn't look up. "A warrior's daughter. That’s a strong match."
Neteyam didn't move. You could feel his heat, his presence pressing into your space, demanding a reaction you refused to give.
"Is that it?" he asked, his voice cracking. "You’re just going to wish me well?"
"What else do you want, Sully? A toast? I’m happy for you. You get the crown, the girl, and the legacy." You finally looked at him, offering a small, hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It’s a win for the clan."
"Stop it," he snapped, grabbing your wrist to pull the knife away. "Don't act like this is a strategy meeting. We are mated. We went to the grove. We joined before Eywa—"
"We didn't join anything," you said, wrenching your arm back. You stood up, tall and unbothered. "It was a just another hookup we did. Don't make it a big deal."
Neteyam recoiled. His ears flattened against his head and his tail went still. "The tsaheylu... I felt your soul. You can't lie about that."
"The tsaheylu is a biological connection, Neteyam. It’s nerves and electricity." You picked up your sharpening stone again, focusing on the blade in your lap. "I’ve connected with dozens of people over the years. You were just the most recent."
"Yeah? Right before you killed them?" his voice was low with a sudden venom. He stepped into your space, forcing you to look up. "You don't connect with people to feel them. You use it as a weapon. You use it to torture them before the end. Are you proud of that?"
You didn't flinch. You met his stare with eyes like flint. "If that's what you need to tell yourself, go ahead. It doesn't change the fact that you and whatever happened in that grove aren't special."
Neteyam went silent. The anger seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a hollow and cold look that made him look older than he was. He stared at you as if he were looking at a stranger, someone he had never shared a breath with, let alone a soul.
"It's tomorrow's eclipse," he finally said. His voice was flat, drained of any emotion.
"What?"
"The engagement party," he said, turning away from you. "It’s during tomorrow’s eclipse. My father expects everyone to be there."
He didn't wait for you to respond. He walked out of your place and into the night, the sound of his footsteps disappearing long before the beat of his ikran's wings hit the air.
The light faded as the eclipse began. The forest took on a muted hue and the bioluminescent veins of the trees started to pulse. You slipped into the back of the gathering, keeping close to the large trunks to blend in.
A small hand slipped into yours. Tuk looked up at you with wide eyes, her expression a mix of confusion and relief. Next to her, Kiri gave you a short nod, her eyes full of a knowing pity that made you want to look away. Lo'ak stood on your other side, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I thought you weren't coming," Lo'ak said under his breath.
"Just watching the show," you replied.
Your eyes went to the center. Neteyam was there, polished and perfect. He wore the heavy mantle of a leader, his braids neat and his posture straight. He was leaning in toward the girl, which you believe is his fiance. Neteyam said something quietly to her, his face close to hers, and she smiled, resting a hand on his arm.
The girl said something that made him chuckle, and he reached out to adjust one of the beads on her shoulder. The gesture was small, but it felt like a knife twisting in your gut. He was playing the part perfectly. He was giving her the same gentle attention he had given you, only this time, he wasn't hiding it.
Tuk squeezed your hand tighter. "She's nice," the little girl whispered, "but she's not you."
"She's exactly who he needs, Tuk," you said, your voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.
The Olo'eyktan stepped into the center of the clearing as the eclipse reached its peak. The shadows deepened, making the glow of the forest floor look even brighter. Jake began to speak, his voice steady and loud, calling on the ancestors to witness the union.
Neteyam stood perfectly still. He kept his eyes fixed on the girl in front of him, his hands resting on her shoulders. He never looked back at the crowd. He never looked at the spot where you were standing. It was like you didn't exist in his world anymore.
Kiri and Tuk let go of your hands. They shared a quick look with each other before walking forward to join the rest of the family. They took their places beside their brother, leaving you standing alone with Lo'ak in the darkness of the trees.
"You don't have to stay for the whole thing," Lo'ak whispered. He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable as he watched his brother play the role of the perfect heir.
"I’m fine, Lo'ak," you said. You kept your eyes on the back of Neteyam's head. "I just wanted to see the ceremony."
"He's been acting like a statue all day," Lo'ak muttered. "He won't talk to me. He won't talk to anyone. He just does what my father tells him."
"Maybe he's nervous," you said.
You leaned against the bark of a tree, crossing your arms to hide the way your fingers were twitching. Your voice sounded flat, even to your own ears.
Lo’ak let out a short breath. He looked from you to his brother and back again. "He’s not nervous. He’s gone. He’s been like this since he came back from your camp. He looks dead inside."
You turned your head to him. "So you know he's been visiting me?"
Lo’ak looked at you, his tail giving a sharp flick of annoyance. He didn't look surprised.
"I’m his brother," he said. "He’s a terrible liar when he thinks no one is watching. Every night he’d disappear toward the west, and every morning he’d come back smelling like woodsmoke. My parents might be blind, but I’m not."
You looked back at the center of the camp. The ceremonial drums started a slow rhythmic beat, signaling the start of the dance. Neteyam took the girl’s hand. He led her toward the flat stone at the center of the village. His movements were stiff, like a wooden doll being pulled by strings. He didn't have the fluid grace he usually had when he hunted.
"If you knew, why didn't you say anything?" you asked.
"Because he looked happy for once," Lo’ak muttered. He kicked at a loose root in the dirt. "He’s spent his whole life trying to be the perfect son for my dad. When he was coming back from your place, he actually looked like he could breathe. Now? Look at him. He’s a ghost."
Neteyam spun the girl around in the first movement of the dance. The crowd cheered, clapping in time with the drums. He caught her waist to steady her, his face inches from hers.
"He made his choice, Lo’ak," you said. You felt the familiar ache at your gut, a dull pulse that matched the beat of the drums.
"He didn't choose anything," Lo’ak snapped. "He did what he was told. There's a difference. And I believe you made him do that too."
You opened your mouth to snap back, to tell him he didn't know anything about what happened in that hollow. But the words died in your throat. The ground under your feet suddenly felt like it was tilting to one side. The smell of the smoked meat and the heavy incense from the ceremony hit you all at once, making your stomach roll.
You swayed, reaching out to steady yourself against the rough bark of the tree.
"Hey," Lo'ak’s voice lost its edge, shifting to something closer to worry. "You okay? Your face just went grey."
You had been feeling off since you woke up at dawn, you thought it was just because of the lack of sleep you had last night. Now, it was a sharp, localized cramp on your belly that made you hitch your breath. Your vision blurred, the bioluminescent lights of the forest spinning into long, messy streaks.
"I'm fine," you managed to mutter, though the trees were starting to blur into one dark mass. "Just haven't eaten."
"Like hell you are," Lo’ak said. "Let's get you to the Tsahik."
Lo'ak didn't wait for your permission. He hooked one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you as your head lolled against his shoulder. He moved fast, ignoring your weak attempts to push him away.
The air in the Tsahik’s tent was quiet and smelled of bitter herbs. It was a sharp contrast to the floral scent of the ceremony outside. He laid you down on a woven mat, your breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Wait here. I'll get her," Lo'ak said. He vanished through the tent flap, his footsteps fading into the distance.
You lay there, staring up at the thatched roof. The pain in your stomach making it hard to find a comfortable position. You could still hear the faint thumping of the drums from the village center. It felt like a lifetime ago that you were standing in the shadows watching Neteyam dance.
The tent flap moved. Mo’at stepped inside. She didn't say a word as she sat beside you. Her hands were cool as she pressed them against your neck, checking your pulse.
"Lo'ak says you collapsed," she said.
"I'm just tired," you whispered.
Mo'at ignored you. She moved her hands down, pressing firmly against your abdomen. You winced, your body tensing instinctively. She paused, her fingers lingering over the spot that hurt the most. She closed her eyes for a moment, her expression shifting into something deeper, more focused.
When she opened her eyes, she didn't look at your face. She looked at your stomach.
"A life only exists when the Great Mother gives her blessing," Mo'at said. She pulled her hands back, watching you with eyes that saw everything.
You didn't move. You barely breathed. "What do you mean?"
"You are carrying a life," she repeated. She stood up, looking toward the tent opening where the sounds of the celebration drifted in. "And we know well whose that is."
The air in the tent felt tight. You looked down at your hands, your fingers digging into the mat. This changed everything. The secret you shared with Neteyam had taken shape, breathing and growing within you. A life that tied you to the Omatikaya in a way that your exile couldn't break.
Outside, the drums hit a steady beat. Neteyam was supposed to be pledging himself to someone else, but his blood was already here, in this tent, with you.
You thought about Neteyam’s face when he left your place. You thought about him dancing with the warrior’s daughter. If you told him, he would leave her. He would defy his father and the clan. If you told him, the engagement would end before the eclipse was even over.
He would walk away from the girl, the alliance, and his father’s pride. He would choose you, but he would do it out of a crushing sense of duty. He would spend the rest of his life as an outcast, stripped of his name and his future, just to sit in a cave with a girl the clan feared.
You didn't want him like that. You didn't want to be the reason he lost the only world he knew.
"Don't let him know," you said. Your voice was thin, but it didn't shake.
Mo'at stopped what she was doing. She turned around, her brow furrowed as she looked at you. "What?"
"He has a path. He is the future of this clan," you said, looking at the tent flap. Beyond it, the music was getting louder. "If he knows, he’ll leave her. He’ll fight his father. He’ll give up everything he was born for just to be with an exile."
You knew Neteyam. He was loyal to a fault. If he found out he had a child, he would throw away his crown, his family, and his honor to sit in that damp cave with you.
Mo'at watched you for a long time. The silence in the tent was heavy, broken only by the bubbling of her pot. "You would carry this alone?"
"I could handle it," you said. You sat up slowly. "Tell Lo'ak it was just a fever."
Mo’at stood by the simmering pot, she stirred the liquid, the steam rising to cloud. "This child is my blood," she said. "My daughter's first grandchild. You ask me to bury a branch of our family tree in the dirt of a cave?"
"I’m asking you to save him," you said. You gripped the edge of the mat, forcing the nausea down. "If he finds out, he leaves. He’ll watch the clan look at him with shame every day."
"Please," you pleaded, your eyes stinging. "Let him have the life he was born for. Don't let me be the thing that breaks the Sully family."
Mo'at stayed silent for a long time. She finally poured the medicine into a small wooden bowl and set it beside you. She didn't look at you when she spoke.
"I will tell them it was a fever," she said. Her voice was thick, carrying a weight you couldn't name. "I will tell Lo'ak to escort you back to your shelter. But Eywa sees all, girl. You cannot keep the tide from coming in."
"I just need to keep it back long enough for him to forget me," you said.
You drank the medicine. It was bitter and tasted like earth, but it settled the fire in your stomach. Within minutes, the tent flap opened, and Lo'ak stepped back in, looking anxious. He looked from you to Mo'at, waiting for the verdict.
"It is as I thought," Mo'at said, her voice regaining its sharp authority. "She's just too tired. Take her back to her shelter and see that she rests."
Five weeks had passed since the eclipse. The western cliffs was colder now, the wind biting through the thin skin of your shelter. Without the communal fires of the village, the nights felt twice as long.
Neteyam hadn't come back. Not once. You heard from the occasional passing scout that the wedding preparations were moving fast. The prince was busy. You told yourself it was what you wanted, but some nights the loneliness felt like it was physically crushing your lungs.
The sickness hit you in waves. Some mornings you could barely stand to look at the dried meat you had worked so hard to store. You spent most of your time sitting by the small fire.
"You're just as stubborn as he is," you muttered, your voice raspy from disuse. You were sitting by the fire, skinning a small yerik. The smell of the raw meat made your stomach flip, a sudden wave of hormonal irritation rising in your throat. "Just like him. Sticking around where you aren't wanted."
You dropped the knife and rested a hand over your belly, feeling a faint flutter from inside. "I hope you don't get his eyes nor his ego," you said.
You leaned back against the rock wall, a stray tear sliding down your cheek. "I will take a good care of you. You won't need a clan that hates you. We'll leave before you're even born, and he'll never even know he had a son or a daughter to break."
"He'll never know what?"
The voice was like a physical strike. You bolted upright, the sudden movement making your head spin and your stomach flip.
Neteyam was standing at the entrance of the hollow. He looked terrible. His skin was dull, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had clearly lost weight.
He didn't move. He just stared at your hand, which was still pressed firmly against your stomach.
"I heard you," he whispered, his voice shaking. "I heard what you said."
You scrambled to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "You heard wrong," you said. "I’m losing my mind out here. I talk to the walls. I talk to the shadows."
"Shadows don't have fathers," he said. His voice was thick, like he was choking on the words. "And shadows don't get his eyes."
You backed up until your shoulders hit the damp rock. "It's just talk, Neteyam. I’m bitter. I’m angry. I say things I don't mean."
"You said he'd never know," Neteyam stepped into the shelter. He ignored the mess of your camp, his focus entirely on you. "You said you'd leave before it was born. That I’d never have to break."
He wasn't angry. He sounded like he was falling apart. He took another step, his hand reaching out but stopping short of touching you.
"I thought you hated me," he whispered. "That night here at the fire... when you told me I was just a hookup. I believed you. I went to the ceremony and I stood there like a corpse because I thought I was the only one who felt the bond."
Neteyam looked at the fire, then back at you. His jaw was set and his face was pale.
"I sat through that ceremony," he said. "I let them announce the match because I thought I was nothing to you. I thought the bond was all in my head."
"You can't leave everything for this," you said. You wiped a stray tear away with the back of your hand. "I can raise this child alone."
"I won’t let you," he said. He stepped forward and grabbed your arm.
Neteyam’s grip on your arm was firm. He wasn't letting go.
"I can't let you live alone with my child," he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, crowding you against the stone. "You think I’m that kind of coward? That I’d go back and play husband to a woman I don't love while you're out here struggling to breathe?"
"It’s not just yours," you snapped, finally wrenching your arm back. "It’s mine too. If the clan finds out, what then? You want your child to be an outcast? To be treated like a curse just because of who their mother is?"
You looked toward the dark mouth of the cave, your heart racing. "I have to leave. I’ll go as far as I can before the truth comes out. It’s the only way they stay safe."
Neteyam didn't move. He stood like a wall between you and the exit. "You’re not going anywhere."
"Neteyam, think for once," you said, your voice rising. "The village will never accept this. You’re supposed to marry a warrior’s daughter, not harbor an exile."
"Then I'll go with you," he said.
The words were flat and sure. He didn't hesitate. He just watched you, his jaw tight and his hands balled into fists at his sides.
"You’re talking about leaving everything," you said. You shook your head, trying to find the words to make him see sense. "Your family. Your title. You'd be an outcast. You wouldn't be a Sully anymore. You'd be nothing."
Neteyam didn't even blink. "I don't care."
"You say that now," you whispered, the first tear finally spilling over. "But when you're hungry and cold, and you realize you can never go home... you'll hate me for it. You'll look at this child and only see what you lost."
"Never," he said. He stepped forward, closing the space between you.
The weight of it finally broke you. The weeks of isolation, the sickness, and the terror of the future crashed down. You started to sob, the sound raw in the quiet cave. You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let go of the mask you'd been wearing.
He didn't hesitate. He pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you. One hand went to the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder while the other held you tight.
"We'll find a way," he whispered into your hair. He held you until your breathing slowed, his own heart beating a rhythm against yours. "I'm not letting go again."
Neteyam sat on the dirt floor, pulling you back against his chest so you could lean your weight on him. He kept his arms wrapped around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. The fire had burned down to a pile of red coals, but the heat from his body was enough to stop your shivering.
"The girl," you said, your voice still a rough whisper. "The engagement. What are you going to tell them?"
"Nothing yet," Neteyam said. He rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand. "I just need to be here. Everything else can wait until the sun comes up."
You looked at the glowing coals, feeling the steady thump of his heart against your back. The idea of him walking away from everything felt impossible. He was the heir to the Olo'eyktan, the one everyone looked to.
"Are you sure?" you asked. Your voice was small in the quiet of the cave. "You have to leave everything. Your parents, your siblings... your name."
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He tucked his head closer to yours, his arms tightening around you. "To build a new family with you? Yes."
The honesty in his voice made your chest ache. You wanted to believe it could be that simple, but you knew the world outside this hollow wouldn't let it be.
"Your mother will never forgive me," you whispered. "She’ll see this as me stealing her son."
"She’ll see that I made my own choice," Neteyam said. He shifted his hand, spreading his fingers over your stomach. The heat of his palm felt like a promise. "I'm not letting my child grow up in the shadows because I was too afraid to leave the light. I’m staying, and that’s the end of it."
He sat there with you for a long time, just breathing together. The fire eventually died out, leaving the cave in the dim blue glow of the forest. You felt the exhaustion finally catching up to you.
Your eyes were heavy, and the warmth of Neteyam’s chest was almost enough to pull you into a deep sleep. But then the air changed. A rhythmic thumping started in the distance, growing into a roar that vibrated against the stone walls of the hollow. It was the sound of hundreds of wings beating in unison.
You both scrambled to your feet. Neteyam grabbed his bow, and you followed him to the edge of the cliff.
The sky was crowded. Dozens of ikran riders were sweeping past the ridge, their silhouettes sharp against the moon. You squinted, picking out the patterns on their wings.
"It's the Mangkwan," you whispered, your heart dropping into your stomach. "But why are they carrying rifles?"
Neteyam’s face went hard, his eyes tracking the metal gleaming in the hands of the riders. "That’s Sky People gear," he said. "I think they’ve made a deal."
The riders were diving straight toward the heart of the Omatikaya territory, moving with a speed that meant they weren't there to talk. The peace of the forest was about to be torn apart.
"We have to go," Neteyam said, whistling for his ikran. "Now!"
You grabbed your bow and slung the quiver over your shoulder. You gave a sharp whistle, and your ikran spiraled out of the mist, landing on the ledge with a hiss.
Neteyam was already mounted. "Stay close," he said.
The wind bit at your face as you dived. The village was a mess of orange fire and screaming. You could see the bioluminescent plants being crushed under the weight of the landing Mangkwan mounts.
Neteyam didn't hesitate. He pulled his bow to full draw and let out a sharp cry, letting an arrow fly. It caught a Mangkwan rider in the chest just as the man was raising his rifle toward a group of fleeing children. The rider tumbled from his ikran, his weapon clattering onto the roots below.
"Take the ones on the perimeter!" Neteyam shouted over the roar of the wind.
You banked your ikran to the right, your heart thumping against your ribs. You notched an arrow and released. The shot was clean, catching the enemy in the throat. He slumped over his mount's neck, and the ikran spiraled out of control, crashing into the thick brush.
Gunfire erupted from below. Bullets hissed past your head like angry insects. You saw the Mangkwan were coordinated, moving in groups to pin the Omatikaya warriors down. They knew the terrain. They knew the weaknesses of the village.
Neteyam was a blur of blue and shadow, weaving through the trees and picking off riders with a terrifying speed.
The forest floor was a chaotic map of fire and blood. You could see the Omatikaya warriors being pushed back toward the roots of the Hometree, their bows no match for the rapid-fire rhythm of the rifles. They were losing ground fast, their numbers dwindling as the Mangkwan riders picked them off from the canopy.
Then you saw her.
Varang was leading the charge, her ikran a streak of dark scales against the orange glow of the burning moss. She had a human carbine gripped in her hand, firing with a practiced precision.
"Neteyam!" you screamed, pointing toward the center of the village where Jake was pinned down by three riders. "Go! Help your father!"
Neteyam hesitated, his hand white-knuckled on his bow. He looked at you, then at the fire spreading toward the nursery, then at his father. The conflict in his eyes was agonizing.
"I'll handle Varang!" you yelled, banking your ikran hard to cut her off.
He let out a frustrated snarl, but he saw the logic. He dived toward the ground, his ikran shrieking as he plummeted into the smoke to reach Jake.
You turned your attention back to Varang. She saw you coming. She pulled her mount up, hovering in the heat-shimmering air above the burning trees. A cruel smirk twisted her lips as she recognized the exile who had once been her daughter-in-arms.
Varang didn’t waste time with a greeting. She squeezed the trigger, the muzzle flash of her rifle lighting up the smoke-filled air. You yanked your ikran’s head to the side, feeling the hot whistle of lead pass so close to your ear that your skin stung.
She banked her mount with a violent jerk, her movements far more aggressive than the graceful flight patterns you’d been taught. "Look at you now, fighting your own people."
"You stopped being my people the second you took their metal," you spat back, your voice nearly lost in the rushing wind.
You yanked your ikran's reins, forcing a sharp roll to the left as a burst of gunfire chewed through the air where your wing had been. The heat from the fires below rose in shimmering waves, making the air thin and turbulent. Your stomach lurched, a reminder of the life you were carrying, but you forced yourself to stay upright.
Varang didn't care about grace. She flew like a machine, her ikran screaming under the strain of her brutal steering. She swung the rifle around, using the strap to steady her aim against the wind.
You realized then that you couldn't win a distance fight. Not against a rifle. You leaned forward, hugging your ikran's neck, and forced the bond into a suicidal dive. You were aiming the entire weight of your mount.
Varang’s eyes widened as she realized what you were doing. She tried to bank away, but you were already on top of her. Your ikran slammed into hers with a sickening thud of bone on bone. The force of the impact nearly threw you from the saddle. You reached out, grabbing the edge of Varang's gear, your fingers locking onto the cold metal of her rifle strap.
The two ikran became a tangled mess of wings, talons, and shrieking rage. They couldn't stay in the air. The bond between the mounts and the sky broke, and suddenly, the horizon line vanished.
You were falling.
The wind whipped your hair into your eyes as you and Varang tumbled through the air, still locked in a desperate struggle.
The green canopy of the forest rushed up to meet you. It was a wall of leaves and thick branches.
CRACK.
The first layer of the canopy hit like a physical blow. Branches snapped under your weight, tearing at your skin and your wrap. You lost your grip on Varang as you both smashed through the layers of the forest.
You lost the sky, you lost Varang, and for a terrifying second, you felt nothing but the weight of the fall.
Then, the world turned a deep shimmering violet. You had fallen near the Tree of Souls.
"Get up," a voice rasped.
Varang was ten feet away, staggering to her feet. She looked like a nightmare carved from the shadows. She didn't have her rifle anymore, but she had a long knife gripped in her hand.
You forced your body to move. Every muscle screamed in protest. You rolled onto your knees, your fingers digging into the soil.
You reached for your hip. Your bow was snapped in half somewhere in the canopy, but your knife was still there. You drew it, the blade trembling slightly in your grip as you forced yourself to stand.
"You're bleeding, daughter," Varang sneered, spitting out a glob of dark blood. She took a step toward you, her gait uneven but determined. "What now? You pray to Her? You think the Great Mother cares about you?"
You let out a low hiss, your teeth bared.
"See?" Varang let out a laugh. "You still hate her. I can feel the anger in your skin. Why don't you come back to us? Leave these forest-dwellers to burn in the fire they started."
"It’s between me and Eywa," you spat, your fingers tightening around the hilt of your knife until your knuckles turned white. "And I don't find any fun in killing innocents."
Varang’s face contorted, the mocking laugh dying in her throat. She looked at you with a disgusted clarity, as if she were finally seeing a weapon that had turned out to be a dud.
"Fine," she hissed. "Then die with the rest of the shadows."
She lunged low, her blade aiming for your thigh to ground you. You pivoted, the moss slippery beneath your feet, and slashed out with your own knife. The blades met with a dull clack, the vibration traveling up your arm and jolting your bruised shoulder.
Varang was relentless. She fought with the weight of someone who had nothing left to lose, her strikes heavy and punishing. You were forced onto the defensive, backing up toward the massive, glowing roots of the Tree of Souls.
Varang didn’t give you another chance to find your footing. She lunged with the weight of a falling tree, her shoulder slamming into your chest and sending you sprawling backward. You hit the ground hard, the back of your head snapping against the exposed, glowing roots of the Tree of Souls.
Varang slammed her weight into your chest and the back of your head cracked against a thick root. The world went white for a second. You felt the dampness of the moss soaking into your skin and the heavy pressure of her knee pinning your shoulder down. She leaned in close, the knife hovering just above the pulse in your neck.
You couldn't breathe. You looked up at the violet canopy of the Tree of Souls and for a moment you thought the ancestors were already calling you home.
Your hand scrambled blindly in the dirt, searching for a rock or a branch. Instead, your fingers closed around a vine that had grown out from the main root. Without thinking, you grabbed the end of your queue.
The second the neural filaments touched the tree, the world exploded.
It didn't feel like a normal bond. It felt like a thousand voices screaming and singing at the same time. The history of the Omatikaya and the memories of every person who had died flooded into your mind.
The flood of dead voices almost made you sick, but you shoved the memories back and reached for the raw energy humming in the soil. You didn't care about the ancestors right now. You just wanted Varang off you. You slammed your will into the root, treating the forest floor like an extension of your own nerves.
Thick, cord-like vines snapped out of the glowing moss like traps. They coiled around Varang's ankles and calves in a heartbeat, jerking her backward with enough force to pull her right off your chest.
You pulled yourself up into a sitting position. The connection felt like fire in your veins, but you didn't let go. Varang was pinned flat against the earth.
You looked down at her, your face cold."You despise Eywa because you think she's weak," you said, your voice sounding strange and echoed through the bond. "But I never thought she was weak. Maybe she's just a little unfair."
You reached out with your free hand and grabbed Varang's queue, connecting it with the roots of the Tree of Souls.
The second the filaments locked into the glowing root, Varang’s entire body went rigid. It looked like a bolt of lightning had traveled up her spine.
You leaned over her, your face inches from hers. "Can you hear them?" you hissed, the words coming out as a low, dangerous growl. "Every life you took. They’re all in there."
Varang’s fingers clawed at the dirt, her nails breaking against the stones. She was feeling the weight of every death she had caused. She looked up at you with a face full of raw terror, her bravado completely gone.
You watched her for a moment longer, letting the cold justice of the forest sink in. Then, with a sharp, brutal jerk, you ripped her queue away from the root. You willed the glowing vines to loosen their grip, and they slid back into the moss like snakes.
You forced your legs to stay steady as you looked down at her. "Thanks for raising me, mother," you said. Your voice was quiet and cold. "But please. Leave me and this place alone."
Varang didn't wait for you to change your mind. She scrambled backward on all fours, her hands slipping on the damp moss as she tried to get away from the roots.
You watched her go until the sound of her frantic scrambling was swallowed by the hum of the valley. Your strength went with her. Your legs gave out and you slumped back against the pulsing root, your queue still locked into the neural network of the tree.
The world felt thin, like you were floating in deep water. You looked up at the shimmering canopy, the bioluminescence blurring into a hazy glow. The collective voices of the ancestors were still whispering in the back of your mind, a low roar of memories that didn't belong to you.
"I know you're probably gonna ignore me," you whispered, your voice barely a thread of sound in the quiet valley. You gripped the root tighter, forcing your last bit of intent into the connection. "But please let the people win. I don't ask for me. I don't care what happens to me. But do it for them. For the ones that always devoted themselves to you."
The violet light of the vines started to spin, faster and faster, until the glow turned into a blinding white wall.
Then, the world went black.
The first thing you felt was the heat. Not the searing fire of the burning village, but a thick, humid warmth that smelled of crushed ginger root, dried sage, and old earth.
You tried to sit up, but a hand immediately pressed down on your shoulder, firm and steady.
"You’re awake," Neteyam’s voice was a low rasp.
"Where am I..." The word felt like sandpaper in your throat. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was too dry.
"It’s the Tsahik’s tent," Neteyam whispered. He reached out, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.
"How is everyone?" you asked, your voice cracking. "Did we win?"
Neteyam nodded slowly, a small, hollow smile touching his lips. "We did. But it wasn't the warriors who finished it. In the middle of the fire, everything changed. Dozens of palulukan and unbonded ikran came screaming out of the trees. It was Eywa. She heard someone."
"Someone called to the Great Mother," Mo'at said from her place, her voice deep and resonant. "The spirits were screaming in a way I have not felt since the Great Sorrow. We wondered why the forest rose to protect us when we were so close to falling. Then we went to the Tree of Souls and saw you there, passed out in the dirt with your queue still fused to the roots."
"People are respecting you now," Neteyam said, his eyes searching yours with a desperate kind of hope. "You don't have to go back to the cave. You don't have to hide in the shadows of the cliffs. We can live here. Together. As we were supposed to."
The thought of it made your heart ache. For months, you had survived on scraps and silence, watching the village from the treeline like a ghost. Now, the idea of sleeping under a roof and walking the common paths felt like a dream you were about to wake up from.
The tent flap moved aside, Jake was the first one in. Behind him, Neytiri stepped in, then came the others, Kiri, Lo'ak and little Tuk, who looked like she wanted to jump on the bed but was holding herself back.
Neytiri walked closer, she reached out, her cool fingers brushing your forehead. "Are you okay now?" she asked. Her voice didn't have the sharp edge it used to. It was soft, almost like the way she spoke to her own daughters.
You nodded and swallowed hard, looking at the family gathered around you.
Jake stepped forward. "People are apologizing for what they did to you," he said. "The hunters, the warriors, they know what you did at the Tree. They'll be happy if you're willing to stay. There is a place for you here. A permanent one."
You felt a lump form in your throat. You looked at Neteyam, who was still holding your hand, his face glowing with a relief so bright it almost hurt to see. You took a shaky breath and nodded.
"I'll stay," you whispered.
A small sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the tent. Tuk finally couldn't help herself and leaned against the edge of your mat, her eyes wide.
Neytiri sit down beside you, her hand moving from your face to rest gently on the blanket covering your stomach.
"Also," Neytiri said, her lips curving into a genuine smile for the first time since you had known her. "We cannot wait for the birth of our first grandchild."
You looked at Neytiri, your eyes wide with shock, then slowly turned your head to look at Neteyam. He was still sitting right next to you, but his ears suddenly flicked back and he refused to meet your gaze.
"You told them already?" you asked, your voice a mix of disbelief and a tiny bit of a smile.
Neteyam rubbed the back of his neck, looking completely sheepish. "I didn't mean to," he muttered. "When they brought you in... you were so pale. I just panicked. I kept asking the Tsahik if the baby was okay."
Neytiri let out a soft laugh, and even Jake chuckled, shaking his head at his eldest son's lack of a filter.
"He was very loud," Jake said.
You looked at Neteyam’s burning cheeks and the way his tail was twitching in embarrassment. For the first time in months, the weight on your chest was gone, replaced by a warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.
"Well," you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. "At least I don't have to worry about how to break the news."
Neteyam finally looked at you, his eyes bright with a joy he didn't have to hide anymore. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, the rest of the family settling in around the mat, finally whole. The war was over, the exile was finished, and the forest was quiet. You were home, and for the first time, you knew you weren't going anywhere.
This is the reallll last part, don't ask for more lmao. I'll come with another story maybe, and maybe with other characters too. 🤫 I can't answer to all the inbox but thank you so much for the supports, I love you all.
Summary: The secret of your Mangkwan blood was never meant to leave the shadows between you and Neteyam. But a single slip of Neteyam’s tongue brought the truth crashing down, turning you into a public enemy and sealing your exile in the cold western cliffs.
Warnings: 3,5k words, aged up! neteyam, rivals to friends to (kinda) lovers maybe, no smut, angst tho, you two are still being idiots, heartbreak(?) hehe.
Chapters: friendly fire, friendlier fire, friendliest fire, frozen fire
The High Camp was buzzing with the frantic energy of an impending move. Huts were being dismantled, and the air was thick with the scent of smoke and stressed ikran. You kept your head down, your hands busy tightening the cinch on a supply pack. You had perfected the art of being a ghost.
You hadn't spoken a word to Neteyam since the grove. Not a real word.
Every time you passed him, you felt the phantom itch of the tsaheylu at the base of your skull. You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and questioning, but you never looked up. The air between you was always charged, like the sky right before a lightning strike.
You avoided him because the tsaheylu hadn't just shared sensations. Whatever that happened that night has stripped you of your armor.
You used to be a girl with no home, no ties, and no weaknesses. But in that night, you had felt his soul recognize yours, and even worse, you had felt yourself recognize him. You were terrified of the "we" he had whispered.
Every time you saw the silver scar on his chest, you remembered the taste of his skin and the way his heart had thudded against your palm. It made you feel weak. It made you feel Omatikaya. And you knew that the moment you looked into his gold eyes, everything you’d used as a shield of your feelings would crumble into dust.
So, you treated him like a stranger. You stayed in the shadows, focusing on the cold weight of your daggers and the salt-sting of your memories, convinced that if you ignored the bond long enough, it would eventually stop screaming.
But the bond didn't stop screaming, it just learned how to howl in the silence.
You weren't just avoiding him. You were avoiding the version of yourself you had become in his arms. That girl was soft. That girl was loud. That girl belonged to a family, a clan, and a future.
The silence between you was a thin sheet of ice, and today, Neteyam was wearing heavy boots.
"The supply lines are moving East," he said, his voice loud enough to carry over the din of the deconstructing camp. He was standing in the center of the walkway, forcing you to acknowledge him. "My father wants the medics on the first flight."
"I heard the briefing, Sully," you muttered, still refusing to look up from your pack. "I don't need a personal herald."
"Apparently you do," he snapped, his patience finally fraying after two weeks of being treated like a ghost. He stepped into your personal space, forcing you to drop the rope. "Because every time I try to give you an order, you disappear. You’re avoiding your responsibilities."
"I’m avoiding you," you hissed, finally snapping your head up. Your eyes clashed with his, and the air between you ignited. "There’s a difference. I do my job. I just don't do it for you."
"Why? Because you can't look at me without remembering what we did?" Neteyam's voice rose, attracting the attention of a few nearby hunters. "Because you're scared that I actually know what's behind that cold, arrogant mask of yours?"
"There is nothing behind it!" you yelled, shoving his chest. It was like hitting a stone wall.
"No! I'm tired of the lies!" he roared, his voice carrying across the entire ridge, stopping the dismantlement of the huts. He stepped closer, his finger pointing accusingly at your chest. "You act like you don't belong here, like you're some ghost. Why are you so ashamed of who you are?"
"Stop it," you breathed, panic rising in your chest as you saw Jake and Neytiri approaching from the command tent.
"Why?" Neteyam yelled, his voice cracking with the weight of the angst he’d been carrying. "Because you're Mangkwan? Because you think being a sea-blood killer means you don't get to have a heart?"
The busy sounds of the camp died instantly. Hunters froze. Children stopped playing. In an Omatikaya camp, the presence of a Mangkwan was a shock. You felt every eye in the camp land on you, seeing through your disguise for the first time.
You looked at Neteyam, your heart shattering not from the secret being out, but from the fact that he was the one who threw it away.
"You're a fool," you whispered, the betrayal stinging worse than any wound.
The shift was immediate and brutal. When you walked toward the communal cooking fire, the chatter died down as if you’d brought a cold draft with you.
Mothers would reach out, their fingers hooking into their children's shoulders to pull them back into the shadows of their tents as you passed. You saw the way they looked at you, not with hatred, but with a deep superstitious fear. To them, a Mangkwan was a creature of blood and shifting tides, a bad omen that didn't belong in the steady heart of the forest.
The gossip was the worst part.
"She never goes to the Tree to pray," you heard a woman murmur as you scrubbed your daggers by the stream. "I heard they don't have hearts. No faith."
"Did you see her eyes during the hunt?" another replied. "Cold. No wonder Neteyam was acting so strange."
You kept your back straight and your expression like flint, but every whisper felt like a needle under your skin. You were used to being alone, but this was a different kind of isolation. The kind where you were surrounded by people and yet remained completely invisible, except for the parts of you they feared.
You stopped going to the communal meals. It was easier to eat dried fruit alone in the dark than to watch the Omatikaya shift their mats away from you. Even the other medics, people you had bled beside in the medical wing, now found excuses to be elsewhere when you arrived for your shift.
The final blow came from the commander.
Two days after the move, you were summoned to the command center. You expected a briefing, a target, or even a lecture. Instead, you found Jake Sully standing over a map, his face tight with a weary sort of frustration. He didn't look at you as you approached.
"You’re being removed from the main mission roster and for any kind of missions. I can’t have you on the front lines if the hunters and warriors won't trust you at their back. It's a safety risk, for them, and for you."
"I saved your son’s life," you said, your voice a low rasp. "I’ve bled for this clan for almost two years. And you're benching me because of camp gossip?"
"I’m protecting my people," Jake countered, though there was a flicker of something like regret in his eyes. "All of them. Including you. You’re being moved to the outpost in the western cliffs. You’ll stay there, away from the main camp, until things settle down. You'll hunt for your own food. You’ll keep your distance."
"What? Why–"
"The people are uneasy," Jake interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes weren't unkind, but they were firm, settled in a way that left no room for argument. "They’re calling you a bad omen. The hunters won't fly with you, and the families don't want you near the main camp's supply lines. They think your presence brings the wrong kind of attention from the Great Mother."
It was a soft exile. A way to scrub the Mangkwan stain from the Omatikaya’s sight without actually killing you.
"And my work in the medical wing?" you asked, your voice a brittle thread of its former self.
"Neytiri thinks it's best if you stay away from the wounded," Jake said, and there it was, the real sting. "She says the spirits of the ancestors won't heal those who are tended by a hand that doesn't pray."
You didn't wait for a dismissal. You turned on your heel and walked out, your heart a cold dead weight in your chest.
Within the hour, you had packed your few belongings. You didn't say goodbye to the other medics. You didn't look for Neteyam. You moved your gear to a small and damp hollow on the far edge of the cliffs, miles away from the warmth of the communal fires and the humming songs of the village.
From your new home, the High Camp looked like a distant and glowing star. You were close enough to see the life you had briefly shared, but far enough away to know you would never be part of it again. You sat in the dark, the Mangkwan cave feeling more like home than the forest ever had.
The isolation that was supposed to break you turned out only to sharpen the edges you’d spent months trying to blunt. If they wanted a Mangkwan demon, you would give them one.
Living away from the villages meant you were the first to see the valley wake up, and you were the only one who didn't have to wait for a leader's permission to move. While the Omatikaya were still waking up and singing their morning prayers to Eywa, you were already deep in the brush, moving like a ghost through the shadows.
A few days into your exile, you spotted a prime yerik, a massive one that usually required a party of four hunters to take down. You tracked it for almost an hours in total silence and finally brought it down with a single strike to the neck.
The trek back to the fringes took you right past the main gathering trail, exactly when the mid-day hunting parties were returning.
You didn't hide. You shouldered the massive weight of the beast, your muscles slick with sweat and its dark blood staining your shoulders, and walked right through the center of the path.
You saw them before they saw you. A group of young Omatikaya hunters were laughing, carrying a couple of scrawny yerik, barely enough to feed a single family.
As you approached, the laughter died. You didn't slow down. You kept your pace steady, your eyes fixed forward, a solitary, blood-drenched shadow. You moved right past them, the sheer size of your kill making their measly catch look like a joke.
"How did she take that down alone? Without a party?" You heard one of them said, his voice dripping with a mix of awe and resentment.
"She probably used poison. There is no honor in a kill like that," another spat, though he didn't dare say it loud enough for you to turn around.
You let out a short, cold huff of a laugh, loud enough for them to hear. You didn't need their honor. You had the meat, and you had the satisfaction of watching their pride shrivel in your wake.
You reached your isolated hollow and dropped the beast with a heavy thud that echoed against the cliffside. You sat down, pulling out your primary dagger to begin the skinning, the bitterness in your chest feeling almost like a victory. They could pray all they wanted, but they were still going home with empty stomachs while the omen ate like a queen.
You were halfway through the work when you felt it. That familiar prickle at the base of your skull. You didn't look up. You just kept the blade moving, the silver edge slicing through the hide with a wet sound.
"That's a lot of meat for one person," a voice said from the shadows of the trees.
Neteyam was standing there, leaning against a trunk.
Neteyam stayed back for a second, his weight shifting uncomfortably. He looked at the massive yerik and then back at you, sitting there in the dirt, covered in blood and looking more dangerous than he’d ever seen you.
"Don't worry," you said, your voice dripping with a cold, sharp sarcasm. You didn't even look up from your work, the blade of your dagger slicing through the hide with effortless precision. "I'm greedy. I plan on eating every single bit of it myself."
Neteyam shifted awkwardly, his fingers twitching over a small woven satchel hanging at his hip. You caught the scent of it, a sweet and ripe darsel fruit. He had clearly come here thinking you were starving in exile, playing the hero to the abandoned girl. But as he stepped fully into your camp, his eyes widened, and his ears flattened in sheer embarrassment.
Your hollow wasn't a place of suffering. It was a damn fortress of plenty. Racks were full of smoked fish, baskets were overflowing with forest fruits you’d scavenged better than any Omatikaya, and the massive yerik at your feet was enough to feed a dozen hunters.
You paused then, looking at the tiny bag of fruit in his hand and then back up at his face. A mocking smirk spread across your lips. "What’s that, Sully? Are you bringing me a snack?"
Neteyam looked down at the fruit, his blue skin flushing a darker shade. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He let out a long breath and walked closer, dropping the satchel onto a flat stone with a muted thud.
"I... I didn't know," he muttered, his usual confidence completely stripped away. "I thought you were... I came to say I'm sorry."
Neteyam moved closer, his footsteps soft on the damp earth. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. "I’ve been trying to talk to my father," he began, his voice low and cracked. "About the exile. About what happened at the camp. I’m... I’m sorry. I shouldn't have yelled it. I shouldn't have put you in that position. It was my pride, and I—"
"Are you joking?" you interrupted, finally looking up. You let out a short laugh that had no warmth in it. You wiped a smear of blood off your cheek with the back of your hand, leaving a dark streak. "This is the best time of my life, Neteyam."
He froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"
"No orders, no prayers, and most importantly... there's no annoying prince breathing down my neck. No you annoying me every ten minutes, no sulking about your duty. I finally have some peace," you said, a cruel but beautiful smile spreading across your lips.
Neteyam flinched as if you’d struck him, his golden eyes searching yours for a lie. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" you countered. "I’ve never been happier. So you can take your sorrys and your snacks back to the village. I’m doing just fine in the dark."
Neteyam went quiet, his gaze dropping to the massive yerik you’d single-handedly conquered. The silence stretched, thick with the tension of the last two weeks, until he let out a long, weary breath. He looked up at you, his golden eyes searching yours, softened by a vulnerability he usually kept locked behind his warrior’s mask.
"Fair enough," he murmured, a faint, lopsided ghost of a smile touching his lips. He gestured to the carcass, then back to himself. "But if you’re truly as greedy as you say... do you think you could find it in your heart to share some of that meat with a hungry prince? I’ve had a long walk, and the communal's meal is starting to taste like disappointment."
You stared at him for a beat, your thumb tracing the edge of your blade. You wanted to stay bitter. But seeing him looking so genuinely humbled made the ice in your chest crack just a tiny bit.
"Alright," you muttered, turning back to the carcass. "But you’re cleaning the ribs. I’m not playing servant just because you’ve got a royal title."
"Deal," he said quickly, almost too fast, as if he was afraid you’d change your mind.
He moved in beside you, picking up a smaller blade from your kit. For a while, the only sound was the crackle of the fire you’d started and the rhythmic work of preparing the meat.
As the meat started to sizzle over the flames, the scent filled the small hollow, cutting through the damp smell of the caves. Neteyam didn't even wait for an invitation this time before he reached over and snagged a piece directly from the heated stone, huffing a breath to cool it before popping it into his mouth.
His eyes widened, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in his throat. It was tender, perfectly seared, and carried the smoky richness of the wood you’d chosen.
"Wow," he exhaled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I forgot you actually know how to cook. I thought you just lived on spite and sea salt."
"I do," you muttered, though you couldn't hide the slight twitch of your lips. "The cooking is just a side effect of having taste buds."
Neteyam smiled and looked at you. In the village, he was the leader, the son, the responsibility. But here, in the dirt of your exile, he looked relaxed. He loved being with you because you were the only person who didn't look at him and see a throne. You just saw a guy who was bad at lying and liked your food.
"You're staring, Sully," you said, though there was no real bite in your voice anymore. You nudged a larger portion of meat toward him with your blade. "Eat. Before I change my mind and make you pay for it in fruit."
"I'd pay a lot more than that to stay here for a while," he admitted.
"The mighty warrior, hiding in an exile hollow because he can't handle a few meetings," you teased, though your heart did a slow roll in your chest. "Your father is going to come looking for you, Neteyam. I’m already the camp’s bad omen. I don’t need kidnapping the prince added to my list of crimes."
"If kidnapping the prince is a crime, then I am a willing victim," Neteyam murmured, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic hum that vibrated in the small space between you.
He didn't wait for your next snarky retort. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. You started to open your mouth to tell him to go home, to tell him that this was dangerous, but the words died in your throat as he leaned in.
The kiss wasn't like the desperate collision in the grove. It was slow, heavy with the weight of the two weeks you’d spent ignoring each other. You melted into him, your hands finding their way to his broad shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no air left between you.
You didn't remember how long the kiss lasted, or when exactly the fire burned down to glowing embers. You ended up tangled in his arms, your head pillowed on his chest and your legs intertwined with his. Neteyam held you, his chin resting atop your head as his heartbeat drummed a steady rhythm against your ear.
For the first time in weeks, you felt home.
The sanctuary of the hollow became a world of its own. Over the next month, the western cliffs were no longer a place of exile, but a stage for a dangerous yet beautiful routine.
Neteyam visited nearly every night. Sometimes he’d arrive with medical supplies he’d swiped from the stores. Other times, he’d just bring himself, looking haggard and wind-beaten, seeking the only place where he didn't have to lead. You’d skin the day’s kill together, bickering over Mangkwan versus Omatikaya techniques, before collapsing into the small, warm space of your shelter.
"Your father is going to kill you," you joked one evening as he landed his ikran in the shadows. You were leaning against a tree, tossing a small dagger into the air and catching it by the hilt. "The Olo'eyktan's son, missing every sunset. Wonder what he's doing."
Usually, Neteyam would fire back with a snarky remark about your hospitality. But tonight, he didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. He walked past you into the hollow, his movements heavy, his ears pinned low against his head.
"Neteyam?" you asked, the playful edge vanishing from your voice. You caught your dagger and tucked it away, following him inside. "What happened? Did the RDA move? Is it the camp?"
He stood by the dying fire, his back to you. The tension in his shoulders was so thick it felt like it might snap the bones. When he finally turned around, his golden eyes were shadowed with a look of pure defeat.
"My father held a council today," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "With the lead warriors. Specifically, with Eytukan’s bloodline allies."
A cold pit started to form in your stomach. "And?"
"He has arranged it," Neteyam finally looked at you, and the sheer agony in his expression made your breath catch. "I’m to be engaged. To the daughter of one of the lead warriors. Someone worthy of the future Olo'eyktan."
The words felt like a physical blow to the chest, harder than any strike you’d ever taken in training. The "we" you had finally started to believe in shattered into a thousand pieces.
anon’s ask: “imagine him [clark] with literally polar opposite black cat. but they match so well.”
summary: a stupid bet between two coworkers with allegedly opposite morals. if all’s fair in love, war, and corporate life, then who’s willing to be kinder for a month?
word count: 13k
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, fluff, comfort and angst at times, banter, feels, grumpy!reader x sunshine!clark, enemies/coworkers to lovers, kind of jealous!clark if you squint, sort of slow-burn office romance, kind of second chance romance, dramatic love confessions bc i love them, miscommunication, tiny mention of reader’s hair, making out, dry humping, happy ending.
a/n: first of all, I wanted to thank you for all the support on my recent post !!! i feel like this is kind of a disaster because i finished it using the last two brain cells i had left, so if you come across shitty writing, please just nod along. anyway, i really hope you enjoy it. i’d love to know your thoughts on it. likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. and to the anon who shared this idea with me: THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! <333
The worst kind of days are usually preceded by rain.
That’s something a scientist might say, though you’re no scientist yourself. You’re a journalist; therefore, your profession has absolutely nothing to do with science. Either way, you’re pretty certain there must be at least one expert out there who would agree with you.
You had checked the weather app on your phone the night before, hoping that somehow, by the time morning came and you had to get ready for work, the weather would clear up and a warm beam of sunshine would follow you on your way to the office.
When your alarm goes off at 7:30 a.m., with sleep still blurring the edges of your sight, you notice the soft patter of droplets on your bedroom window, and you can already tell those gray clouds portend a series of unfortunate events that will unfold during this rainy Wednesday.
Rain is no good. For different reasons, listed down below:
a) You don’t own a car, nor do you know how to drive one.
b) The boots you were gifted on your last birthday, the ones you use for the days when the city feels underwater, are supposed to be water-resistant, though they’ve betrayed you on several occasions.
c) It’s only a matter of time before your hair swells up because of all the humidity.
The worst thing is that some people, other human beings who breathe the same air as you, seem to enjoy these days. For motives you’ll never be able to comprehend, they look forward to them, gushing about the apparent charm and appeal of drizzle. Perhaps the government could use that eagerness to spot potential future criminals.
Lazily, you pull on several layers of clothing: a plain t-shirt, a sweater, and your trench coat. You choose a darker pair of jeans so that any rain-soaked patches won’t make you look like you’ve peed yourself, which has happened before. The temperature has dropped drastically while you were sleeping, and now every room in your apartment feels cold and uninviting as you gather your things.
You know for a fact that the second you step out of this building, you’ll feel like absolute crap. But you can’t stay home and avoid your responsibilities, because it turns out you certainly enjoy having Wi-Fi and food on your stomach at the end of a long day.
And those are things you wouldn’t be able to afford if you didn’t work, because they cost money. Lots of it. So, in the end, you have no option left but to be a functional adult and go to work, contributing to the lovely city of Metropolis by writing articles for a living.
This doesn’t mean that you hate your job. In fact, you love it. You love writing, for it’s the only thing that’s stayed constant in your whole life ever since you were a kid.
The culprit for your attitude is the rain. It makes you insufferable to be around. You're no stranger to your own moods. You do realize rainy days turn you into someone more volatile.
Yet clear skies are no different. You’ve been in a mood for… forever, actually. For the past year, at least. That’s what Jimmy and Lois say.
By the time you make it to the subway, the train you should’ve taken to be on time is already gone, your scarf smells funny, and Matthew’s standing there, just an inch away from your face.
Oh, good ol’ Matthew. A guy, maybe a couple of years older than you, who’s been trying to get your name, number, or even email address for the past few months. You see him every morning as you leave for work, and despite not succeeding in his task, he doesn’t seem to plan on giving up.
“Hi, beautiful.”
You glance to your left, not even bothering to turn your head to face him. “Matthew. If it isn’t another day of smelling your breath way too early in the morning.”
He ignores the part about his breath. Instead, he replies, “I remember telling you that you can just call me Matt.”
“That’s strange, because I remember telling you I’d never do that.”
It surprises you that he still thinks you’re playing hard to get, given it’s been four months and you’ve made it more than clear that you have no interest in him.
He grins, his hands in his pockets. “I don’t believe I’ll ever get your sense of humor.”
“Of course you won’t. It’s reserved for highly clever individuals.”
“Gosh, you’re so mean.” This time, he stares ahead, sighing. “Have I ever told you I’m a sucker for these kinds of days?”
One of your eyelids begins twitching. “You’re kidding me, right?”
“You don’t like the rain?” His eyes sparkle with what could be described as amusement. “You know, opposites attract. It’s just inevitable.”
This is the kind of interaction you’re forced to endure before you’ve even had breakfast. You wish for the next train to derail and hit you with all its might.
As you set foot in the Daily Planet’s lobby, the rain has evolved from harmless drizzle to complete downpour, the wind unhinged, having spent the last ten blocks trying to steal your umbrella from your own hands. It is now useless, along with your drenched coat and suspiciously squishy socks.
You’re the last one to manage to squeeze into the elevator, which is beyond packed. As you maneuver inside, you accidentally jab a woman’s leg with your umbrella handle, and she mutters something under her breath. Something that sounds a lot like a swear.
“Sorry,” you murmur, avoiding all possibilities of making eye contact with her, although you feel her unfaltering gaze the full thirty seconds it takes to reach your floor.
Holding your bag and umbrella to your chest, you make your way through the maze of desks, nodding your head at those who greet you. You peel off your coat, hanging it from the back of your chair, observing the tiny droplets that start to drip onto the carpet below. You search for your notebook, digging it out and letting out a breath of relief when you notice none of the pages have been damaged by water.
It’s only when you finally sit down that you let yourself close your eyes for a moment, folding your arms over your desk and resting your forehead against them. You can’t deny you feel miserable. You should’ve called in sick.
You feel the warmth of someone standing close to you, and you don’t need to look to know who it is. You’d recognize the scent of his cologne or the sound of his footsteps anywhere, though you really hope that doesn’t sound as weird out loud as it does in your head.
“Turn around, Kent. We’re closed today,” you mumble with your face still pressed to the desk, voice muffled into the crook of your arm.
“You look like you’ve just got out of the shower,” Clark shoots back, the faint hint of a smile in his tone.
That’s when you decide to stop hiding, straightening your back to squint up at him. You should’ve kept your head down: he looks perfect. His hair is neat, his suit unbothered by the rain. You huff when you notice your reflection on his glasses. “How are you… dry?”
“I used my umbrella. They do serve a purpose.”
“Well, mine—” you snap between gritted teeth, ducking under your desk to retrieve the ruined thing and holding it up to shove it into his face, “—has decided to stop functioning properly today.”
He lowers your hand, his forehead crinkling. “Have you been nice to him?”
“Him? Are you personifying my umbrella?”
“I have a spare at home. If you want it, I could bring it tomorrow,” he suggests, changing the subject, and he can’t quite look you in the eye without averting his gaze.
This is where you draw the line. Forcing yourself to act politely, you say, “Thank you, but I don’t need it. I’ll fix mine. I’m sure it’ll probably stop raining in a couple of hours.”
A crack of thunder rattles the windows. Behind you, Jimmy nearly jumps to his feet, startled, drawing in a long breath.
“You okay, buddy?” Clark asks.
“Sure,” Jimmy answers, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’ve never been better.”
Clark raises his eyebrows at him, not convinced, but chooses not to press him. He shifts his weight from one foot to another and clasps his hands behind his back, returning his focus to you. Sometimes, he stares at you in such a way that makes you feel you’re being examined under the lens of a microscope. “Have you already had breakfast?”
“No.”
“Want me to—”
You cut him off before he goes any further. “Clark, I’m fine. Save your kindness for someone who truly wants it.”
His lips form a straight line, and without saying anything else, he jams his hands into his front pockets, walking away to his own desk. Maybe the tone you used wasn’t the appropriate one, but shortly after, you shake that feeling of guilt off.
On nights when you can’t sleep, or on certain days when your eyes keep finding their way back to him when they shouldn’t, you often wonder how he can always seem willing to help. Is it performative? Would he like to be voted as the best employee of the century?
But deep down, you know the reason behind his infinite generosity. It has a name, which starts with an S and rhymes with man.
Let’s put a pin on that. You’ll get back to that later.
“You’re gonna turn that poor man into a villain,” Jimmy says, his voice barely above a whisper. You have to crane your neck to get a look at his face, and even so, you stifle a laugh at his expression. He seems genuinely worried. “I mean it. He’ll have an identity crisis, and it’ll be awful.”
“I think you forget he’s a grown man.” You flick your fingers across the keyboard, checking your inbox. “Don’t worry, Jimmy. He’ll survive.”
“You’re vile.”
You spin around in your chair, scoffing. “Come on! Me? Vile? For not worshipping the ground he walks on like everybody else?”
Jimmy throws his arms out, seemingly defeated. “That’s because he’s the nicest guy to ever exist!”
“I just don’t want him to be nice to me. That’s all.” You scrunch up your face, your jaw tightening. “I don’t hate him, but that doesn’t mean I have to like him.”
It’s hard to explain your relationship with Clark, especially to Jimmy, who’s been his best friend for a while and would go to the moon and back for him. He raises his palms, bowing his head. “I feel like a child of divorce.”
“What a weird use of that concept. We were never together.”
“Well, almost.”
“No.”
“Technically, you went on one date.”
Returning your attention to your computer, you rejoice without emotion, “Unlike him, I did show up to the restaurant.”
That appears to be enough to shut him up, and he goes back to work.
The rest of the day unfolds quite easily. Nothing remarkable happens, at least not until you’re on your lunch break, sipping from your water bottle as Lois helps you polish the wording on an article you’ve been working on for a week now. Without knowing when, you two had fallen into a routine where you became each other's proofreaders.
You’d started the draft on paper for some reason you can’t remember. She scribbles in the margins next to your older notes from days ago, biting the end of her pen as she frowns at one word you’ve underlined.
You’re about to finish your salad when something exciting finally occurs on this rainy Wednesday’s workday.
One of the interns is carrying what looks like an entire week’s worth of paper and folders to Perry’s office, and he’s aiming to do it in a single trip. You watch as the tower teeters dangerously, and then, since it was bound to happen, it collapses.
You can’t say you didn’t see that coming. Why didn’t he think twice before trying to carry a stack almost as tall as Clark?
It’s like conjuring him with a thought. One second, the mess exists, and the next, Clark’s kneeling beside the flustered intern, helping him collect the disaster, a gentle smile on his face. Chaos, you've noticed, seems to have a way of summoning him.
“I’m such an idiot,” the boy breathes, rising to his feet.
“Hey, no big deal,” Clark retorts, patting him on the back. “I’ve been on a good streak lately, but this happens to me weekly. Perry won’t mind as long as you get them to him in one piece.”
Clearly enamored with Clark, the intern nods fervently and hugs the papers to his chest before hurrying off and disappearing.
You finish chewing a particularly salty piece of lettuce, and afterwards, because you don’t always let your better judgment catch up to your mouth, you hear yourself saying, “Doesn’t he get tired of playing the part of the upstanding citizen?”
The room goes dead silent. You’ve seen this happen in movies, the uncanny stillness where you could hear a pin drop. At first, he doesn’t move. His mouth hangs slightly open, his cheeks adopting a sudden flush. But the moment he seems to come back to real life, he can’t do anything but blink at you, appearing embarrassed. “Excuse me?”
If Lois’ panicked expression is anything to go by, things aren’t going that well. “Hey, guys, why don’t we—”
“I was just thinking out loud, Kent,” you interrupt her, dumping your empty salad container and closing the distance between you. “I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.”
“You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.” You take another step, practically looming over him. “I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.”
His nostrils flare with each of your words. In that split second, you realize you haven’t been this close in a while. “Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.”
If Jimmy hadn’t materialized out of thin air to separate you, you believe your noses would’ve touched. “Are you seriously fighting?”
“We’re not fighting,” Clark shoots back.
“It certainly looks like it,” Jimmy says.
“Hold on, don’t interrupt the office sweetheart.” You poke Clark’s chest with your finger, feeling nothing but hardness. “I’d love to know more of your thoughts on my attitude. Would you do me a favor and lecture me after work?”
“Well, starting with that sarcasm of yours—”
“I have an idea!” Lois chimes in, and the three of you turn around to see her. She’s smiling. “Jimmy, I need your approval first.”
“Yes, m’lady. I live to serve.” He bows theatrically and makes his way to her. She puts her hands around her mouth and whispers something in his ear, and an almost cartoonish grin stretches across his face.
He covers Lois’ forehead with his palm. “We must protect your brain. It’s one of the last treasures we have as a country.” Then he flicks his eyes again to Clark and you, enjoying himself, and the sight alone makes you feel uneasy.
You’re starting to believe that in the same way bad days follow rain, terrible plans are always preceded by Jimmy’s smirk.
“Will you let me do the honors?” he asks Lois, and the instant she gives him a thumbs-up, he steps forward. “It’s become clear that you have strong opinions about kindness, or the lack of it. Which is why we’re proposing a bet, starting now. It’s called the Good Samaritan Challenge.”
Clark narrows his eyes. “The what?”
“The Good Samaritan Challenge, pal. Are you even listening?” Jimmy repeats, jutting out his hip. He quickly tells Lois to bring a whiteboard, and she’s off like a shot. “Whoever is objectively kinder during the next thirty calendar days wins.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you say under your breath.
Lois elbows you playfully as she comes back with the whiteboard. “Is it?” She raises her brows, handing the board to Jimmy.
He grabs a marker, draws two columns, and writes your name on one and Clark’s on the other. “Here’s the thing. You’ll both try to be the better person for a whole month. Lois and I, as the judges, will track your good deeds. But no cynical motives, alright? It all has to come from the heart.”
Clark seems to be weighing his options when you speak again. “What are the stakes?”
His shoulders look visibly tense. “Wait, you’re agreeing to this?”
“Depends on what each of you wants as the prize,” Lois answers in response to your question, resting her elbows on her desk and propping her chin upon her palms.
You glance at Clark. “If I win, I get an exclusive interview with Superman. You’d have to get it for me, of course, since you’re the only one who’s ever spoken a word to him.”
It's no coincidence you're asking to meet with Metropolis's biggest hero. You watch him flinch, tongue-tied, as he clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.
Again, you know exactly what you’re asking for, and the reason why.
“And what about you, Clark?” Lois asks.
His lashes flutter together as he considers any possible answer. “You’d have to proofread all my articles for three months,” he explains, fully facing you. “I’m guessing you won’t mind the extra work.”
“Don’t get too excited, because it won’t happen.”
“It will.”
“It won’t.”
“Trust me, it will.”
“Shut up.”
“Guys?” Jimmy intervenes, waving the marker.
“What?” You and Clark answer in unison, and you roll your eyes at him.
Trying to hide his smile, Jimmy concludes, “Shake on it to seal the deal.”
You extend your hand immediately, scrutinizing him with undivided attention. He spares Lois and Jimmy one last look before taking it, his grip firm.
“Your hands are so sweaty.”
“What? No!” you reply, your nose wrinkling. “Yours are.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Leaning in, you murmur your next words low enough so only he can hear them: “You better get ready for that interview.”
He chokes on his own words. “You’re—”
“I have so much to ask him.” You’re genuinely grinning now. “So much to ask you.”
May the games begin, and let the kindest person win.
The café door chimes as Lois steps inside, scanning the crowded morning scene for you among the swarm of people.
It’s the day after the bet began, and you still have fifteen minutes before the clock strikes nine. She spots you and heads your way, placing her bag on the chair beside you and reaching into her coat pocket, but then she notices the coffee already waiting on the table.
“I took care of it,” you say, pushing the cup toward her.
Looking visibly pleased, she wraps her hands around it, sitting down by your side. “Wow. Is this your first act of kindness for the day?”
“I thought an old man was lost on the subway, so I tried talking to him. He must’ve thought I was trying to steal his wallet.”
Lois exhales a small laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “This could be fun, you know?”
You slouch deeper into your seat. “Right now, I care about winning. I can have fun in other ways.”
“You could even see where it goes,” she says casually, not missing a beat.
“Where does what go?”
She shrugs, as if the answer’s obvious. “The thing with you and Clark. It’s—”
“Okay. Stop right there,” you warn, holding up a hand. “You go any further and I’m taking your coffee back.”
Taking a long sip, she shuts her eyes close, then opens them again, her brows snapping together. “I’m just saying that the two of you might finally learn to get along. Think of poor Jimmy and me.”
Your gaze lands on her cup, half-wishing you’d saved a few sips of your own drink instead of downing it in the blink of an eye before she arrived. Your hand instinctively searches your bag for some chewing gum.
She studies you in silence, leaning back. “Is this about that failed date you had? You hate him for standing you up?”
You tilt your head, clicking your tongue once your fingers brush the last piece of gum you had left. You unwrap it, popping it into your mouth. “First of all, I wouldn’t consider that a date,” you say, lips pressed into a slight frown. “And why do you guys keep saying I hate him? That’s a strong feeling.”
There’s palpable hesitation in her speech. “This is starting to sound a lot like gaslighting.”
“Last time I checked, I wasn’t a man.”
She crosses her legs, setting her cup on the table. “Ha ha. You’re so funny.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Leave that to me, will you?”
“You do realize you have a talent for dodging questions.”
“It’s part of the full package,” you say, standing up and grabbing your belongings. Lois shakes her head in your direction, blowing out her cheeks, and you decide to give in. “Look, I’m not a resentful person. This isn’t about that night. We don’t get along because we’re too… different.” You offer her your hand and smile when she takes it, helping her up. “He finds beauty in everything, doesn’t think twice before trusting someone. I’d never be able to do that.”
Lois drops the subject. On your way out, after dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register, you hold the door open for her.
“I could get used to this,” she says, and your mouth twitches, giving her a half-smile.
At the Daily Planet, you both head toward the elevators, and as Lois steps inside, Clark appears behind you, looking agitated.
“Hey,” he greets you, straightening his glasses with one hand and gesturing toward the elevator. “After you.”
The fucker.
You mimic his gesture. “No, please. After you.”
“I said it first.”
“Too bad.”
“Guys…” Lois tries without much luck.
Clark’s voice is still thick with sleep when he speaks. “Would you please be a darling and go first?”
“Tell you what,” you say, inching closer and toying with the end of his tie, inspecting the fabric. “Nothing would make me happier than walking in after you.”
You don’t know if you’ve exhausted him or if he just doesn’t want to be late, but he eventually sighs and steps inside. You position yourself beside Lois, and she ends up squeezed between the two of you.
“Morning, Lois,” Clark says.
“Morning, Clark,” she manages, stealing a glance at you. “You know, someone surprised me with coffee today.”
His mouth snaps shut, and he tugs at the sleeves of his suit. “That’s my thing.” He turns on his side, staring at you. “What’ll be your next move? Will you start wearing glasses as well? Just to make sure we match.”
“Oh, please. I’m not copying you.” The doors open and you’re first to exit, tipping your chin up. “It’s called being nice.”
“I am nice,” Clark blurts, trailing after you. “In fact, I’m nicer than you.”
“I wasn’t aware of this competitive side of yours.”
“Let’s just say I had time to think about it last night.”
“You thought about me before falling asleep?” You let out a feigned gasp. “That’s so cute!”
Jimmy appears in the frame to throw an arm around each of your shoulders. “I could hear your voices from the bathroom.”
You detach yourself from the two men, pointing your index finger at the shorter one. “I bought Lois coffee and let Clark go first in the elevator. Write that down on the board.”
“You basically forced me.”
“Drop it, Clark.”
Well, how about this way? I love that you get cold when it's seventy-one degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.
You muffle a squeak against the cushion you’ve smashed to your face. You could watch When Harry Met Sally a hundred times, and a hundred times this scene would get you. You could quote it word for word, the moment he finally confesses his love for her.
And then they share a loving kiss. They live happily together after, as in all the rom-coms you like to revisit once in a while. You’re certain there must be tears shimmering in your eyes, for they sting just enough. The more you think about it, the more convinced you are that no one will ever love you like that.
It’s undeniable that this belief has turned you into a bitter individual. You used to have hope. You weren’t like this before, when you were younger. At least not a few years ago, when the idea of loving someone and being loved in return still seemed like a thing you could attain if you worked hard enough for it.
Adulthood, in your experience, has been plagued by hostility and disillusionment. Were it possible, you’d have a word with the you from ten years ago, the one who believed that by now she’d be in love and planning a future with a man worth her time.
But you’d only laugh at her in the same way that an adult laughs when an infant talks about unicorns and talking animals. Because she, or you, for that matter, probably doesn’t know you spend most of your nights alone. And since the news would make her cry, you’d also have to hug her.
The last time you attempted to open your heart to somebody else was a little over a year ago, and it didn’t turn out well.
The day you started working at the Daily Planet, since both of your eyes functioned perfectly, you developed an instant crush on Clark Kent. The real question, you thought, was who wouldn't? He was the most handsome man you'd ever seen, and still is to this day. Maybe that's the saddest part of the whole thing.
Your crush wasn’t just about his looks. You were drawn to his clumsiness, the cadence of his voice, and the way he’d ask if he could be of help. He’d buy you coffee first thing every morning without fail, back when you still accepted it. It would be steaming, and he'd always say, "Be careful. It's really hot." You thought you’d never grow tired of hearing those four simple words.
He made terrible jokes during lunch, and you were the only one who’d laugh, solely because he was the one telling them. If you struggled to navigate the newspaper’s website, he’d come up behind you, lean close, and explain each step patiently. His hand would find its place on your desk for balance, his warm breath would graze your skin, and you wouldn’t listen to a word he said.
There were even days when you pretended not to know how the printer worked. It was a treasure to have him that close, and Clark never questioned it. He was always there, and he’d never make you feel stupid for needing his help.
Around three months in, Lois started asking more questions about your personal life. “So… do you have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, no,” you said, downing what remained of your water bottle. “I’m single.”
“Great, because you know who else is single?” She made a short pause. “Clark.”
Her words of encouragement were the final push. You asked him out, and it was the most ungraceful ramble of your entire life. The memory still plays out in your head, a vivid reel of your voice shaking and your eyes fixed on the floor as you stumbled over each word.
It happened during one particular Thursday afternoon, while the two of you were standing by the printer. “I was thinking that tomorrow we could go out, just the two of us. If you want. I mean—if you’re not busy or—”
He gapes at you, his answer nearly written all over his face. At last, he smiles, and then says, “I’d really like that.”
You knew you'd spend the next twenty-four hours in a state of total anxiety. The world as you once knew it had changed for good. You used some of the money you were saving up to buy a dress you felt pretty in. In a moment of madness, you'd even used some of your savings to buy a dress you felt pretty in.
Ten minutes early for your reservation that Friday, you sat alone at the restaurant. You couldn't bring yourself to order, instead staring at your phone, terrified of the blank screen.
With every swing of the door, your heart tightened in your chest. Each new face that entered, you desperately hoped it would be Clark and not a stranger.
Fifteen minutes passed, which later bled into twenty, and then thirty agonizing minutes had gone by. There was a waitress, a girl perhaps younger than you, who kept circling by your table.
“Still waiting for someone?” she asked.
Suddenly, you felt embarrassed. “He should be here any minute now.”
At some point, your stomach had begun to rumble, and that was the exact moment you read his name on your phone, answering so fast you nearly dropped it. “Clark?”
The line crackled with static, and you could barely hear him over a tumultuous roar. “I’m so sorry,” he said, nearly shouting and sounding breathless on the other end of the line. “There’s this thing I have to take care of—I can’t—”
“Are you okay?” you asked, starting to worry. “Where are you?”
“I wish I could explain, but—” A sudden rush of air swallowed his words. “I won’t make it tonight.”
Your eyes scanned the restaurant, taking in the sea of couples laughing over dinner. “Okay. That’s fine. Thank you for letting me know.”
“I’m—” he began, but to your surprise, the sentence was cut short by the call ending.
Utterly defeated, you clutched your phone, observing as his name faded from your lock screen with every passing second. You remained seated for another five minutes, trying to conjure a believable excuse for the waitress before you left.
She ended up returning to your table. “Will you be ordering anything tonight?”
It seemed she didn't need much to grasp what had happened. When you got home, you peeled off the dress, folded it carefully, and put it back in the store bag. To keep from seeing it, you hid it under the couch, then collapsed onto the cushions, letting out a contained breath.
I should’ve stayed home, you told yourself. Your bed wouldn't have stood you up, neither would your couch or your phone. You opened social media, searching for a distraction, something simple, like videos of dogs trying to talk with their overreacting families.
What you found was starkly different from your initial vision. It was a video of Superman, flying high in the sky while holding a phone to his ear. Seconds later, the phone tragically slipped from his hand, plunging into a river below. The video had millions of views and had been posted less than an hour ago. The comment section was full of users drawing their own conclusions.
d1stalker: GET OFF THAT DAMN PHONE 😭how is he literally flying and talking at the same time? multitasking king
elysianymph: i’d love to know who he was talking to… a girl can only dream
dayapad: guys don’t worry IT WAS ME ON THE OTHER END 🥀 he’s safe now. just tucked him in and we’re about to watch a movie (i scream as they drag me back to my room in the asylum)
redgie-69: now he needs to do an ad por iphone or sth. superman get that bag !!!
Unable to stop yourself, you clicked the video again, pausing and rewinding it. The wind was a deafening roar in the background, and you couldn't make out half of what the bystanders were saying. With the line cutting and his phone falling into the river, the video's timestamp was a perfect match for the time he had called you.
Realization hit you like a freight train. Fuck. That was Clark. Clark was… Superman.
A whirlwind of feelings coexisted within you, but none was strong enough to snap you out of the trance you were in. You kept watching those fifteen seconds over and over again, replaying the memory of the call and his exact words.
There had always been something about him that was slightly off, and not precisely in a bad way. You'd always chalked it up to him being dorky and a little shy, traits you didn't mind in the slightest. But now, after that footage, you couldn't bring yourself to simply unsee it.
You recalled a specific incident that had taken place a few weeks ago. Jimmy, insisting Clark would be the perfect actor for a Superman biopic, had reached to pull off his glasses. With grace, Clark had swatted his hand away, claiming they were too fragile to be passed around like a toy.
You knew better, knew exactly why he reacted the way he did. And, God help you, did that make you like him even more?
That night, you sent him two text messages, having momentarily forgotten he wouldn’t be able to read them.
I think I understand why you didn’t show up tonight.
And shortly after:
I saw the video. You look good in blue.
By the time Monday came around, you’d already picked all your nails. You arrived at the office earlier than usual, and his desk was still empty, but you kept checking the elevator every time it stopped at your floor.
He was nodding good morning at someone when you saw him, and you didn’t hesitate. You strode straight up to him, took his hand between yours, and whispered: “We need to talk.”
“Uh—hi?”
“Now.”
You led him down the hall and into the break room, closing the door behind you once the two of you were inside and turning the lock.
“Is everything—”
“You’re Superman,” you said, not even bothering to mince your words.
Clark looked like he’d seen a ghost, pure anxiety brewing in his eyes. You could imagine the gears turning in his head as he remained silent, lost in thought.
“Cat got your tongue?”
His gaze darted to every object in the room but you. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw the video, Clark. You called me while flying, and you dropped your phone midair.”
He was breathing differently now, as if he was attempting to calm himself.
“Does Jimmy know? Lois?”
That question made him look up. “No,” he said. “No one knows, except… well, you. I didn’t want you to find out this way.” His eyes bore into yours, his mouth set in a hard line. “I’m sorry I stood you up, but I heard this explosion on the east side, and I couldn’t ignore it.” Clark’s face reddened the more he said. “And then I dropped my phone. I went back for it later, but I couldn’t find it.”
Recognition settled over you at his words. “I’m not mad at you,” you assured him, giving a nod. The way his brows knitted burned a hole through your heart. “Would you maybe want to reschedule our date?”
The silence between you deepened, making your smile fade off of your face as the tension in the room thickened.
“I—I mean, if that’s something you still want,” he managed, the tone of his voice betraying him. “I don’t know if—I mean, I do want to, but—I wouldn’t want things to be complicated for you and me.”
Were you being friend-zoned? “Right.”
He runs a hand through his hair, getting more notoriously verbose by the minute. “It’s just that, now that you know, I don’t want to put you in danger. And I’m not sure it’d be fair to ask—”
“Okay,” you cut him short. “So what you're saying is that we should just leave it, then.”
“Wait—”
“We can just stay colleagues, if that’s easier.”
He seemed taken aback by your resoluteness. “Is that what you want?”
It wasn’t, but either way, you smiled. “Yes. That’d be better. We shouldn’t ruin what we have.”
You could’ve sworn he was just about to contradict you, but nothing came out of his mouth. Reaching for the door, you unlocked it, and he didn’t seem to be planning on following you. You cast him a glance over your shoulder before saying, “I promise I won’t say anything.”
Having fled the break room, you thought you might feel better, more professional even, but as you sat back down at your desk, your insides were turning into knots.
When Lois and Jimmy showed up beside you, eager for updates, you gave them a breathy laugh, which was meant to sound casual. “Guys, there wasn’t a date to begin with.”
“What?” Lois whispered harshly. “Why not?”
“He had to go to Kansas,” you explained, the lie feeling foreign on your tongue. “His parents needed him there, so he left Friday evening.”
“Is everything okay now?” Jimmy asked.
“Oh, yeah. It wasn’t a big deal. But we talked, and we agreed to stay friends. It’ll be for the best.”
Lois studied you a second longer than necessary, her gaze narrowing as if she could hear what you weren’t saying. You assured them both you were fine, that there was no drama between the two of you, and that this was the smartest, most mature decision you and Clark could’ve made. You just hoped they would believe you.
What shocked you the most was that he’d looked so nervous, maybe even more than usual. If he hadn’t wanted to go out with you, he could’ve just said so when you asked him out. But Clark, always the sweetheart, probably hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings. It was funny, considering he’d managed that anyway.
Was it stupid to think he might’ve liked you back? Maybe you’d been seeing things that weren’t actually there. Maybe you’d overanalyzed every smile, every gentle gesture, every moment your world seemed to spin faster just because he was in the same room as you.
It made sense: someone who wants to be loved will look for it everywhere, even in places it doesn’t exist.
From that moment on, you stopped looking for his eyes when he walked past your desk. You declined his offers to grab you coffee because his gentleness felt like charity, and you wanted no part of it.
Back to the present. Enough of your sad memories. The credits of the movie are still rolling, but you shut the laptop, getting up and stretching. In the bathroom, you brush your teeth while staring at your reflection, and once you’re in bed, you pull the covers all the way up to your chest.
You’re choosing the fantasy you’ll think about tonight to fall asleep when you hear the rhythmic sound of your neighbor’s headboard rocking against the wall.
You’d run into her in the elevator earlier today, and she’d mentioned her long-distance boyfriend was coming over for the week. You hear her laugh, then his, alongside other noises you won’t try to dissect.
The walls in this building are paper-thin, and on any other occasion, you would’ve grabbed the first thing within reach to knock on the wall. But you won’t do that tonight, not because you can’t, but because you don’t want to. You stare at the ceiling, thinking they deserve these kinds of moments after being apart for so long.
Plus, it’s only a week. Just because you’re not getting laid doesn’t mean the rest of the world should stop having sex out of pity, so you turn onto your side, pull the covers up over your ear, and decide to sleep. It turns out that kindness can also sound like silence.
It’s been two weeks since the bet started, and you’ve come to discover that complimenting people is a good way to earn points, especially if you deliver them in public for everyone to hear.
“Lois, I love your blazer,” you say as she walks past your desk one morning.
She stops mid-stride, smiling at you. “Thank you. It’s thrifted.”
You’ve also made a habit of stapling Jimmy’s copies before he gets to them. “I think somebody wants to win,” he notes, watching you finish his stack.
“You would too if interviewing Superman was on the line.”
“Well, you better keep it up, because you’re still behind.”
Safe to say you take that personally. Later that day, Lois gives you a point when she catches you holding the door open for nearly ten people in a row. Clark earns another when he finds someone’s missing phone after searching for fifteen straight minutes.
Just to be clear, you were also looking for it. He just happened to be the one who found it first. But yes, you’ve been trying lately, and Clark notices.
Though today you’re moving more slowly because of a headache that has settled behind your eyes. You spend most of the morning at your desk, head bent while typing out emails, but you’re forced to look up when a cup of coffee lands beside your keyboard.
Your first instinct is to say no. Politely, of course, because of the bet. You haven’t accepted anything from him in a long time.
He places something else down: an aspirin. “It’s 2025. We have advanced medicine to ease your suffering.”
“Are you that desperate to win?” you ask, resting your chin on your palm.
Clark snorts. “What would you like my answer to be?”
You drop the subject, accepting both things and picking up the coffee. “If I kindly take this coffee, would that earn me a point?”
“That wouldn’t make any sense.”
“Then I don’t want it.”
“Half a point?”
“We’ve got a deal.” You take a trial sip, tasting its flavor and muffling a satisfied sound. “God, it’s really good. Thanks. How much was it?”
He shakes his head. “Forget about it.”
“Hey, no. I want to pay you for it.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can hear you,” he says, walking backwards and away from you.
“Asshole.”
“What did you just say?”
“That you look nice today,” you admit instead, folding your hands on your lap. “I like your shirt.”
It’s a plain one, honestly. Nothing special, but it still looks good on him. He glances down at his clothes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “How nice of you to say that. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
So apparently, you and Clark are starting to get along.
It’s easier if you hide behind the bet, because you can be decent to each other while racking up points. What’s so bad about it? Yet you can’t ignore the fact that you kind of enjoy being like this with him, despite the whole challenge finishing in less than two weeks.
Clark: Don’t forget Jimmy’s birthday tomorrow.
You groan around a mouthful of apple, cursing your poor memory
You: Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkkk
Clark: I knew it. See, I’m that nice. I could’ve chosen not to tell you.
You: That would’ve made you a prick
Clark: You’re right, but now owe me one.
You: I could bake him a cake… or cupcakes??? Idk
Clark: I’d go with the cake. Just imagine Lois and Jimmy giving you ten points for it.
Pressing your thumb against your mouth, you gnaw at it, holding your breath as you type a message.
You: We can make it five and five if you help me
You put your phone down, covering it with a cushion, but the moment it buzzes again, you snatch it back.
Clark: Sounds fair, though I’ve never baked anything from scratch before.
You: I’ve got the perfect recipe
Clark: Are we having dinner as well? I could bring some takeout.
You can’t help but re-read that text too many times.
You: Sure, whatever you want
Clark: Chinese?
You: Yuppp but please hurry up because I’m starving
He asks for your address, and twenty minutes later, he’s knocking at your door, a plastic takeout bag swinging from one hand. He loosens his tie the moment he’s inside, shrugging off his coat and rolling up his sleeves
“So…,” he trails off, pacing around the living room, “you’re in charge tonight.”
You suggest eating first, otherwise, the food will go cold. While you set the table, Clark turns on the TV and lets it run in the background. As expected, you mostly talk about work. Does this count as a date? You’re not sure.
The first thing you ask him to do is to preheat the oven, and he obeys without a word. Your kitchen isn’t big enough for two people, and if anything, Clark’s towering height only makes it more difficult. His elbows constantly bump yours, and he apologizes every single time.
While you handle the measuring of ingredients, he takes the whisk. It seems the Man of Steel has no coordination when it comes to baking. He’s hyper-focused on not pouring the whole bottle of vanilla extract, tongue peeking out slightly as he pours. You can’t resist the temptation, so you give in to it and blow a puff of flour into his face.
His right profile is now covered in white, and he blinks rapidly, nudging his face against his shoulder. “It got in my eye.”
“It didn’t. I’m right here, remember?”
Wide-eyed and frozen in place, Clark stares at your head. “What’s that on your hair?”
“There’s nothing on my—”
He dips his fingers into the flour bag while you aren’t looking and flicks a pinch at you. A malicious laugh bubbles in his throat as he takes in the sight of you, frowning and crossing your arms.
“Now we’re even,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
Afterward, you pour the liquid batter into a prepared pan, smoothing the top. You put it into the oven, finding Clark scraping the bowl with a spoon, licking it with pure contentment and savoring the remnants. There’s a small dot of batter near the edge of his mouth, which he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Clark, there’s—” You point to your own mouth, hoping he’ll mimic you.
But he doesn’t get the hint, putting down the bowl instead. “What?”
You sigh, taking a step toward him and wiping your thumb across the corner of his plump lips. He stops breathing in that moment, and so do you. You clean your finger on the edge of a dirty kitchen towel, then ask, “Can you wipe the counter while I make the frosting?”
He looks astonished. “I can—Sure. I’ll do it.”
Neither of you utters another word for a couple of minutes, focusing on your respective tasks. After testing that the cake was done, you take it out of the oven, unmolding it onto a rack to cool.
Clark plops down on the couch, covering his eyes with his forearm. “We can’t decorate it yet, right?”
“No. We have to wait, or the frosting will melt.”
“I’m so tired,” Clark says, yawning, and then his contagious yawn makes you do the same.
“I didn’t realize it was this late.” You sit on the opposite side of the couch, unlocking your phone. “I’ll put an alarm. We can take a twenty-minute nap, and then we finish it.”
His eyelids are already drooping, and he murmurs, “Just twenty minutes.”
You struggle to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. Normally, you’d stretch out fully, but now you can’t, and you blame the giant sitting next to you. By the time you drift off, you swear you can hear him snoring just a little.
The alarm went off twenty minutes later, but neither of you stirred. You only woke up to switch sides, blocking the intrusive light from the curtains. Your eyes opened just long enough to see Clark, still in the same position as before, his mouth slightly parted and his hair a beautiful mess.
The cake.
“Clark!” You bolt upright, almost jumping to your feet. You touched his shoulder, shaking him. “Wake up. We overslept.”
He rubs his eyes, huffing. “What time is it?”
“We have… twenty minutes before we need to leave.”
Both of you get to work. Clark retrieves the frosting from the fridge and tries to help you spread it on the cake, but it ends up looking less like a smooth layer and more like a lumpy hill.
“Oh, God. I hope the cake isn’t dry.”
“It looks good,” he says, admiring it from a distance. “At least from here.”
You melt some dark chocolate in the microwave. It’s surprisingly thick, and you grab a fork, trying to write Happy Birthday Jimmy across the top. The letters are wobbly and melted into one another, but it’s the thought that counts. You grab the single birthday candle you always saved for such occasions, placing it in the center.
Clark hovers just behind your shoulder. “It’s… definitely abstract.”
You glance down at your clothes from the night before, realizing you didn’t even get a chance to shower. “Shit. Do I smell?”
His expression softens, his gaze landing on your head. “You don’t, but you still have flour on your hair.” He brushes his fingers through your hair with the delicacy you’d expect from a man like him.
The pad of his thumb grazes your hairline, and your breath catches in your chest. He pulls back abruptly, grasping what he’s doing a second too late. “There you go.”
Scrambling to get ready, you transfer the cake to a cardboard pastry box, securing it. “Okay, subway. Now.”
As Clark and you rush through the station, you clasp the cake box in your hands. The platform’s already crowded with people. You steal a quick glance at Clark, catching the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“I asked you if you had a boyfriend like, ten times, and you always said no.”
It’s a pity you recognize that voice. Matthew appears at your side, glaring at Clark, his eyes darting from him to you. The look on his face is one of total disappointment.
“He’s not—”
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Clark asks, subtly stepping forward to angle his body between the two of you.
“Matt.” He extends his hand in offering, but Clark silently refuses to take it, staring at him. “I just—sorry, dude. I had no idea she was taken.”
You wave your hand at them. “Hello. I’m right here.”
“Honey, you’ve never mentioned him before,” Clark says, draping his arm around your shoulders.
How smooth. “Well, honey, I must’ve forgotten,” you rejoice, leaning into his solid frame, playing the part of the loving girlfriend.
The screeching noise of the train marks the end of that conversation as the doors slide open. Just before the rush of people floods the car, Clark grabs your hand, tugging you inside, and Matthew’s left standing behind on the platform.
Even after finding two empty seats, he doesn’t let go of your hand, and neither do you.
“May I ask who that guy was?” His eyes gloss over the cake box above your legs.
“A not-so-secret admirer. He’s asked me out a few times, but hasn’t had much luck.”
“He seems persistent.”
“Trust me. He is.”
“I hope you don’t mind what I did back there,” he says, lowering his voice. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”
“It helped.” You squeeze his hand before gently dropping it. “Thank you.”
You make it to the office just before nine, taking the stairs because the elevator’s far too packed. Now it’s Clark’s turn to carry the cake, and he trails after you with precise steps.
To say Jimmy’s thrilled at the surprise would be an understatement. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he opens the box. “Holy crap! You baked this?”
“Yes,” you both say at once.
“I love it so much!” He takes the cake out of the box, looking at it from a different angle. “Can someone please take a picture of me with it? I feel like I’ve just met my firstborn.”
Lois materializes out of nowhere, trying to analyze the situation. “Why are you two wearing the same clothes from yesterday?” She lets a beat slide, then adds: “And why did you arrive together?”
“Well—the thing is—”
“It’s a long story,” Clark jumps in.
“But we have all the time in the world,” Lois shoots back.
And that’s how you know you’re trapped.
Only a week before the bet ends. There’s a guy with too much gel in his hair lingering a few feet from your desk. You’ve seen him around. He’s one of the new hires who writes for the newspaper’s column on culture and arts.
You’ve been expecting him to approach you for ten minutes now. When he finally does it, you see a confident smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, I’m Ethan,” he introduces himself, cocking his head.
“Nice to meet you, Ethan. I’m—”
“I know,” he interrupts you, squinting a little as if he’s embarrassed by his own enthusiasm. “Okay, that sounded weird, but what I meant is that I know your name.” he wraps his arms around himself, taking a deep breath. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime.”
That’s not what you expected. He’s a handsome guy, charming even, but—
This is the kindness challenge, and you're supposed to be all friendly and polite, at least for another full week.
You plaster a practiced smile on your face. “Sure. Why not?”
He asks for your number, and you rattle it off in a monotonous tone. As he heads off, you catch Clark in the distance across the bullpen, sitting at his desk. He must have used his super hearing because he doesn't tear his gaze away from yours, and you feel as if all the oxygen in the world has been sucked out of the building.
Hours later, you’re in the break room, pouring coffee into your favorite mug, the one with a tiny kitten curled on the front. Clark walks in, closing the door behind him after he sees there’s no one else there.
“You want some coffee?” You ask him while stirring your coffee.
He stays quiet for ages. “What’s the deal with that new guy?”
“You mean Ethan?”
“We’re using names now.”
“He asked me out,” you continue to explain, lifting the mug to your lips. “And I said yes.”
“Why?”
“It's just a drink, Clark. I’m being nice. That’s the whole point, remember?”
“I had no idea being kind involved bar hopping with strangers.”
Why is he acting like this? “Jealousy doesn’t look great on you.”
“I’m not jealous. I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the dark locks. “You don’t know him. Nobody does.”
“He seems nice.”
“Everybody seems nice if you only exchange two words with them!”
You grind your jaw. “Why are you assuming the worst? Why does the idea of me going out with someone bother you so much?”
Clark doesn't answer immediately. “You can do whatever you want,” he says, his tone shifting to a pained one. “I'm just asking you to be careful.”
“You don't need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
Pride claims a full point from both of you.
You’re nodding along to another of Ethan’s stories from his college days, your eyes fixed on the rim of your glass.
It’s not that he’s boring, but for some reason, you’re unable to pay attention to anything he says. He’s talking about some phenomenal frat party he attended during senior year, which you can’t even relate to, because you’d never liked them.
He gulps down his drink, grinning. “I’m not letting you speak, am I?”
“Well—”
“Tell me something about yourself.”
You take a look around the bar, which is dim and cozy. The bartender hasn’t stopped mixing cocktails behind the counter. You shift your attention back to Ethan, lifting your eyebrows. “I’m currently stuck in a kindness challenge at work.”
You can’t blame him for seeming confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Lois and Jimmy had this brilliant idea that Clark and I should compete to see who’s nicer. He’s the guy with—”
“The glasses, I know. You’ve already mentioned him.” Ethan rolls his eyes, sighing at the same time a forced smile flashes across his face.
You can tell he’s bothered. Have you really been talking about Clark this much on a date with someone else? “Sorry.”
He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, waving it off. “And how’s the bet going?”
What an awfully complex question. You toy with the straw you were given with your drink, pressing your lips together. “Pretty much okay. We baked a cake last week.”
He chuckles. “You know what’s funny? I thought you two were dating at first.”
You tear your eyes away from the straw. “What?”
“I’d see you together all the time,” he says with a shrug, resting an arm on the back of the booth. “Then someone told me you hated him or something, and I had to shoot my shot.”
You hear him laugh, and he must expect you to do the same, but you don’t. “Hate him?” you echo his words. “I don’t hate him. Who said that?”
“I… don’t remember now. Does it matter?”
“Well, of course it does. Your source is wrong.”
“Yeah. I figured that around the fifth time you found a way to bring him up tonight.”
In a rare moment of clarity, a stark contrast to the bar's dark interior, you look down at your hands. Shutting your eyes, and behind closed lids, you can only picture the face of a man who isn’t here, who isn’t the one sitting across from you.
This isn’t where you’re supposed to be.
Pushing back your chair, you reach for your purse. “This won’t work,” you murmur, putting on your jacket. “You’re a nice guy, really. You’re not the problem. I shouldn’t have come tonight.”
Even though he calls your name as you make your way to the door, you don’t go back. Outside, driven by instinct, you fumble for your phone in your pocket. Since you’ve never felt this determined before in your life, you decide to call Clark.
It rings twice before he picks up, and when he does, his voice sounds groggy. “Hello?”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Sort of.”
You throw your head back, giving yourself a face palm. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Clark assures you, the rustle of sheets reverberating through the line. He must be tossing around in bed, given the hour. “Is everything alright?”
For a moment, pressure wells in your chest. You glance both ways down the street, half-expecting to stumble into him. “I just wanted to say something.” You exhale, pressing the phone further into your ear, as if you could merge it with your skin. “I don’t hate you.”
He offers no immediate response. After a while, he says, “What?”
“I don’t hate you. Not in the slightest.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I needed you to know it.” Each of your words feels thick in your mouth, heavy like sand. “I wouldn’t be able to hate you.”
Judging by the background noise on his end, you guess he must be out of bed and pacing now. “I don’t hate you either.”
“It’s not the same. I already knew it.”
“Right,” he laughs, and the sound fills the line. You can almost imagine the dimples in his cheeks. “Wasn’t your date today? How did it go?”
“Let’s just say there’s a section of the bullpen I’m not allowed into anymore.”
“Oh. That bad?”
“He said I talked a lot about you, so you tell me.”
The last time you two spoke in person, you had stormed out of the break room. He’d sounded jealous, a fact he fiercely denied, and his attitude had finally gotten to you. Maybe it was that time of year when you got a bit paranoid, but the thought hit you: you could die at any minute. Living in a city full of unknown threats and creatures, were you seriously going to spend the rest of your life keeping everything bottled up?
Yet, as if reading your very thoughts, he asks: “Would you like to come over?”
“Like… now?”
“Right now.”
You don’t need to be told twice. You hail the first cab you find on the streets of this Saturday night, counting down the minutes until you arrive at his apartment.
Fifth floor. Apartment C. Clark opens the door to you, and the mere sight of him steals your breath. He isn’t wearing his glasses. A pair of gray sweatpants sits low on his hips, along with a navy blue shirt stretched across his chest.
The only thing you can bring yourself to say is: “Hi.”
He invites you in. You hear the door clicking shut behind you as you put down your purse, turning around to face him. You clear your throat, staring deep into his eyes, and you notice he still hasn’t said a word.
“I spent almost ten minutes thinking about what to say to you. I even came up with what I thought was a great speech. It made sense in my head, but I can’t… remember it now,” you explain, swallowing the lump in your throat. You’re nervous, so freaking nervous you feel dizzy. Has he always been this tall?
“You don’t need a big speech,” Clark says, inching forward.
“I wanted to give you one, like they do in movies.”
“Then, just—come up with one right now.”
As if it were that easy. You press your hands to your face for a moment, imploring some god above for the courage you so desperately needed.
It doesn’t have to be well-structured. Doesn’t have to have perfect grammar. It just has to come from the heart and be true, and you couldn’t be more certain of what you feel for him.
“I would’ve dated you, you know? Even after finding out about the whole Superman thing, I would’ve risked everything, because it didn’t change the way I felt about you. It hasn’t changed it. I feel the same I did yesterday, and the day before that, and a year ago,” you blurt, edging closer to him. “I can’t imagine existing in a world where I’m not madly in love with you.”
You can't read the look on his face. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze giving nothing away as he studies you, and you find yourself wondering what exactly he’s thinking.
“I’ve tried putting it all behind me. I’ve tried starting over. For God’s sake, I went on a date with a man I didn’t even like! Just because you looked so… frustrated about it, and I thought maybe it was worth it.”
The past month’s blur of events rewinds in your mind. Your feelings, which you had tried to quiet and smother for so long, have come roaring back to life stronger than ever. You believe this must be love: that force you can try to extinguish and contain, but one that always burns through, because it is as real as the blood in your veins and the bones in your body.
“I can’t keep pretending I’m not dying to kiss you every time I see you at work. I feel like I’m in hell whenever you’re near me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can’t let you go, Clark. I don’t want to, but I swear I’d make the effort if you asked me to. I’d try, just for you.”
All the cards, including the ones you were keeping to yourself, have been laid out. You yearn for Clark Kent. You need him in your life, in any way he’s willing to offer himself, with those eyes of his that now look at you like you’ve gone nuts.
You’ve learned that there will always be something wrong. That’s how things work, at least for the alive-and-kicking ones. And you know for a fact that love won’t save you. Clark’s love, in this case, won’t assure you anything. But you’d much rather navigate those complexities with him by your side.
A flush creeps up his face, and he inclines his face. “I’d never ask you to walk away from me. Understanding you has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to endure, which sounds absurd considering we speak the same language,” he says, and you can’t help but let out a laugh at that. “I mean it, and not just as Clark, but also as Superman.”
“You’re saying I’m hard to understand?”
“I’m saying that there’s so much you don’t say. I have to translate every look and sigh. I believe I’ve developed a whole new dialect just to make sense of you—”
“I feel like you’re using this as an opportunity to roast me.”
“—but loving you is the easy part, and you don’t even realize it.”
Your heart hammers unpleasantly inside your chest. “Clark, I thought you wanted us to stay friends.”
“I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“But you said it. Kind of,” you argue, your forehead creasing.
He holds out his arms, stifling his laughter. “You didn’t let me explain! I panicked. I didn’t know what to say. You know how I get when I’m nervous.”
You’re left standing there, beyond stunned. “So this whole time… we could’ve been together?” You make a brief pause, falling silent. “I was so mad at you. So fucking—”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Clark takes hold of your chin, angling your head backwards so your eyes peer directly into his. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Complaining about the past. We’re here now. We can make it up to each other.”
You sigh, and he hunches over to rest his forehead against yours. His stare carries so much, but you can’t look away. “I think I remembered my speech.”
“We’ve already moved past that.”
“I could still deliver it—”
You’re cut off by Clark’s mouth on yours. He kisses you with the intensity of a starved man, and you freeze, caught off guard and barely moving your lips, until he guides your arms around his neck, and that’s when your body catches up. His own hands find their sacred place on your waist, clutching the fabric of your sweater.
This is the aftermath of months of pent up-frustration. His tongue presses insistently against yours to seek entry. Ever so gently, he corners you against the nearest wall, and your head nudges a frame that ends up clattering to the floor. It’s not enough to get Clark off of you. He shoves it aside with his shoe, further pressing you into the wall.
“I don’t want to fight anymore,” he gasps between kisses, holding your cheeks as his nose bumps into yours.
“We won’t,” you say, dizzy from all the kissing. “I promise.”
It turns out that his lips can’t seem to leave yours for long. “And please don’t go on any more dates with new hires.”
You roll your eyes, running your fingers through the short hair at his nape. “I told you it went horribly.”
“Still.”
“You’re unbelievable.” Your mouth crushes onto his once again, your pulse quickening with every second his hands are on you. You then whisper against his lips, “It’s always been you. You can stop worrying about other men.”
He blows out his cheeks, shaking his head. “Golly, this isn’t fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“I just—love you so much,” he mumbles, pecking your lips, “and you’re so beautiful, and there’s so much I want to do with you. I want to do everything—”
“We’ll take our time.”
“I know, I know.” He grazes the skin of your neck as he pulls you in for another kiss. “But touching you, kissing you… it feels too good to be true.”
A small chuckle escapes you, and you caress his cheek. “Alright, Romeo. You’ve done enough talking.”
When you come back to your senses, he’s got you all sprawled across the couch, his touch insistent yet careful. You’re struggling to remain still the more acquainted he becomes with your body. He digs his fingers into your waist, your hips, the sides of your thighs, leaving a trail of all the places where he’s been.
He’s kissing down your jawline the moment your mind conjures up an important question. “Clark?”
“Tell me.”
“Let’s say that, hypothetically, I spend the night here.”
“…Hypothetically.”
“Exactly. Would you have a spare toothbrush in that case?”
He lifts his head from your neck, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “You’re marking territory.”
“Hey. I said hypothetically. And I care about dental hygiene.”
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, your head squeezed between his forearms. He ducks down to kiss you. “I do have a spare toothbrush. Don’t worry about that.”
You resume the make-out session after that. You sink deeper into the cushions as he shoves your sweater further up your chest, just enough to ghost his fingertips along your bra, eliciting a choked whimper out of you. The sound seems to spur him on because he pulls off his own shirt, allowing you to get a better look at his stomach.
The words die on your lips, and you draw a pattern over his pecks, then up to his biceps, ending in the happy trail that leads to what remains hidden beneath the tent on his sweatpants.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” he breathes, pining your hand above your head. “I thought you were the one who said to take our time.”
“I’m gonna combust and you haven’t even touched me properly yet,” you admit, gaping at his lips as he hovers over you, teasing you. “Imagine the state I’m in.”
That makes him smirk, and he slides a thick thigh between your parted legs, pressing it to your center. You throw your head back, cursing. “You like that?”
You nod, watching him through hooded eyes. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Fuck, Clark. Do something. I need—”
Upon the coffee table next to the couch, your phone starts ringing, and Uptown Girl by Billy Joel fills the living room.
The spell breaks, and you hide your face into the crook of his neck. “I hate my life.”
“Ignore it.”
“I can’t. I know who it is,” you say, reaching your arm without looking. Eventually, you drag the phone out of the purse, and show the screen to him. “It’s Lois. She must be calling to ask how the date went.”
“Text her instead.”
“Clark, I can’t—just don’t make a sound, okay? I have to take this, or else she’ll keep calling.”
You accept the call without noticing your voice has gone up an octave. “Hi!”
“Hey! You didn’t text me about the date, so I figured I’d just call you.”
“Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.” You gulp down as he rolls your sweater over your head in one swift motion, and you slap his shoulder when he almost makes you drop your phone. “It was… average.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“We didn’t have much in common,” you continue, drifting your attention to the ceiling to try and stay composed. “He was—oh.”
Clark’s kisses have now migrated to your chest, his fingers sneaking beneath your back to unclasp your bra. He doesn’t break eye contact as he takes hold of your breasts in his hands, and you squirm under him.
Lois’ voice breaks through, sounding distant. “Are you okay?”
“Y-yes. I’m here, sorry. We didn’t even talk that much. I left quite early.” You mouth a ‘stop’ to him, holding the phone away from your ear, but he just smiles at you.
“Dammit, that sucks. Are you home now?”
“I was—Clark!” You yelp as he closes his mouth around your right nipple, scraping his teeth against the hardened peak. He looks at you with a horrified expression, and your whole frame stiffens.
“…Clark?” Lois repeats, and she gasps. “Are you—is Clark there? CLARK KENT?”
“IhavetogoI’msosorrybyeloveyouuuuu,” you push out the words quickly in one breath before hanging up, dropping the phone to the floor. “You’re a prick. What the hell was that?”
“I’d put it into silence mode if I were you.”
“That wasn’t fair.”
“What’s not fair is that you’re still wearing clothes.” He sits on his knees to unbutton your pants and yank them to your ankles, his eyes dark with want. Then he does the same to his own, until all that’s left are your underwear and the hardness confined inside his briefs, which presses against you the moment he leans down.
You begin kissing him as he lays on top of you, holding himself up on his forearms so as not to crush you with his weight.
“When did you become a horny teenager?” you ask, biting back a moan as he aligns himself with you, both of you still clothed. You know there must be a damp spot on your panties at this point from how wet you are.
“Always been one around you,” he replies huskily, slipping his hands under your thighs to tug you even closer. As he grinds his hips into yours, his jaw clenches, his breath damp against your skin. “Can I—is this alright?”
“Yeah, yeah.” You shift to give him more space between your legs. “It’s nice.”
The temperature in the room is borderline unbearable. Clark rocks into you in earnest, muttering sounds next to your ear. Some you catch, but some are so low that they are swallowed by the way he murmurs your name.
“I feel stupid doing this,” he grits out, pressing his lips to yours, his brows knitting. “I wish I could do more for you, but—I can’t. I need this. You feel—”
Shushing him, you roll your hips up to meet his mid thrust just right, whimpering when his tip catches against your entrance through the sticky fabric. He shivers, making a strangled noise.
“Oh, God—”
“Clark—”
“I swear—”
You cut him off with a kiss, sucking on his tongue. “Do you want to be inside me?”
He’s panting against your mouth, pupils blown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He flattens his palms on the back of your thighs, his fingernails scraping gently. “I mean, of course I—yes, I’d love that,” he says, laying heavy stress on the ‘love’ part. “But I’d like to make you come like this first.”
A grin curls your lips. “Great. We’ve got four days until the bet’s done. Each orgasm equals ten points.”
That night, you have sex with Clark Kent for the first time, and it’s the best sex of your life.
He earns forty points in the span of an hour and a half.
The day the challenge started, the sky was falling apart, rain had laughed in your face, soaking you from head to toes, and Clark had offered you a spare umbrella, which you declined.
But today, four weeks later, the sun couldn’t be shining brighter, you get to work right on time, and Clark brings you coffee and a pastry for breakfast at the office.
You’re in the break room. He drags a chair across the floorboards so that he can sit next to you. Neither of you are working, though after a month of constant fighting, a short period of ten minutes of peace feels like the real prize after all.
The memories from that first day feel almost laughable now in your mind.
I was just thinking out loud, Kent. I can’t wrap my head around someone acting like they’re on stage all the damn time.
You really think I wake up every day and put on an act?
I don’t know, you tell me. I wonder if your modest decency will ever run out.
Maybe if you tried being decent for more than five minutes, you’d see it’s not an act. It’s only called being nice.
Glancing to your side, you find him scrolling through something on his phone. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he reads, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. You smile before you can stop yourself.
He must feel your attention on him because he catches you staring. A smile spreads across his face too. “What’s got you like this?”
You shake your head, feeling the rising to your cheeks. “Nothing,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “I was just… thinking.”
Across the room, Jimmy and Lois hover protectively over the whiteboard where they’ve kept track of every good deed you’ve performed. She attempts to speak, but he shushes her, looking at the two of you over his shoulder.
“Did you two do this on purpose?” he asks, capping his marker, and neither of you know what he’s talking about. It’s only then that Lois and him step aside to reveal the final score.
You lean forward, scrutinizing the numbers on the board. “We’re… even?”
Pursing his lips, Jimmy runs a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this. There was supposed to be one winner, as in any other game.”
You raise your hands. “Clark should win. He's been preparing for this his whole life.”
“I’m sorry, but no,” he objects, crossing his arms over his chest. “You did some really nice things for the sake of the challenge. You deserve it more than me.”
“But you—”
“She wins!” Clark concludes, standing up to clap for you, encouraging Lois and Jimmy to do the same.
After the round of applause is over, you take a bow, wiping imaginary tears from under your eyes. “I never thought this could actually happen,” you say, glaring at Clark. “My partner in crime, you made this possible.”
“We’ve created a monster,” Jimmy whispers, loud enough for you to hear it, and tugs on Lois’ sleeve. “Alright. Now I feel uncomfortable.”
“You two… are disgustingly… cute!” she chirps, being dragged outside the room.
Arms clasped behind his back, Clark puffs out his chest, looming closer. Behind his glasses, his eyes flicker with mischief. “Congratulations. You can have that exclusive interview with Superman anytime you want.”
“So I finally get to meet him? What an honor.”
“Does tonight work for you? At my place. He told me he’s dying to have a word with you.”
“I see.” You twist his tie around your fingers. “Will you be there?”
“Of course. I’m the mediator.”
Before he can say anything else, you pull him forward by the tie, kissing him. He cradles your face in his big hands, his nose brushing yours lovingly as he trips over his own feet to close the door. You warn him about someone eventually walking in, but he just answers, “We can make it quick.”
To be fair, you like this new version of yourself, the one who’s been making an effort to be nicer.
summary: when Clark needs to get his cousin out of trouble he meets you, Kara’s friend who may be just as crazy as her
pairing: clark kent x metahuman!female reader
word count: 6k
warnings: smut MDNI 18++, fem!reader, fingering, sexy times in a cockpit?, hair pulling, dry humping, clark finishes in the suit, desperate and flustered clark, canon level violence, if Clark is a lil underpowered here its cus they're all on a red sun planet
*images are for vibes, they in no way reflect the reader's physical appearance*
a/n: okie so this was the second voted in the poll, I know yall want that sex pollen pic but I need to warm up to that. here's my first time writing smut so enjoy this?? also I'm obsessed with reader calling clark 'starboy' so that's here to stay
now playing: Leave Me Alone by Renee Rapp
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He was going to kill his cousin.
He managed to track her coordinates to a dingy nightclub on a red sun planet not far from Earth, well, if you consider another solar system “not far”.
The club was buried deep into the seedier parts of the city, full of raging music and various activities Clark had never even considered dabbling in. His body stayed pressed along the darker half of the back alley, his moves stealth and sleek as he tried to consider his options. The place wasn’t exactly Smallville, Kansas. Sure, he could barge in no problem, make a scene, and pull Kara out. But he still didn’t know what her message meant, or the possible abilities of the inhabitants of the planet; if this was serious, he had to consider the best course of action.
He stalled for a moment by the back door. The neon lights of the streets faded, leaving him in a cool black that dulled the vibrant colors of his suit. He had always wondered what drove Kara to this kind of lifestyle; perhaps he didn’t know his cousin as well as he thought. As long as he could remember, she’d been bouncing from planet to planet, getting wasted and wreaking havoc wherever she went. The only consistent thing he could count on with Kara was that Krypto would always somehow end up in his care, and that she’d always bring some new chaos into his life.
snd help, 2 drunk
The message had flashed across Clark’s screen for a good 30 minutes before he was able to track her down. He wasn’t sure if he was more confused by its meaning or the fact that Kara was able to figure out how to send texts to his fortress while drunk.
He shook the thoughts from his head, ready to bust into the building when he felt the angry tug on the back of his cape. He stumbled back, not from strength or fear, but confusion and surprise. When he regained his balance, he turned to see you.
“No fucking way.”
You stood at the edge of the building, a fistful of his cape hanging in your hand as the colorful lights from the street spilled out and down the alley, illuminating your figure.
“She did not call her cousin,” you said. Clark’s brows furrowed, confused as he took you in.
Your face was stern and somewhat abrasive, yet there was a soft spunk he couldn’t help but fall into. The black makeup on your lashes blurred slightly, reminding him of Kara’s many drunken appearances. Your eyes glowed a soft white, helping them break up the opaque darkness of the alley. It was unusual but alluring.
“I’m sorry, miss, do you need help?” he asked, gently taking his cape from your hands. You raised your brows at the name, leaning against the wall with a smirk.
“Oh wow, you’re just as polite as she says,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s cute.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that spread across his cheekbones and up his temples. His hands fidgeted at his side, glancing down to give himself a chance to reel his nerves in. He couldn’t decide if you were a threat or not, but your mention of Kara led him to believe you were safe.
“So… you’re Ka-el?” you asked, your eyes roaming over his frame.
“No, no…” he debated giving you his name, but given your relation to his cousin, there was a high likelihood she’d already told you all his secrets in a drunken state. “I’m—”
“I know, I know, you’re ‘Clark Kent, ’” you said with a soft roll of the eyes. He ducked his head, averting your gaze. The strong glow of your eyes burned through him, leaving him weak in the knees. Did you have some powers he wasn’t aware of? He’d never felt this way.
“You look ridiculous, what is with your family and these suits?” you asked, stepping forward and poking at his side and the bright yellow belt. He went to stutter, a response dying on his tongue. You couldn’t help but bite your lip. As annoyed as you were with his presence, you couldn’t deny he was gorgeous. “You stick out like crazy. Are you trying to get killed?”
“Well, I—” he started, but you pushed past him.
“Listen, whatever you think you’re here to do, it’s not needed,” you said. Clark watched as your hands moved with passion, the words falling from your lips with a slick layer of sass. “I can handle this just fine, starboy.”
You move past him, your body briefly brushing against his. Perhaps you were feeling flirty, or maybe it really was him, but you definitely swayed your hips into him as you moved. Before you could get too far, his large hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you back, probably a bit too eagerly. You spun back, stumbling a bit and catching your fall on his chest. A slew of mumbled and shy apologies slipped from his lips as he let you go.
“Look, she asked me to come, what’s going on?” he asked, leaning in as his voice lowered.
Your eyes rolled once again, something Clark couldn’t seem to understand why he found so enthralling. His eyes fell lower, taking in your appearance. Your clothes were little to say the least, maybe that’s what he should have expected when he came to an intergalactic night club. You wore a green dress, shiny and made of a stiff plastic-like material. Most of the sides were cut out, showing your soft skin underneath. He tried to ignore the strong urge to skim his hands over the exposed areas where the fabric left you vulnerable. The skirt was short, met just below the hem with tall boots. He didn’t miss the belt slug on your hips with gadgets he couldn’t begin to understand; the strap over the boots on your thigh held a gun as well. He knew he should stop staring; it wasn’t polite, and his Ma would’ve scolded him if she were there. But something about the way you brushed against him and moved your hips made him wonder if you wanted him to look.
A frustrated sigh fell from your lips, snapping his attention back to you.
“We were just having fun, you know, drinks are cheap on Mors…I mean, the people are a little crazy but…” You stumbled on your words, your eyes squinting and face scrunching as you tried to recount the events of the night. Something about his commanding yet sweet demeanor left you feeling immature as you told on yourself. His towering stature didn’t exactly help. “...Kara wanted more drink credits, we were out, and she thought it would be easy to hustle some locals.”
Clark threw his head back with an exhausted sigh. Of course, his cousin would pick the planet with not-so-hospitable people and decide to swindle them.
“They figured out what she was doing… 10 credits in,” you said, sheepishly shrugging as you spoke, fidgeting with the blaster strapped to your thigh. “They roughed her up a bit and took her to the back. She’s too drunk to even know what’s going on…they threw me out.”
His arms rested crossed over his chest, looking down at you as he processed the situation. This wasn’t exactly how he wanted to spend the evening. But looking at the face you gave him, he had a feeling you really would appreciate the help— you just weren’t the type to admit it.
“Okay, we can get her out,” he said, stepping closer. “Without making it worse.”
He didn’t miss the smirk on your face at his words.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
You picked the lock, slipping in through the small back door. You did your best to wedge the Kryptonian in behind you, helping him duck his 6’4” frame through the narrow walkway. The music in the club blared out through speakers, shaking the walls and Clark’s ears. It was times like these he wished he didn’t have advanced hearing. To say he was out of his element would be an understatement. The tall man weaved through the crowd, trying his best to follow you while not attracting too much attention. If the primary colored suit wasn’t doing it, his bashful demeanor did.
Through the moving crowd of bodies, he watched as you led. Despite the situation, you continued to sway to the music; your hips dipped and your back arched as you moved to the rhythm. Clark gnawed at the inside of his cheek, doing his best to remain polite and keep his gaze up.
He tried his best to follow, but he couldn’t exactly keep up. Your constant dancing helped you weave through the crowd; as one person swayed left, you dipped right, gliding through the masses like water. He couldn’t say the same for himself as he slowly nudged his way through with the occasional ‘pardon’ or ‘excuse me’. By the time he finally reached the back of the club, you weren’t there.
He spotted you at the edge of the bar, trying to grab a shot with some of the locals who hadn’t yet recognized you. As inconspicuously as he could, he strode over to you. His hand wrapped around your arm, leaning over you and taking the shot from your hand, and placing it on the counter.
“Really?” he said, as he gently dragged you to the back.
“Oh, come on, I haven’t had a drink in like 2 hours….it would help loosen me up,” you said, your eyes raking over him in a deliberately noticeable fashion. “You could use one too.”
You looked up at him, your eyes doe-like. Clark could feel his heart pounding against his chest as he watched you. Maybe it was the red sun, but he couldn’t help but feel like he was being taunted around you. Like his body was begging him to acknowledge you.
“Let’s just get Kara and go,” he said.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
You led him to the back door that you had watched the group take Kara to. You were unsure of how many there were, maybe three men and two women? It was no situation Kara couldn’t handle on her own, sober that is. When intoxicated, the woman had a habit of finding fun in dangerous situations.
You crouched by the door, the dark area of the back hiding you from any attention. You felt Clark’s large form behind you, squatting but still leering over you. Despite his attempt to make himself smaller, he still engulfed you. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the soft puffs of air from his nose on your hair.
“Oh, wanna get a little closer?” you asked, tilting your head up to him. You smirked, catching that returning blush as you focused back on the door. “What now?”
Clark’s eyes narrowed, that familiar greenish hue washing over his sight as his x-ray vision activated. Through the door, he could see Kara. His cousin sat on the floor in the center of the room with thick sheet metal bent around her, keeping her restrained. Two men stood in her face and shouted while the other man and two women waited along the wall, their hands on blasters similar to mine. Despite everything, Kara still snickered and laughed as the men shouted. Figures.
“There are five of them, but she’s in there,” he said, turning to meet your eyes.
“Are they armed?” you asked. Clark nodded, looking back at the door. Your hand moved for the blaster on your thigh. “Great.”
Before you could pull it, Clark’s calloused hand stopped you, resting overtop of yours. You stared at the sight, his hand dwarfing yours, so much so that his fingers brushed along your exposed thigh. You bit your lip, looking to meet his eyes.
“No weapons, we won’t need them,” he said. You scoffed, slowly pulling your hand back.
“You really like to take the fun outta this, huh?” you asked.
Clark didn’t respond, instead leaning over you to the lock at the door. You watched as his large hand snapped the locked handle with ease. He was up before you could realize the effect his strength had on you.
Clark didn’t respond, instead leaning over you to the lock at the door. You watched as his large hand snapped the locked handle with ease. He was up before you could realize the effect his strength had on you.
The door slammed open, busting off the seams, and Clark pushed his way through the door. The men stormed him, immediately trying to hold him back. They were on the floor in seconds as Clark barely had to lift a finger to keep them off. If you weren’t so focused on getting your friend out, it would be amusing— maybe even hot.
You raced past the two women, driving under the chaos to reach Kara. When one grabbed your leg and yanked you to the ground, you pulled your blaster quickly. With brute force, you swung the weapon and smacked the woman on the head, sending her flying off you. You pulled yourself up quickly, dusting off your dress. You could free Clark’s eyes on you; when you looked, he had an exasperated expression that bore into you.
“What?” you asked, strapping the blaster back to your leg. “I didn’t fire it.”
You raced to Kara, trying to get her to focus. You could hear her commentary from the side throughout the fight. She wouldn’t stop her little quips, even as you attempted to pull the metal off of her.
“Dude, they were sooo stupid,” she said, her voice dramatically slurred. You tried to ignore her as you pulled at the sheet metal.
“Can’t you just break out of this?” you asked in frustration.
“Yeah, but this was fun,” you tried not to snap, biting your cheek to stay cool.
You could feel Clark looming behind you. Without a word, he gently moved you back, taking hold of the metal and effortlessly unwrapping your friend. Once freed, she looked around to see the group that had attacked her all laid out on the ground. She fell back, kicking her legs and giggling.
“Oh, what a night!” she said.
“Kara, what the hell? You called your cousin?” You asked, standing back up and leaning over her. “I had this handled.”
“Please, you totally didn’t,” she said, dragging out her words. Your anger took over, your fists clenched as you walked away, leaving Clark to handle her. You lingered by the door, watching as he attempted to throw her over his shoulder, despite her poking and kicking.
You led the group out, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Clark stayed close behind as you moved. Your spacecraft was parked just a few minutes' walk away from the club. Once out, you couldn’t wait to get them home and out of your hair for the night.
Halfway through the club, you heard the shouting—the buzz of the club silenced by the threat that hung in the air. Clark’salready moving to shield you by the time you’re surrounded. With the full force of the night club now turned on you, the smell of cheap intergalactic booze and the foreshadowing of bloodshed turn your blood cold. You have got to stop letting Kara plan the night out.
One of the men rushes you, but Clark turns to block you; however, you slip from under his arm before he can stop you. It takes him back just how quickly you disarm and knock the wind from the man. As soon as the fight starts, you finish it before taking on another opponent.
“Get her to the craft, I got this!” you shout, ducking your head before jamming your elbow into another patron. Clark’sfeet stutter, pushing his way through people, all the while struggling to keep his cousin in place as she cackles at the scene.
“No, I’m not—” he starts.
“I’ll be right behind you, go!”
Against his better judgment, something gnawing away at him tells him to trust you. He’s moving for the exit, pushing and kicking his way through. He can hear your grunts and cursing just behind him, biting his lip to keep from turning to watch. By the time he reaches the door, he gives in, turning to see you aren’t behind him. Something new bubbles inside him, a protectiveness he didn’t expect to feel for this woman he just met by the dumpster of a seedy alien club.
You’re up on the bar, smashing through masses of arms that attempt to detain you. He’s unsure where you got a metal pipe from, but he’s not opposed as he watches you slash your way out. The music continues to spill out of the speakers, lighting the scene ablaze.
“This is NOT how I wanted this night to go!” he heard you shout, sending a hard kick into the chest of the bartender. Clark couldn’t help the wince he let out at the sight of the man flying back into the bottles and cups.
Outside the building, he tucks Kara into a dark corner, shielded from the fight. It was times like these that he resented her childishness. He drops her off with a firm ‘stay put, to which she flips him off before settling into her spot.
He’s back into the fray before you even noticed he was gone. Having cleared a path out, he races to get you.
“Hey! Let’s go!” he shouts, fending off the few patrons that come his way.
With a smirk, you swing your pipe hard into the man coming up behind you, letting it fall from your grip with him. You turn back to Clark, motioning for him to cover his ears. The smile on your face grows at his confused look. Reluctantly, his hands move to shield his ears.
The room shook, the vibrations of your screaming echoing off the walls and piercing through the music. It was visceral and seared through the clubbers, causing men to drop to their knees in pain. Through the scene, Clark could see you. Your hands gripped the edge of the bar as your face scrunched up in the act. Your eyes were blown wide, the white glow he’d found himself falling into earlier now taking over and radiating with the high-pitched screech you released. The mirrored walls and decor along the room cracked, shards of glass flying from their fixed place and spilling out along the floor. It was captivating watching you, the way you so easily rendered the room powerless.
By the time you were done, the fight was over. Those who had tried to detain you were now on the floor, pawing at their ears to try to get a bearing on their surroundings. Slowly lowering his hands, Clark looked up at you as you rose from your knees. Maybe you didn’t need his help after all.
You raced down the bar, jumping over hands that tried to pull you back. You jump from the high top, landing in the arms of the Kryptonian you’d only briefly become acquainted with. His hands didn’t waver in their grip as they held you, tucking you under his arm as he slipped out the back where he came. He didn’t miss the way you cursed the bar on the way out.
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
The ride back to Earth was silent for the most part. Once you’d reached your ship, Kara crashed in the back. The night of violence and liquor finally took over, rendering the terror that brought this mess to you silent. The wheel of the craft was tight in your grasp, your hands clenching and unclenching as you steered the group home.
Clark sat beside you, his large frame barely fitting inside the small passenger seat. Music spilled out from his phone, filling the silence with some hyperpop playlist he didn’t know. As soon as you settled, you pulled Kara’s phone from her bag, playing something to lower the mood and keep you from tweaking out on the group. Soft plush keychains dangled from the wheel, bouncing off each other as you steered.
It wasn’t the first time Kara went too far, making a situation go from reckless fun to straight-up havoc. You didn’t even get to feel a buzz before she started her schemes. It was exhausting and frankly inconsiderate. But what could you say? She was your best friend. You had her back, even if it meant working with her annoyingly polite and insanely hot cousin.
Wait, no, you didn’t say that.
Clark’s eyes lingered on you as you flew the ship. The curve of your lips and bob of your head as you mumbled along to the electronic tunes. His eyes drifted to where one knee was hugged to your chest, your foot resting on the seat. He pushed his thoughts about how unsafe the position seemed in favor of glancing at how your skirt rose along your thigh. The high blush on his cheek reprimanded him, averting his gaze in favor of returning to your face. That was his favorite sight, anyway.
“So, why didn’t you do that earlier?” Clark asked. He didn’t have to say it; you knew he meant your powers.
“I just wanted the night to stay calm…for once,” you said, biting your lip. “I honestly didn’t think it would get that far. That I would have to.”
You turned to glance back at Kara. Her large army jacket wrapped around her, cocooning her body as she slumped horizontally in the seat. Her soft snoring still managed to slip through the shield of her hood.
“She goes too far sometimes,” Clark took note of your face. For the first time that night, there was no sarcasm or laced sass or quip of the brow. Just sincerity and concern from his cousin, someone you may know even better than him.
“I’m glad she has you,” he said, leaning forward in his seat.
You scoff at his words with a quick laugh, the quiet vulnerability of the moment quickly becoming too much for you. Certainly too much for a night you hoped to get blackout and maybe even laid. Instead, you sat in your ship, your best friend knocked out in the back with her cousin sitting in the front, making any effort he could to get to know you, too sober and far too annoyed for a chat.
“Oh, please, her first thought was to call you,” you said, that familiar sass returning. “You, Ka-el, Superman…”
He lowered his gaze as you spoke, a small smile creeping up onto his lips.
“It was a funny sight though, seeing you in there.” You couldn’t help but giggle at the memory, sweet and kind Clark Kent doing his best not to seem out of place in a nightclub on the other side of the galaxy. “You are too innocent for your own good.”
Clark couldn’t hide how his face scrunched, perhaps in confusion or denial, but honestly, there was some truth to your words.
“I-I… I’m not innocent, okay—” he started, his hands moving in protest.
“Come on, you looked like a fish outta water.” Despite your taunting, Clark’s stomach dropped at the sight of your smile. Earnest and genuine, with a hint of secrecy that made him wonder if it was rare.
It was addictive,
Pulling him down like kryptonite and making his knees waver.
“Besides, your blush gives you away,” you said.
“I…I don’t blush,” Clark tried to deny it, but even as he spoke, he could feel the heat rising high on his cheekbones and up to the tips of his ears.
“You’re doing it right now!” Your giggle lit him on fire, making him squirm in his seat. “Every time you caught a glance at my skirt, it was like you didn’t know how to act.”
oh. so you did notice.
The ride was uneventful, and soft banter fell between the two of you. Your quips blended with his kind and perky attitude. His presence seemed to calm your spirit, turning what was a disaster into perhaps just a bump in the road.
Where was Kara hiding him all this time?
ᥫ᭡.ִֶָ𓂃
Once through the atmosphere, Clark guided you to the fortress. The cold of the air slipped through the ship and bit at your skin. This wasn’t your planet, wasn’t your sun. Clark noticed the glowing white of your eyes dim slightly as you landed the ship on the sheets of ice.
Awoken by the jostling of the craft, Kara stumbled from her seat. Her groans immediately shifted the mood, reminding you of why you were sitting next to Superman in the first place.
“fuck….” Her voice was hoarse and whiny. “Dude, it’s so bright.”
Kara staggered up behind you, her arms wrapping around you as she rested her chin on your head. Clark didn’t miss the way her eyes darted between the two of you, a smug look on her face.
“You look so stupid when you’re crushing,” she said, her words still slurred from the alcohol.
“Kara, go inside,” he said, his frustration finally bubbling over. His tone didn’t show it, still soft and, if anything, a little embarrassed. You wondered if the man even had it in him to be mean.
With a roll of her eyes, she pressed a kiss to her fingers before slapping your arm and slipping down the stairs, ‘Later bbs!' faintly heard as she headed for the fortress.
You sat in silence, staring at the Kryptonian beside you who refused to meet your eyes. Charming and sweet was never your type; the kinds of people you seemed to attract always had a danger to them that left you feeling reckless. But with the large man next to you, an intoxicating feeling left you desperate to see what he would be like if given the chance.
You rose from your seat, moving to stand before him. Resting back on the console behind you, your eyes traced over his body; the way the blue suit hugged him just right, how his hands wrung softly in his lap.
“Crush, huh?” you asked, raising your brow.
“Kara, she’s drunk…” he said, his tongue poking at the side of his mouth as he tried to remain composed. His eyes were level with your naval. The dip of your hips as they met the band of your skirt, the curve of your thighs where straps and leather covered them, the sliver of skin between boot and skirt— it took everything in him to remain polite.
“That’s too bad.” his eyes darted up at your words. “You’re hot, in a sweet, naive kinda way.”
You pushed yourself off the dashboard, moving to fill the space between his open thighs. You glanced down at his hands, as if telling him to let go.
With a thick swallow, Clark gently traced his fingers along your thigh. The pads of his fingertips were coarse, brushing against the soft skin you let him feel. When they reached the hem of your skirt, you leaned into the touch, your hands moving to his forearms. As if searching for permission, you bent your knees and moved forward. His hands came to grip your hips as you slid into his lap.
You straddled his large thighs, your body flush against his in the small seat of the ship. His hands slid along your body, moving up from your hips to your waist in a way that made you wonder if he was teasing you or just so inexperienced that he wanted to savor the feeling. Your grip on his arms moved to gently rest along his neck. This close, you could see the bright blue of his eyes, digging into you and making you flutter between your thighs.
Testing the waters, you lowered yourself, grinding softly along the lower part of his abdomen. His grip tightened on your waist involuntarily, pushing you down further as he bucked his hips. The soft gasp that left his lips made you giddy. The blush burning on his cheeks just made it worse.
“Sorry…” he said through short breaths. You leaned in, ducking your head to meet his eyes.
“Don’t be, starboy.” You moved your hands to hold his jaw, guiding his gaze back to you.
The soft nod you gave set him off. It was like a damn break, his hands moved with a purpose, slipping up your skirt and pooling it around your hips. He moved in, capturing your lips as you gasped, swallowing your surprise as he worked. It wasn’t what you imagined the man would give you; it was desperate and needy.
Your hands slid up the nape of his neck, tangling into his curls, and tugged softly. He whimpered against your lips, grinding up into you as you pulled. You bit softly at his plush lower lip, pulling him back to you for more. Your hips ground against him, searching for friction between your legs as he held you tight. His strong hands held you down, pushing you further into him.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. You felt his hands move, one resting along the back of your neck and holding you steady against him, the other slipping between your thighs and under your panties. You gasped as his fingers found your clit, delicately rubbing as he warmed up. His smile was too sweet, making the dark spot on your underwear worse as he worked.
His fingers quickened, the soft touches turning rough as his thumb swirled along the bundle of nerves. The coil in your stomach tightened as your breaths became quick and desperate. Leaning forward, you buried your face in the crook of his neck. His hand held you firm, fisting your hair.
His fingers moved, feeling the slick between your legs and teasing your entrance. With a quick nod from you, he slipped a finger in quickly to be followed by another. His hand was fast, pounding into you in a way you never felt before. His fingers curved at just the right angle, tickling that delicate spot you never could reach on your own.
As his hand fucked you, you gasped into his shoulder. His other hand held you still, keeping you against him as he took care of you.
“shh… you had a long night, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice darker than usual. “Lemme help you feel good.”
Clark couldn’t hold back his smile as you clenched at his words. His hips bucked again, and that gave you an idea.
His hand kept moving, but you pushed yourself up, still gasping. He leaned in close, pulling you in for another kiss. His fingers worked faster, causing you to freeze against him, the pleasure overwhelming. Your gasps were broken and stuttered.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he said, kissing along your temple.
With a shaking hand, you moved to palm him through the suit. His fingers stilled for a moment, reeling from the touch. As you worked him over, he picked back up his pace.
His whimpers were everything you needed, moving you closer to the edge. Your other hand tugged at his hair as you rubbed him faster. It was almost like a race to see who could get the other to finish first.
Clark refused to lose.
His hand at the back of your neck moved quickly, pulling your free hand from his hair and pinning it behind your back. You fell forward into his chest, moaning as his fingers became rougher and more determined. His suit muffled your whimpers as he brought you closer to the edge.
“Oh, I know, it’s a lot, isn’t…” his voice was ever sweet, with the slightest hint of mocking as if to get back at your attitude throughout the night. It only made that coil in your stomach tighter.
“C-Clark..” you felt yourself coming undone. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his thumb pressing harder on your clit. Your hand continued to work, despite any attempt to get him to finish first. But it was a battle you were going to lose.
“Come on, pretty girl.” his hand released your arm, moving to cup your face and hold your gaze to his. “I wanna see you, smile for me.”
You couldn’t think as his hand brought you over the edge. Your body seized, eyes crossing as the pleasure washed over you. You tightened on his fingers, whimpering as he refused to slow his movements.
“There you go, you look so beautiful,” he said. His smile only made it worse, the overstimulation on your clit causing you to see stars. He held you still, making you take it. “So, beautiful.”
He eventually let up, pulling his hand back and letting up on your pussy. His hands moved back to your hips, grinding up softly into you. Your hand, now shaky, continued its work, feeling him tremble through the suit. His cock twitched below your hand, his arms tight and grip bruising along your soft skin.
Still reeling from your high, you leaned in and wrapped your arm around his neck, watching as he came undone below you. Your hand tightened, pressing harder as he came. His body twitched beneath you, his head falling back into the seat. Your lips curled, and you pressed kisses underneath his jaw as he finished; his gasps filling the heavy air.
You didn’t need to look down to see the dark spot blooming on the red shorts. His face burned with blush, your favorite. Gently, you let your hands cup his face, guiding his dizzy eyes back to you.
His hands groped lazily along your ass, finally resting under your skirt at your hips. When he finally came out of it and met your gaze, he couldn’t hide the fucked out smile on his face.
You smirked, brushing back that stray loose curl on his forehead, “Maybe tonight wasn’t a total bust.”
—
ah okay, that's it I'm embarrassed. pls lmk if you liked it
SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.
WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, fem!reader, canon-level violence, arguing/bickering, realizations & revelations, SMUT 18+ (oral f receiving, backshots lol, etc)
WC: 12.7k - MASTERLIST
- A/N: super sorry for the reupload i got the heebie jeebies
The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.
He’d been stronger than you expected—some sort of fire freak with a half-baked god complex and a plan to torch his house while the rest of his family slept inside: his wife, his children. Disgusting. Rolling your shoulder, you wince. Yeah, there will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow, but you’ve dealt with worse. You had gone a little easy on him at the start, let him kick you around a bit, burn the bottom of your mask off, and give a punch here and there. Probably filled him up with too much confidence before you struck, but hey, life isn’t always fair.
“That’s what I thought,” you mutter, resisting the urge to spit on his corpse. The air stinks of ash and scorched pavement. You step off the lawn and onto the sidewalk, already imagining the comfort of your bed. “Uggo.”
You're halfway down the block when:
“Hey!”
You freeze.
Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.
A long, long, exhale slips from between your teeth and shut your eyes against the creeping flood of irritation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you summon the voice from that online meditation webinar you half-watched last week. Breathe in. Breathe out. You try. You really do.
Your head tips back, neck stretching as you look up at the sky. The moon stares down at you, a silent witness to your misery. You don’t even believe in a higher power, but still, you beg for it to spare you from this colossal pain in the ass.
Of course.
Of course, he’s here.
“What do you think you're doing?!”
Annoyance buzzes through your veins, and you slowly—very slowly—turn around. “Oh, hey, Supes!” you chirp, voice high and bright and obviously dripping with sincerity. You even throw in a little mock-wave for good measure. “Wow, look at you! Dropping in unannounced. What a treat.”
“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”
He lands hard a few feet away from you, the pavement under his boots cracking from the force. His gaze flicks over to the lump of flesh for a brief second before settling onto you. “You killed him.”
Cue the fake, wide-eyed gasp and hand over your heart. “Really?! Are you sure it was me?” You flash him a peace sign and pivot back toward the street. “Anyway, nice chat, but I’ve got places to be and a long night ahead, sooo—”
“Oh, no you don’t.”
Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, way too close, and blocking your path forward in an (unsuccessful) attempt at intimidation. Narrowed eyes paired with a nostril flare is a guaranteed combo when it comes to being in your presence. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”
“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll.
“That’s because you—” He stops. Whatever moral high ground he was about to climb dies somewhere behind his clenched teeth. “Never mind. You can’t keep doing this. You don’t get to play god.”
Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”
You step to the side, aiming to brush past him, but unfortunately for you, Wannabe Tough Guy has different plans. Instead, his hand juts out from his side, wrapping around your throat, and the world yanks upwards faster than you can say kinky.
Wind nips at your ears as he lifts off—just a few feet, then slams you backward, spine-first, and hard, against the fence of some poor neighbour’s front lawn. Wood cracks behind your shoulders, and the impact makes you grunt as your fingers grab instinctively at his wrist.
His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”
“Erm, what about—” his grip tightens, and you know better than to try to continue speaking. So a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Maybe he’s blown away by the sight of your beautiful lips, or maybe he's confused as to the reason you’re smiling in the first place, but he pulls back a mere centimetre, blinks and—
You’re gone.
Air rushes in to fill the space where your body used to be, his hand snapping closed on nothing. You reappear several feet away, crouched on the roof of a garage like a smug little gargoyle. One leg dangling, the other propped beneath you. “Damn, you’re a grabby one, aren’t you?” His head whips over to the source of the sound, jaw clenching as his eyes land on your figure. “If all you wanted to do was choke me, I’m sure we could’ve chosen a better time and place.”
You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”
Blink.
And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.
—
“Ouch,” you yelp, as your hip hits the corner of your dinner table. Usually, that doesn’t happen, but what can you say, the urgent need to get as far away as possible from Superman must have hindered your stability.
Now, finally back at your apartment, your feet are killing you, and your eyelids are heavy from being awake for too long. You run to the washroom, stripping off your suit before you even enter, and jump into the shower. There's a vague plan in your head to find the time to clean your place up, but for now that’ll have to wait.
Once you’ve finished washing yourself, you put on some pyjamas and crawl into bed, turning the light off, and getting into a comfortable position. You feel yourself about to enter dreamland when your eyes shoot open.
Shit. Your mask.
Specifically, the currently singed and half-melted bundle of fabric lying on your floor thanks to a little firebug with crazy mommy-adjacent issues. Actually, the worst night ever, you think. You drag a hand down your face with a long groan, swing your legs over your bed, blink to the kitchen, and pull open the drawer where you keep your “tools”: a sad collection of scrap fabric, thick thread, and a heavy-duty needle. You really should invest in something more professional, but it’s not like you get a stipend for your line of work.
Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.
You were born like this. Blinked out of your mother’s womb right after the first push, and for a second, the doctors thought your mom just had a really big bowel movement (her words, not yours!). They say the delivery room went into full panic mode when you suddenly disappeared from the table and reappeared in the hallway, still covered in bodily substances and screaming.
When you were younger, it didn’t mean much. It was only something you used when it was convenient, like if the TV remote was too far away or if your friend was about to find you in a game of hide-and-seek. It had felt more like a trick back then. Like something small and silly and yours.
The first time it actually mattered, you were sixteen. Late afternoon, walking home from school with headphones in, when a scream cut through your music. The sight of a man lunging for a girl, covering her mouth with his hand and muttering obscene words into her ear while holding her a gunpoint awakened something in you, and without thinking, you blinked across the street, grabbing the gun from his hands.
His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died.
You blinked out of sight so fast the police never caught on, but the guilt of killing someone made you sick for weeks. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. But it was that, or let God-knows-what happen to that little girl. And later, only when she saw you again and thanked you, did you stop wishing you’d done it differently.
You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.
There was a time when you made the mistake of believing someone when they said they’d change for the better. Spared their life, only for them to hunt you down and stab you in the back. Literally. The scar is still there, above your left hip.
It’s jagged, long, and ugly.
It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity.
It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.
You thread the needle, slide it through the fabric of the mask, and frown. That’s what you don’t understand about that jackass. He thinks that justice always has a storybook ending. That the villain always comes around. Or that the world always rights itself if you just keep being good long enough.
You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.
Two years ago, an imbecile thought he could break into your favourite bakery and try to threaten the owner for money. You’d left him breathing as long as you could. Long enough to watch him reach for the second gun in his waistband, but the Kryptonian arrived three seconds too late to see that part.
What he saw was a dead man and a masked figure standing over him, blood on her knuckles and no badge to back her. You blinked before he could grab you, across the room, out of reach, but you didn’t realize he had superspeed. He never even asked what happened. Just started throwing punches and shouting something about being a good person. About accountability. Which was ironic, given how quickly he jumped to a conclusion.
It took two days for the bakery owner to speak out, and for the security footage to be leaked. The next time he saw you, he apologized immediately, and you had the gall to think that maybe you could get along, or even better, work together. But he shot you down, glowering down at you as he claimed he didn’t associate with ‘merciless fools’. So yeah, clearly things haven’t exactly warmed up between you.
Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do.
You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.
Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth.
—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fucckkkkk.
You’re late.
You slap the light switch on as you barrel through your apartment, nearly tripping over your newly-fixed suit and the bucket of laundry you swore you’d put away two nights ago. Your shirt is halfway over your head, twisted like a noose around your neck, and your other hand is trying to shove burnt toast into your mouth.
Your hair’s a disaster, shoulders and back screaming from not only where Superman threw you into a fence last night, but that little fire idiot, too. The bruise is already blooming—deep and purple just beneath your collarbone. You catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and groan inwardly. It’s like everything bad that happens to you can somehow be traced back to Mr. Justice himself.
Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.
The Daily Planet isn’t too far of a commute, but the ancient elevator in the building must add at least 5 minutes to your overall travel time. You catch your reflection in the blurry steel doors of the machine, and wow. Not looking too good.
You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.
“Ah,” you say, like an idiot.
“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”
“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.
“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him.
“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.
A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.
Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.
“Dude.”
“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag.
The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”
Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”
“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”
Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”
“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”
….What?
“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”
“I—okay, that’s—”
“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.
“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”
You squint at her. “Not helpful.”
“I’m extremely helpful,” she replies, but you’ve already blocked out her voice, grabbing your notebook and heading over to Perry’s office. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, still typing something furiously into his desktop keyboard, when he speaks.
“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”
You offer a weak smile. “If only.”
He snorts, then jerks his chin at the chair in front of his desk, gesturing you to sit down, which you do. “Hostage situation,” he says unceremoniously. “Business tower in Midtown. The CEO lost his damn mind. Locked up a boardroom full of execs, apparently waving a gun around, demanding to speak to someone who doesn’t exist.”
“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.
“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”
Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”
“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”
“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."
—
You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.
When you arrive, the scene is already in motion—Cops are clustered around the front steps, radios crackling, tape sagging between barricades. People, other reporters, are packed in tight behind the line, pressed shoulder to shoulder with their phones raised. You scan the perimeter, but there’s no sign of Clark.
Then, a shadow looms over you, and your eyes flit up to see the back of Superman as he enters through one of the windows near the top of the building. While you aren’t able to understand the word, you can hear him shouting at someone inside. After a while, he exits the window and touches down near a group of officers. You edge closer.
“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head.
“They caught him skimming company money,” he mutters. “Not just bonuses. Personal charges, hotels, sex toys. Thousands of dollars in latex and—well, I’m sure you get the point. He knows it’s public now, and he’s humiliated.”
Oof. That’s unfortunate.
Despite feeling kind of bad for the guy, whatever shit he’s currently pulling is a gross overreaction. He’s not the first executive to get caught dealing with a midlife crisis the wrong way, and he won’t be the last. If he wanted to cry in the bathroom and get quietly fired like everyone else in corporate, fine. But taking a whole boardroom hostage over some receipts is… well, extreme.
And where the fuck, is Clark? You thought he’d be here by now. You figured maybe he was talking to the police or stuck behind a barricade with the rest of the press. But now—now you’re not so sure. Maybe he already went inside. Slipped past before the building got shut down. Maybe he’s trying to talk the guy down himself. Knowing him, that is a very plausible option.
Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way.
“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”
The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”
“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“
But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.
You grind your teeth. Useless.
Is this really the state of Metropolis’ law enforcement? They aren’t doing shit. And if no one is going to do anything, then you guess you might have to. Slowly, you back away from the front of the group, walking around the street and behind a tall garbage bin, dropping to one knee and unzipping your bag. Your suit is folded neatly between your notebook and computer.
Yes, you bring your suit to work. No, you don’t care how insane that makes you look. This city doesn’t exactly give you time to run home and change. You learned that the hard way—last winter… You shudder at the memory.
After wrestling with the spandex, the suit is on, and you blink into the building, finding yourself in the lobby. Completely evacuated. You blink again—second floor, far side—and materialize in a narrow corridor lined with executive offices. The carpet muffles your boots. You hold your breath, waiting to see if you hear anything.
Nothing.
Again. This time, the third floor, west wing.
Still quiet.
Finally, after blinking around so many times you’ve lost count, you hear voices coming through the walls. One of them is trembling. The other keeps cutting in—sharper, erratic. You can’t hear every word, but you catch:
“—you lied—”
“I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.”
“Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”
You hear that last line, and the hallway around disappears and is replaced by the interior of the boardroom, where every head jerks in your direction. The CEO reels back, eyes going wide, gun swinging in your direction.
He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.
“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.
You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”
“No! Don’t test me!” he yells, and points his gun toward the window, shooting at it three times. Glass explodes. Someone screams. One of the hostages ducks under the conference table. Before the last shard even hits the carpet, a blur of red and blue rushes up past the blown-out window.
Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—
“What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.
You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”
There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”
“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”
The almost-bald man makes a wild noise, some combination of a groan and a sob, and turns the gun toward you. You don’t even have time to blink. Before the trigger clicks, arms close around you, and you’re all the way on the other side of the room. In Superman’s arms.
Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”
The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.”
That response warrants a middle finger, you decide, then blink back to where the CEO is, rearing your fist back and delivering a stern blow right across the face. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He yelps, folds like a lawn chair, hands scrambling to cradle his cheek as the gun skitters out of reach.
“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”
Your eyes scan the room, and you notice the fact that Clark is, in fact, not in here. Literally, where is this man? You’ll worry about that after. Quickly, you grab the two nearest people to you and blink them to the front of the building where the police are. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room is empty.
By the time you make your final appearance, the fat businessman is screaming something incoherent, sputting words of hatred and nonsense. On him—not beside, not in front— on him is Superman. He’s crushing the other below him, sitting with elbow on perched knee, head resting on his chin.
You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”
“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”
The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”
You both ignore him.
“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”
“Well,” he starts, “I don’t plan on you taking him without causing him further pain.” He stands up, hauling the CEO, who sags in defeat, upright by his collar, then flies out the window. You follow, blinking back to the garbage bin, pulling your regular clothes on and rapidly fixing your appearance.
On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”
He turns, startled, blinking behind his glasses.”I —what? No, I got stuck. My train was delayed.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Then the cops wouldn’t let me past the barricade. I only just got here.”
You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”
Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—
You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.
He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.
Maybe Jimmy was right, after all. Does Clark like you? The thought makes you nervous, and you lean back, staring up at him. “We should head back to the office. Might as well get a head start on the article while it’s all still fresh.”
—
“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!”
You suppress the grin tugging at your lips, doing your best to play it cool as you walk toward your desk. But the truth is—yeah. You did look cool today. The news has already flooded the internet with a dozen grainy stills of you mid-blink, captured in blurry motion. There’s one particularly good shot where you’re helping a hostage while the police are standing around looking especially stupid. And the interviews? One witness described you as “insanely efficient.” You’ll absolutely take it.
“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.”
“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”
Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”
“I dunno. Seemed like a reckless decision.” What is he talking about? He wasn’t there. He has no idea what the real situation was like. If you hadn’t laid one on him, then people could have died!
“Well, I think Superman needs to learn how to loosen up. Maybe try dealing with problems the real way for once.” That gets his attention. His head lifts slowly, and there’s something sharp and unmistakably offended in his eyes. For a fan, he sure does take things personally.
“Oh, really?”
“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”
Both you and Clark choke.
“Friends?” you cough.
“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.
You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.
Because—friends? Team? Bitch, you did all the work. You blinked into a hostage situation, took out the guy with your own two hands, and personally evacuated every single employee while Superman lounged on the CEO like he was a couch.
“I mean,” the young photojournalist adds, totally oblivious to the palpable tension growing in the room, “she got him disarmed, Superman backed her up, they split the work—come on, it was awesome! The people loved it. Like a buddy cop thing.”
“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”
“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought.
“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.
Horror washes over you. Did he just compare Blink and Superman to you and Clark? Impossible. Two completely different dynamics. Clark is so sweet, so honest and pure, while Supes is the exact opposite. You bet that if you died, he would breathe a sigh of relief.
Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.
—
You’re pacing in tight, erratic circles in the middle of an empty street, arms crossed so tight your elbows hurt. Your brain is still buffering, trying to catch up to the audacity of the words you’ve just heard.
“You want me to… what?!”
“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”
Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”
You stop pacing and glare at him, squinting. “So what, you want me to just teleport into some dark alien cave full of who-the-hell-knows-what, get zapped by a cosmic laser or whatever, and hope I make it out alive?”
“I’ll be close by, but yes.”
A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”
There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.
You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”
You scowl. You hate him.
Breathe in, breathe out. It takes every fibre of your being not to launch yourself at him just to make a point. You try to quiet the relentless chorus in your head yelling don’t do this!! You don’t know what you’re getting into!! This is a trap!! You don’t do Superman—
“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”
He nods. “Fine by me.”
And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy.
“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing). “Supes!”
He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”
His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”
A moment of silence.
“Are you deaf? I said get–”
“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”
Why did you even agree to this? You want to punch your past self from a minute ago. And of course, he’s just floating there, his cape flowing even though there isn’t any wind. What you’d do to rip it off and strangle him with it. “I don’t do piggybacks,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.
Reluctantly, you reach out and grip his arms. Damn, they’re broad. And solid. “God, what is this suit made out of? Reinforced stone?” The words are a grumble, as you try to find the least awkward way to climb onto a man who is literally four feet off the ground.
“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.
“Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him. “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.”
A bit more uncomfortable shifting around, and you’re finally settled in, arms circling his neck, legs locking tightly around his waist. It feels weirdly... secure. Not comfortable, because nothing about this situation is, but you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. Then, he shoots up into the night sky.
Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh.
Below you, the city melts away. Skyscrapers give way to overpasses and industrial warehouses. Roads spiderweb and narrow, then vanish altogether. It’s kind of beautiful. The wind whips all around you, whistling in your ears and clouds touch the tip of your head. You unwrap one of your arms from his neck and lift it, your fingers slicing through the haze.
It makes you laugh.
Not even on purpose, either. It just bubbles out of you, light and startled and real. Superman tilts his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this as much as you are,” he says, his voice raised just enough to carry back over the rushing wind.
You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”
There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle.
Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?
It wasn’t even sarcastic. It was almost warm sounding. You edge forward a bit, stealing a the side of his face. Lo and behold, the corners of his mouth are twitched up into a smile. An actual smile. It’s honest. And—
Nope.
Nope.
You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head.
Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips.
“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”
“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.
You're still recovering—trying to act unbothered but probably clinging a little too tightly—when he finally slows, levelling out again as the world comes into sharper focus. The glow of the city has faded behind you, and what’s ahead now is darker, flatter. No buildings, no people. Just a wide stretch of dense woods and brush, carved through with an old road that leads to… nothing.
He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”
“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.
“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise.
“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”
“You’ll have to try to visualize it,” he responds. “Think… underground. Caves, maybe. Something old. Damp. Stone walls.” Ah, so you need to think of a dungeon. This shouldn’t be too bad. In and out. When you get down there, you’ll report what you see back to him. Wait a second.
“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time.
“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”
With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”
Blink.
—
You land with a soft thump, boots hitting something hard and so unnaturally smooth, you almost slip right on your ass, and your eyes snap open. Immediately, you have to squint against the assault of sterile, clinical light. Fluorescent panels line the ceiling in perfect symmetry, humming faintly above you.
It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.
The walls are tiled in what looks like seamless ceramic, with occasional chrome panels embedded at shoulder height—sensors? Cameras? You're not sure. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant as well. Sort of like that one science lab from high school.
Each step forward is careful, and you keep close to the wall as you inch farther and farther through the hallway. As you slip around a corner, you pause. In front of you lies a heavy metal door. Pretty important looking, you think. There’s no handle, only an ID scanner to the right.
Are you really about to do this? What if it was all a set-up? Maybe Supes really does hate you that much, and this was his grand plan to finally get rid of you once and for all. With one more breath, your eyes rake over your surroundings, and then you blink again.
What you’re met with takes the breath right out of your lungs. Rows and rows of sealed containers, stretchers, lockboxes. Shelves lined with glowing canisters and devices you don’t recognize. You walk slowly through it, taking it all in. Your fingertips trail close to some kind of armoured gauntlet suspended in a gel-like field. To your left, a preserved alien body floats in a tank, and the sight makes your stomach turn.
What the fuck?
So Superman was right. They are hoarding alien tech. But now what? How is he going to put a stop to this? You're lost in your thoughts when something catches your eye, and your heart drops upon the realization of what it is. In a crate, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase, sits a cluster of jagged green shards. Kryptonite. And it’s half covered by some packing foam like a school fair project. Your palms begin to sweat, like big time. If something goes sideways, and Superman comes down here, it’s over. “Shit,” you curse under your breath.
You take a step back, about to blink the hell out, when your shoulder bumps into something. A jar of slimy, neon-pink goo. It tips, teeters, and falls, shattering at your feet. Overhead, the lights flicker once. Then a dull, mechanical thunk reverberates through the walls. Suddenly, all the lights in the room turn red, and the sound of a siren starts echoing off the walls.
“Nonononono,” you panic. You brace, visualizing the hallway outside, but you don’t blink. Or more like, you can’t blink. Your heart rate spikes up and your breathing starts to resemble hyperventilating more. A sick feeling makes its home in the pits of your stomach, the urge to vomit hitting you.
You’re so screwed. You need to figure out an exit strategy before Superman realizes something is wrong and comes for you (one of the small voices in the back of your head is screaming: that’s not a bad idea!!! but you squash that thought). Think. Think. Think
There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—
The door slams open, and somehow, yet another bald guy is who you’re up against. He smirks when he sees you. “Well, well, well,” he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “Didn’t expect to catch a little stray tonight.”
You glower at him.
He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?”
“What the hell did you do?” You growl.
He stops in front of one of the specimen tanks—a preserved alien organ suspended in viscous green liquid—and smiles faintly at his own reflection. “This chamber,” he begins, tone lilting with theatricality, “is engineered to neutralize enhanced bioelectric signatures.” He turns his head slightly, gaze slicing back to you. “Metahuman nervous systems, energy fluctuations, the whole shebang, as they say.”
“Wide vocabulary you got there.” The sarcasm in your voice makes his nostrils flare. Menacingly, he starts walking forward, forcing you to backpedal further and further into the room. With every foot of ground he gains, his smile (if you could even call it that) grows.
“Which one should I choose for you, hm?” he muses aloud, admiring his collection. “Something poetic, perhaps. The restraint collar from Kahndaq? One of the Null Pods from Sector 68? Oh—maybe the Tamarin siphon ring. Cruel, but effective.”
Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”
But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?”
He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.
“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”
Your breathing gets heavy again, speeding up faster and faster as his bony fingers reach up and tug off the only things protecting your identity. You flinch as the cool air hits your skin and bare your teeth. “You’re a psycho.”
The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”
You don’t have time to react. In one heaving motion, he throws you across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body slams into a rack of weaponry, metal and glass crashing down around you in a deafening cacophony. Sharp edges bite through the suit at your back. Something heavy thuds beside your ribs.
There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.
A vicious kick pounds into your stomach, and your body spazzes with a sputtering gasp. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth tile, trying to brace for the next blow. “You creatures are the reason this planet is weak,” he spits above you. Another kick. You wheeze, coughing, tasting metal.
“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”
Another.
You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”
Another.
“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”
Fucking hell, just doesn’t stop, does he?
Blood builds up in your throat, and you don’t have the strength to swallow it, so you spit it out. It lands on his shoe. A thick, dark smear along the polished leather. The bald devil stares down at it, and then, with a grunt, he wrenches you up off the floor. His fist is twisting the front of your suit so tightly, his knuckles are white.
“Filthy little—”
But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.
Two red boots plant themselves at the doorway, and fuck, the personification of power has arrived. There he is, standing strong, with his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees the other man in the room, he rolls his shoulders back. “Lex. I should have known.”
His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,
And his expression shatters.
It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.
You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”
Within five steps into the room, you see it hit him. His momentum falters. His spine stiffens. A shudder travels down his limbs, and he drops. First to one knee, then the other, crumpling with a muffled cry as the Kryptonite takes hold.
At this point, you’re thrashing around in Lex’s grip, limbs flailing, but he just smirks. “Aww, boohoo. He came for you, didn’t he? And now look.” His hand opens, and you fall back down to the ground. “This is just too easy.” He licks his lips like a predator smelling blood. “You know what? I’m hungry.”
He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”
The heavy door slams shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Left in the suffocating silence, you grit your teeth and force yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Crawling forward on bruised hands and knees, you make your way toward the fallen hero, whose skin is already paling, veins darkening to that sickly green.
Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”
His eyes flutter open, struggling to focus. When they meet yours, you're met with the same pain you saw earlier, when he first saw your face. Between ragged breaths, he mumbles, voice cracked and strained, “Of course… it’s you.”
“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”
Carefully, you slide your hands under his arms, trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. His weight is nearly dead, and because of his sheer size, moving him is almost out of the equation entirely. You need to think fast. You try to roll him over again, but you notice there’s tension in his cape, holding him back. Tracing your eyes along the red fabric, you find the source and realize it’s because the door has been shut on it. A sudden, sharp idea hits you: if you can wedge the door open and slip out of the room, then you can blink the two of you out of this nightmare. That’s it!
However, you won’t be able to carry out this plan alone. The thought of making Superman do anything in this state (surprisingly) pains you, but you know it’s the only way you’ll succeed. “Hey,” you say, pulling his attention from his agonizing torture to you, “I know you’re weak, I know you’re tired, but I have a plan.”
He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”
You help him move onto his hands and knees. His muscles tremble beneath your touch, and for a second, you’re filled with fear that it won’t work, but just this once, you decide to trust him. You move beside the door. “Okay. Now.”
Grunts begin to fill the thick, stale air. His pallid hands dig and scrape at the floor, fingers splaying out wide as he tries to get leverage. It’s taking every last drop of strength he can muster just to push forward, even just an inch. You watch, heart pounding, as his cape, trapped and taut, starts to inch forward bit by bit. Every second feels like a minute, but then, a shudder in the red fabric, and the door creaks open, a small, narrow gap appearing.
Seizing the moment, your fingers dive into the tiny crack now visible between the door and the frame. The cold metal bites into your skin as you wedge your nails inside and pull. At first, the door protests, heavy and reluctant, but it moves. Achingly, painfully slow, the seam splits wider as you throw your weight into it. Your fingers slip, then catch again. You can feel the tendons in your arms screaming, your ribs straining, until finally, finally, the gap is wide enough to breathe. Wide enough to escape.
You stumble through it first, chest heaving, blinking hard against the lights outside the containment room. Turning around, you snatch a fistful of Superman’s cape, dragging him out of the room behind you with all of your remaining strength. One foot is braced against the doorframe for support while you yank with everything you’ve got, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw throbs. “Come on, big guy,” you grunt. “You’re not dying in a fucking science exhibit.”
Then at last, his body crosses the threshold. The fabric slips through your fingers in a whisper of red as you collapse backward, landing in a boneless sprawl beside him. Limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts. You spread yourself out like a pancake on the tile, and whisper the first thought that comes to mind:
“Holy shit.”
Rolling over after a few more moments, you grab the man's hand and blink the two of you out of there, into your apartment. The two of you land on the worn carpet of your room. With cautious movements, you manage to get Superman’s limp form onto your bed. How gallant of you.
You step back, wiping the sweat from your brow, and start toward the living room couch, but abruptly, a hand shoots out from the bed and clamps gently on your wrist, making you stop. Despite still being weak, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he murmurs hoarsely.
Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”
“Please,” there’s no room for you to say no. Whatever it is, he needs comfort right now, and you just happen to be in the wrong place at the right time. The tension drains from your shoulders, and you relent.
“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”
So you shuffle to the bathroom, washing the grime and sweat off your skin. The water feels shockingly good against your nerve endings. When you finally return, you slip under the covers beside him, where he’s already asleep. His face is less pale and sunken in, but you can see the traces of kryptonite poisoning that remain in his veins.
Your eyes finally start to flutter closed, exhaustion tugging you under like a tide. The weight of the night, the adrenaline, the fear—it all begins to fade into the background as your breath evens out, slow and steady.
Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.
You crack one eye open and glance sideways.
Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.
First Clark, now Superman. Is there something wrong with the way you smell? A slow shake of your head betrays your disbelief as you look down at yourself. Do all men have a smelling kink? Insane. If neither of you were exhausted and practically dead, you’d probably question it more, but for now, the fatigue wins, and you fall asleep.
—
The next morning, when you wake up, the bed is empty. Good, you think, letting your muscles melt into the mattress. He’s gone; you can move on with your day and pretend the traumatic events of last night never happened.
And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.
Okay—maybe obsessed is a strong word. And if you asked Jimmy or Lois, they might shrug and say it’s not all that different than usual. But you know better, because you're obsessed with him, so you’ve gotten really, really good at reading his body language; hyper-analyzing the tiniest tilt of his head, the twitch of a smile, the angle of his hands when he types. You’ve built an entire thesis on the way he looks at people, and when you say he is staring, you mean it.
It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.
“Ooh girl, he is whipped for you,” she’d whispered during a luncheon, sipping her cocktail with a smirk. “I swear to God, if he looks at you one more time like that, I’m gonna propose for him.”
You’re not sure what could have warranted this change in him, but you won’t tell him to stop. So, when you’re at your desk and he’s sitting extra close to you, you don’t complain. You’re listening to him tell you about one of his favourite punk rock bands when a bone-rattling blast shakes the building.
Smoke and debris fill the air as a hairless figure saunters his way in. Lex Luthor. Through the dust, his eyes find yours and a manic grin spreads on his face. Clark sucks in a sharp breath beside you as terror floods your features.
“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.”
He claps his hands together once, like a game show host introducing the final round. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘Lex, what could you possibly want with a bunch of reporters and interns and sad little copywriters?’” He clicks his tongue, then points a finger in the air, mock-epiphany lighting up his face. “Well, I’ll tell you!”
People are beginning to scream. Others rush for the elevators, but the power’s been cut—emergency lights flicker uselessly as thick gray smoke rolls through the room. I have some news for you all,” he says, eyes still staring right at you. Your stomach churns.
Please no. Please don’t.
You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.
“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”
“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it.
Clink.
Boom.
The desk explodes in a shower of wood and flame, the blast knocking over nearby chairs, and a new wave of smoke is emitted from the blast. Someone cries out. A man falls hard beside the printer station, clutching his arm.
“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”
He raises his voice over the screams beginning to grow. “Let’s make this simple. If she doesn’t come forward in five minutes, I’ll blow this building sky-high. With all of you inside.” Raising his wrist, he presses start on a timer.
You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”
You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.
Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”
“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.
“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.
“I need you to trust me.”
Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”
His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”
“You–,” Your thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour. Everything is happening so fast, Lex is about to destroy the building, your identity is going to be revealed—, “What are you talking about?”
“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”
You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”
“But–”
“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.
“I—okay, okay, I will—”
The moment he takes off his glasses, a thunderclap goes off in your mind. You can’t explain it, but something about the man in front of you changes, and you're now face-to-face with Superman. You blink—literally—and your powers stutter-react, popping you five feet away across the office. “You’re…”
Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds.
Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”
This is your only chance.
Hesitantly, you grab them, then slowly lift them and slip them onto your face. Clark’s eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, there is no recognition clouding them. He blinks, steps back as if seeing you for the first time.
“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”
Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room.
Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.
“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.
“Ten... nine... eight…”
Just as he nears one, Superman slams into the window, barreling straight toward the bald man and knocking him clean off his feet, distracting him long enough to postpone the destruction of the building.
“Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”
The room clears fast. You spot Jimmy and Lois as they sprint toward the doors, and Cat as she follows, heels off and barefoot. But you stay, watching as Clark and Lex duke it out, the latter being no match for the from Krypton. He’s easily overpowered and tied to a chair with a twist mess of steel piping.
You reach up and peel the glasses of your face, just as Lex’s head rolls lazily to the side and he spots you. His bloodied lip curls into a smirk the moment recognition dawns on him. “Oh,” he drawls. “Always gotta get Superman to save you, huh?”
In a blink, you’re in front of him. “I’ll kill you,” you snarl, your hand rising. But, before you can land a strike, you feel a firm grasp on your wrist. Behind you, Clark stands, restraining you softly.
“You can’t.”
Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”
“You know why.” He responds.
With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”
Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”
That makes you lunge at him so fast that this time, you successfully slam your foot into his chest, sending him back into a filing cabinet, and making him grunt loudly. You’re ready to beat the living daylights out of him, when Clark intercepts you fully, body-checking you away from the human with just enough force to stop, but not enough to hurt you.
“Enough.” And that’s an order.
“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”
The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”
Before you get the opportunity to say something snarky, Clark is already moving, pivoting and driving a punch square into his opponent's jaw. He slumps, finally unconscious. Then your coworker straightens up, hand flexing, glancing back at you. “He’ll go to a black site,” he says. “He won’t ever touch anyone again.”
You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.
—
How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!
Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past two years, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.
This is Clark you're talking about.
Clark, who corrects your grammar when you’re tired. Clark, who listens to your rants like it’s the highlight of his day. Clark, who says corny jokes he knows no one else finds funny but you. Clark, who is Superman.
You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.
You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is.
“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts.
God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move.
“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”
His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”
“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”
“We’re the same person,” he responds.
“Bullshit.”
Clark’s lips form into a tight line, before: “It’s the same for me! You think it’s been easy, knowing that the reason I show up to work every day is the same reason I’m going to go grey early?”
You still. “Don’t you dare—“
“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”
“Do you even know how I felt seeing Lex threaten you in that room? I saw red,” He begins crowding in on you, voice low. “I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel defensive over Blink, but the minute I realized it was you, it made sense.” He’s so close to you now, having you pushed up against the wall.
Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””
He freezes. “Excuse me?”
“Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”
But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking.
And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft.
It’s a disaster of teeth and breath and months of buried need clawing its way to the surface. His hands come up—one curling into your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll blink away if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You gasp into his mouth and he swallows it like a dying man.
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer towards you, matching the force of his kiss with your own. He deepens it further, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrates in your chest, and you whimper — actually whimper — as you wrap a leg around his thigh, and feel his hand move from your neck down to your ass, rubbing it softly before giving it a firm squeeze.
His lips move like he’s trying to memorize you, like he could spend the rest of his life tracing the shape of you with tongue and teeth. It’s dizzying. Devastating. As if you’re falling off a rooftop and being caught an inch from the pavement.
When you finally break apart, you’re gasping for air, and your hands are still curled in the cotton at his chest—without the anchor, you might actually collapse. His forehead presses to yours, and he murmurs, “Tell me to stop. That you don’t want this.”
You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”
His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.
The room shifts around you with a ripple, and your back hits your mattress. He lands half on top of you, blinking down in dazed surprise. Then he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that vibrates against your ribs.
“Did you just—.”
“I did.”
“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“
You groan over the rest of his confession, chest stuttering in funny patterns. “I kept telling myself I was a bastard,” he says. “Like I was betraying something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I should’ve known,” he adds, lifting his head, staring down at you. “Of course it was you. It could only be you. There’s nobody else.”
Heat travels from your chest down to your core, and your thighs clench involuntarily. “Oh, Clark,” you moan. His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips—low, aching, wanting. You can feel him trembling slightly where his hands bracket your shoulders, like he’s barely holding himself together.
Tilting your neck up, you give him a small peck on the nose. “I admire what you stand for, Supes,” you admit, not missing the shiver that runs through his body when hearing you call him that. “The whole world does. But not when you show up in my business, trying to change me in a way I don’t need changed.”
Clark says nothing, just lets out a breath—and then he leans back slightly, eyes searching your face, before reaching for the hem of your shirt, drawing it upwards. He waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head and casting it aside. When you turn slightly, and his eyes lower to your skin, you see the moment his gaze finds the scar on your back.
“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”
You feel his hands travel up and down your sides, the warmth of his palms on your bare skin. “I don’t kill because I enjoy doing it,” you say. “I kill because sometimes one life gone is better than two. Or ten. Or a hundred.”
He kisses your collarbone, then his mouth trails lower, dragging along the curve of your neck. “I know it’s not the way you go about things,” you finish. “But I don’t have the same capabilities as you.”
Raising his head at that, Clark’s lips brush your cheeks. “I didn't like what you did because I never understood why,” he says softly. "but I never saw you as my enemy, we fight for the same good."
Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.
Something hot and heavy takes over you, and it manifests by clawing at his still-clothed body. He pulls back just enough to strip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Holy shit. You knew, on some level, that he was built like a Roman statue. When you had to climb on his back, you felt it. But seeing it? An entirely different experience.
His chest rises and falls, muscles flexing with each breath, and your gaze rakes over the sculpted lines of him, down to the sharp cut of his abdomen and the softness in his eyes that shouldn’t coexist with a body like that. “That’s unfair,” you mutter, half under your breath, voice gone hoarse.
He smiles like he knows exactly what you’re talking about—and he probably does—but he doesn’t get long to enjoy the moment, because you push him back. He lands against the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes wide as you climb on top of him, straddling his waist and landing on something hard.
You lean down, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down the hard line of his chest, and capture his lips again, while his hands grip your hips. Shifting your weight slightly, you roll your hips forward in a slow, teasing grind.
The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.
“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch.
His jaw clenches, eyelids drooping down. “Don’t tease,” he warns—but his voice is wrecked and his hips are already arching up into you. You do it again, dragging your hips down harder, grinding against the hardness of him through both your clothes. He curses, head tipping back against the mattress, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans deep in his chest.
“Gah,” he hisses. His hands are no longer just holding but moving, guiding the motion of your hips over his in rhythm with his own, the friction dizzying, maddening. You feel one inch lower, slipping below your pants, grabbing your bare ass. “You’re killing me.”
“I don’t think you’re exactly suffering,” you giggle. Clark’s grip tightens, and suddenly he sits up, chest pressed flush against yours as he kisses you hard, biting at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “No,” his words dying as he reconnects your lips. “I am suffering. You have no idea what you do to me.”
You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”
He obeys and god, if you weren’t drooling before then you are now. He’s scrumptious. The bed dips again as he rejoins you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, teasing along the waistband of your pants. Then, he slips a finger beneath the fabric and hooks it there, giving a subtle, inviting tug.
“It’s only fair,” he breathes. Using that same finger, he applies a bit more force, dragging your pants, underwear, and himself down your body all at the same time, to the edge of the bed. Then, he spreads your legs apart and pulls you closer, nestling himself perfectly between your legs. As his face dips lower, his nose brushes against your skin, and he inhales deeply, eyes shutting.
“Let me taste you,” he begs.
Except, you don’t—can’t—respond in words. Instead, your fingers thread through his dark hair, and being the smart man he is, Clark takes that as the go-ahead. He dives in, gliding his tongue up your cunt, nipping and sucking like a man eating his last meal. The slick, desperate sounds only serve to make you wetter.
“Oh, god, Clark,” you moan. His hands slide from your thighs to your stomach, splaying wide as he presses down, pinning you to the mattress. You writhe beneath him, gasping as his tongue goes even deeper, your hands tangling tighter in his hair.
“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you.
Then his nose nudges your clit, and you nearly lose it, hands flying from his head onto the ones that are splayed across your abdomen and lacing your fingers together, needing something to anchor you in place as your mind turns to mush.
The intimacy of the action has his gaze lift up to meet yours from his position, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole existence. It’s almost too much, and soon, you start to feel a familiar tightness. Not wanting the pleasure to end, you start to unravel your fingers from his, pressing gently against his forehead.
He understands, mouth leaving your pussy with a final kiss before he drapes his body over yours, chest to chest, his weight grounding you. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, hot and throbbing. You know for a fact that had you not been so wrecked with need, you’d have taken him in your mouth. Another time.
“Can I–,” he begins to ask.
“Yes, yes please,” you babble. Then he’s reaching down between you, lining himself up. When you feel him press against you, you clutch at his biceps, holding onto something—anything—as your body adjusts around him. He’s thick, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You feel every inch of him, and still, somehow, want more.
His name on your lips is all it takes.
He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then he pulls back, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before sinking back into you with a slow, shuddering thrust. His hips meet yours with a firm slap, and he groans—loudly—head dropping to the crook of your neck.
“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”
He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s starts back up again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.
Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.
Clark’s eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded and wild, mouth open, panting hard. And like he can’t wait another second, he lowers his head and crushes his mouth to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this body since the first time I saw you.” his mouth hovers over yours. “Especially in that suit.”
Then he’s moving. He slides his hands down your sides and under you, shifting your body until you’re on all fours, back arched and waiting. From behind you, he kneads your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, squeezing firmly. The rough heat of his palms sets your skin on fire. You can hear him pump himself for a moment before he leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he slides the head of his cock slowly, deliberately over your folds.
“You ready for this?” he murmurs.
You’re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”
He presses in, bottoming out in a single thrust, and you jerk forward, clutching at the bedsheets. The angle from this position makes you cry out, breath catching as a delicious ache curls tight in your belly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—the sharp slap of his thighs, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out.
“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—
“Supes, you’re—”
A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”
You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.
“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”
“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”
He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”
You cry out at the pet name, at the sound of his voice so wrecked and undone. His hand sneaks around you, fingers beginning to work your clit. Your whole body tenses, back arching even more as the pleasure slams into you—sudden and overwhelming and sharp around the edges. You clench around him as you come, pulsing hard, and he feels it. Moans it.
“Jesus fuck,” he chokes, and his rhythm falls apart entirely. You’re almost certain that was the first time you’ve ever heard him curse like that. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, and when it hits him, he’s unable to stop the whine that comes out, his whole body seizing as he spills into you.
Your body collapses, boneless and trembling, onto the mattress. Every muscle sings with exhaustion and satisfaction, your skin flushed. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him drop on top of you with a heavy exhale. He stays inside you, burying his face in your hair as his chest rises and falls against your back.
“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder.
You hum something like a yes, too soft and dazed to speak. He shifts a little, propping himself on one elbow, the movement enough to make you twitch from overstimulation. But then his hand is brushing your hair away from your face, careful and tender, so he can lean in and kiss the curve of your cheek. Then the line of your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear.
He keeps going, trailing kisses over your sweat-damp skin. You turn your head to meet him, and your lips lock in a long, languid kiss. He tastes like everything you want to keep. Like warmth and strength and something that feels suspiciously close to love. And not just for Clark, but for the other guy, too. Because he’s right. They are the same person.
Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.
“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper.
His brow furrows, confused. “What?”
You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”
----
A/N: thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated :)
DRIVING ME BACKWARDS ୨୧ || clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot
summary: Clark Kent is usually calm under pressure—he writes award-winning articles, apparently interviews Superman on a daily basis? But when it comes to you, he becomes a walking disaster. He fumbles with his coffee. Trips over nothing. Forgets how doors work. Jimmy tries not to tease him about it, Lois rolls her eyes, and Perry White, all-knowing and omnipotent, decides to assign you both a story— specifically an issue on Superman... Inevitably, you grow closer.
word count: 11k
author's note: tbh i made clark more pathetic than usual, but that's just me indulging in my own fondness for sad little men. anyways, i watched superman, and david corenswet somehow made me want clark kent and his stupid little glasses, ugh. henry cavill wouldn't have known how to spark such whimsy onto this character, only david knew how to truly inspire this sense of raw patheticness — which, btw, i'm eating tf up!!!!
warnings: sub!clark, sort of switch!clark, service top!reader, spit as lube, dirty talking, handjob, oral m!receiving, mild dacryphilia, mild language, size kink, clark is HUNG, dom/sub dynamics, and i kinda blue ball you towards the end, sorry...
It all started about a week after your first day at the Daily Planet—an office full of chaos, newsprint, and the faint hum of old typewriters mixed with the chatter of determined reporters. You had just settled in at your new desk, trying to carve out your little space in the madness when Clark Kent, all glasses and nervous energy, came barreling toward you with a coffee cup in hand. You barely had time to look up before hot liquid spilled across your papers and the wooden surface, the rich scent of coffee filling the air like an awkward apology.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry! I don’t know what happened, I—” Clark stammered, eyes wide and embarrassed, already grabbing napkins and paper towels as if trying to erase the very moment. His face was a soft shade of red, and you couldn’t help but notice how utterly clumsy and pathetic he looked in that instant, fumbling like a rookie instead of the calm, mild-mannered reporter you’d imagined. You barely made much of it—accidents happen. “It’s fine,” you said, waving him off with a small smile. “Really.”
But that was just the beginning.
Over the next few days, you noticed Clark acting…odd around you, and not in the usual shy, office-cute way. It was like he was walking a tightrope between wanting to get closer and being scared to take even a single step. Sometimes, you’d catch him staring at you from across the room, the faintest crease of worry on his brow, only for him to look away so fast you wondered if you’d imagined it. Once, when you passed by the coffee machine, he offered to get you a cup, but his hands trembled so much you ended up grabbing the pot yourself, smiling awkwardly at his flushed face.
“Clark, you okay?” you asked lightly, amused.
“Yeah! Just… uh, just fine. Thanks,” he said, clearing his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets like that would somehow hide his jitteriness. “I mean, no problem.”
Sometimes he’d stand too close when you worked late on a deadline, hovering just on the edge of your personal space, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. Other times, you caught little things: the way his glasses fogged up when you leaned over to look at his computer screen while discussing an issue, or how his voice stumbled when he tried to ask you anything at all. It was subtle, but it was there—and it made you smile.
One afternoon, as you were digging through a stack of papers, Clark shuffled over nervously, holding a crumpled piece of paper. “I, uh, wrote a story. Would you want to—maybe—read it? And tell me what you think? I'm not so sure about it...” His voice was soft, almost hopeful. You looked up, met his uncertain gaze, and felt your heart skip.
“Of course,” you said, reaching out to take the paper. “I’d love to.”
He smiled, that shy, clumsy smile that made the whole office seem quieter somehow. And that’s when you realized: Clark Kent might be the most awkward person on the planet, but he was also the only one who seemed completely and hopelessly human in this whole damn office.
A few days later, you found yourself leaning over the cluttered desk of Jimmy Olsen, the newsroom’s resident charmer and self-proclaimed ladies’ man. You were deep in discussion about a tricky story idea—a feature on Metropolis’s urban development that could either make or break your footing in the Daily Planet. Jimmy, with his easy grin, was trying to convince you that the flashy angle was the way to go, while you argued for something more nuanced and honest.
“Trust me, you want the splash, the drama. People eat that up,” Jimmy said, his voice smooth as he clicked through photos on his screen. “Plus, you know I have a knack for making stories sexy.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Sexy isn’t exactly the word I’d use for city planning.”
As you spoke, your attention drifted briefly to the side, catching a movement behind Jimmy. There, just a few feet away, was Clark Kent. His usual calm demeanor was replaced by something else entirely—a crease in his brow that you didn’t remember seeing before, subtle but sharp, like a storm cloud hanging over his features. His eyes flicked rapidly between his computer screen, Jimmy, and you, like a silent witness to the conversation. You almost caught the way his chest puffed out slightly, the faintest sign of tension in the otherwise quiet room.
Before you could ponder it further, Lois Lane, ever sharp and always one step ahead, slid her chair beside you with a sly smile. She leaned in, her voice barely above a whisper, “Looks like someone’s a little jealous.”
You blinked, glancing back toward Clark, who had quickly masked whatever emotion was crossing his face with a careful smile. But the faint flush rising in his cheeks gave him away.
“Jealous?” you echoed softly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Of Jimmy Olsen?”
Lois just shrugged, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, you know, Jimmy’s kind of the office heartthrob. But Clark’s the one who’s all awkward and nervous whenever you’re around.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I think you’re imagining things.”
Before Lois could even answer, Perry White appeared beside you, his usual commanding presence filling the corner of the room. His sharp eyes swept across the desks, quickly surveying the hustle and bustle of reporters typing away, phones ringing, and the occasional shout from the bullpen. He cleared his throat, a sound that immediately drew a little more focus.
“Alright, people,” Perry announced, “I’m making my rounds to see that everyone’s on top of their stories. No slacking today.”
You seized the opportunity, glancing up at him. “Perry, what do you think about the story I was debating with Jimmy? The corruption piece or the human-interest one?”
Perry nodded thoughtfully, about to answer, when you leaned in a bit, dropping your voice. “Actually, there’s an even more interesting lead—something about Superman. Some new developments, maybe worth pursuing.”
His eyes flicked over to Clark’s direction, and a knowing smirk crept across his face. “Well, if you’re chasing Superman stories, it’d be ideal for you to work with Kent. He’s been getting exclusive interviews lately. No one else has that kind of access.”
Clark, who had been quietly typing away at his computer, seemed to catch the mention of his name. He didn’t look up, but you could have sworn his cheeks instantly turned an awfully bright shade of pink—like someone just turned on a spotlight directly on his face. He was clearly trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping, but the subtle shift in his posture betrayed him.
Perry’s voice cut through the low hum of conversation, sharp and unmistakable: “Kent! You’re working with her on this one. Get your notes together, and no slacking off, got it?”
Clark jerked slightly at the sudden call, fingers hovering awkwardly above his keyboard before he forced himself to look up. His eyes met Perry’s briefly, then shifted toward you. For a moment, the pink flush in his cheeks deepened, betraying the storm of nerves swirling beneath his calm exterior.
“Yes, sir,” Clark managed, voice a little tighter than usual. He quickly averted his gaze, fiddling with the edge of his glasses as if to steady himself.
You smiled, trying to mask your own flutter of excitement. “Looks like we’re partners,” you said, leaning forward. “Guess I’m stuck with your coffee-spilling antics for a while.”
Clark’s lips twitched into what might have been a nervous smile. “I’ll try not to ruin the story this time,” he said softly, though you caught the hint of earnestness in his tone.
As Perry moved on, casting one last sharp glance around the room, Clark stood up, gathering his papers with a sort of determined clumsiness that only made him more endearing.
The very next day, the usual clatter of the newsroom was punctuated by a sharp thud as Perry White slammed a hefty stack of papers down on your desk, his expression all business and barely contained frustration. “Here,” he barked, eyes narrowing over the rims of his glasses. “This is your next big assignment. You two need to get to the bottom of it—fast.”
You flipped open the top sheet and began scanning the headline and notes: “Rising Movement to Place Superman Under Government Control.” The article outlined a growing faction arguing that Superman’s immense power was too dangerous to be left to his own judgment—that the world would be safer if he operated strictly under government orders rather than acting independently. The report highlighted heated debates in political circles, public protests, and the concerns of civil liberties groups.
Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced up to see Clark quietly approaching your desk, curiosity already written on his face. You tapped the papers with your pen. “Perry wants us on this one. They want to control Superman, make him accountable to the government instead of him just… doing whatever he thinks is right.”
Clark’s eyes flicked over the pages, lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s… complicated,” he murmured, voice low. “It’s not just about control. It’s about trust. And freedom. If Superman is tied down by bureaucracy, what happens when there’s a threat the government doesn’t recognize? Or worse, a government that abuses that control?”
You nodded thoughtfully. “Exactly. And the public’s divided, too. Some think he’s a hero who can do no wrong; others see him as a threat. We have to find the middle ground, the real story beneath the headlines.”
Clark shifted on his feet, glancing up at you. “We’ll need to talk to experts, politicians, maybe some of those protesters. And maybe, if we’re lucky, someone close to Superman.”
You caught the flicker of something in his eyes—you weren’t really sure of what, nor where you able to pinpoint it, something he wasn’t saying out loud. But you didn’t press. Instead, you smiled. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Both of you settled back into your respective desks, the din of the bustling newsroom slowly fading as reporters finished their stories and started filing out for the day. The clatter of keyboards and ringing phones gave way to a quiet stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of papers or the hum of the overhead lights. One by one, desks were abandoned until only yours and Clark’s remained illuminated, the soft glow of your lamps casting long shadows across stacks of notes and crumpled drafts.
The hours slipped by unnoticed as you each dug deeper into your leads, following threads through interviews, anonymous tips, and public records. You scoured news archives for any sign of organized opposition, while Clark cross-referenced political statements and campaign funding reports. The story was more tangled than you expected—nothing straightforward or easily pinned down.
Just as the clock hands crept toward midnight, Clark’s voice broke the silence, tentative but urgent. “Hey… come look at this.”
You pushed back from your desk and made your way over to his, where his screen displayed a series of financial reports and internal documents that looked like they’d been buried intentionally. “LexCorp,” Clark said softly, eyes flickering between the screen and you, “is behind the campaign to control Superman. They’re funneling money and influence to politicians and media outlets pushing this agenda.”
Your breath caught. It was the kind of lead that could shake the city—and maybe the world—but Clark’s next words tempered the shock. “Still, the numbers show that only a very small percentage of the population supports this. The majority of the country—people who see Superman as a symbol, a beacon of hope—stand firmly against it.”
You nodded slowly, feeling a mix of relief and unease. “That makes sense. People want to believe in him, in what he stands for. But it’s worrying. A campaign like this—rooted in fear and control—can still breed hatred and division.”
Clark’s gaze met yours, the weight of it hanging between you. “We need to show the truth, not just the noise.”
Without a word, you gathered your papers and notes into a somewhat organized pile, lifted your chair, and walked it over to Clark’s desk, dragging it just close enough so your knees brushed the edge of his. He blinked up at you, surprised but not displeased, and you could almost hear the subtle stutter in his thoughts as he adjusted his glasses quickly—a nervous habit you’d come to recognize.
The second you sat down beside him, Clark shifted in his seat like someone caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing, though all he’d done was sit perfectly still. His hands hovered above the desk uncertainly, fingers curling slightly, as if unsure where to place them. He clearly didn’t want to invade your space, even though it was you who had crossed into his.
“I figured we’d work faster if we pieced this together here,” you said, sorting through your notes as you leaned in to glance at his screen again. “Also, my desk lamp is starting to flicker, and I value my eyesight.”
Clark let out a quiet breath—almost a laugh—but his smile was soft, a little shy. “Yeah, sure. Of course. Makes sense.”
Still, he sat stiffly for a moment, as though his very presence beside you might be too much. His shoulders were drawn slightly inward, and he was clearly trying to take up as little space as humanly possible. You, on the other hand, had spread your pages across the edge of his desk without hesitation, your elbow brushing his now and then as you gestured toward the evidence.
His knee accidentally bumped yours under the desk, and he jerked back like he’d been shocked, muttering a soft, “Sorry—wasn’t trying to—”
You just smiled and shook your head. “Relax, Kent. I’m not going to bite.”
That earned you another small laugh—quieter this time, but more genuine. He seemed to settle slightly after that, his posture loosening bit by bit as the conversation drew back to the story at hand. You discussed the implications of LexCorp’s involvement, the ethical concerns around power and influence, and the danger of letting fear shape public perception.
You worked in silence for a while after that, the occasional exchange of thoughts passing between you and Clark like smooth ripples across still water. Pages shifted, keys clicked softly, and the atmosphere between you warmed—not from proximity alone, but from a shared sense of purpose. The weight of the story wasn’t just journalistic anymore. It felt personal. Important.
Eventually, you leaned back in your chair, rubbing at your tired eyes and speaking aloud what had been forming quietly in your mind. “I think the best move is to break this in two parts. First, a direct response to the growing fear—the rhetoric trying to paint Superman as a threat. We need something that calms the public down, brings back some clarity.” You glanced at Clark, who looked up at you, attentive. “A brief interview with Superman. Something measured. Controlled. Honest. People still trust him—most of them, anyway. If we lead with him, everything else that follows will hit harder.”
Clark nodded slowly, but you could see the flicker in his eyes—the guarded tension that always came with the mention of Superman. He adjusted his glasses, more composed this time. “And after that?”
You turned your chair slightly to face him fully, the pages spread between you like a puzzle finally coming together. “Then we go after LexCorp. Publicly. Thoroughly. We use the second piece to expose how this entire campaign—this whole attempt to regulate Superman like a weapon—is being run by a company with a known history of corruption.”
You tapped your pen against the notes, where you’d highlighted several lawsuits and whistleblower reports. “LexCorp has a decades-long track record of endangering the environment through illegal waste dumping, of committing large-scale corporate fraud, of lobbying its way out of accountability. And now, they want to play puppet master with the one person on this planet powerful enough to stop them from getting worse. They’re selling the idea that regulation means safety, but what they’re really selling is control. Control of him.”
Clark didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the papers for a long moment, his jaw tight, expression unreadable. You let the silence stretch, giving him space to process. Finally, he spoke, voice quiet but firm.
“Superman was never meant to be a weapon,” he said. “That’s not who he is. He’s supposed to be a symbol of peace. If he starts answering to governments—especially ones with corporate strings attached—he stops being that. He becomes something else. Something… dangerous.”
You nodded, grateful that he’d said it out loud. “Exactly. And that’s what we have to make clear to people. This isn’t just about Superman—it’s about what happens when fear is exploited by people who want power.”
The conversation drifted into silence after that—comfortable, if a little heavy. The two of you sat quietly, side by side, eyes scanning the notes and articles sprawled across Clark’s desk like pieces of a conspiracy no one else had dared to connect. Outside the windows, the city hummed in a low, sleepy rhythm; only the soft tapping of the building’s old radiator and the muted street sounds below remained.
You leaned back in your chair, gaze softening as you looked over the scattered sheets between you. It felt like a moment suspended in time—two overworked journalists sitting in a room half-lit by stubborn desk lamps and mutual exhaustion. And something about that stillness made you brave.
“I think,” you began slowly, “we’ve earned at least one conversation tonight that doesn’t revolve around corruption, lawsuits, or Lex Luthor.”
Clark blinked, eyes drifting away from the papers to glance at you, a little startled. He looked so genuinely caught off guard that for a second you thought he might ask who you were talking to.
But after a pause—and a small, sheepish laugh—he adjusted his glasses and nodded. “Right. Yeah. Of course. I just—wasn’t expecting…”
“A human moment? Wow, you really think so little of me?” you offered, half-smiling.
He returned it faintly. “Something like that.”
You shifted slightly in your seat, turning more toward him, your voice easy. “So. What do you do, Clark Kent, when you’re not hunched over this desk pondering your next angle? What exists outside the bylines and bad coffee?”
He looked at you for a long moment, clearly searching for an answer—or maybe just still recovering from the shift in tone. “Well,” he started slowly, “I guess I’m… kind of boring.”
You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“I mean it,” he added a little nervous now, like he was trying to prove something to you. “I read a lot. I walk a lot. I like old radio broadcasts—sometimes I help my mom with stuff around the farm when I have time to get back to Kansas. I, uh… I don’t really have hobbies that impress people at parties.” He trailed off and his brows furrowed for a second as if he himself didn’t believe a word he said.
You laughed softly, leaning your elbow on the desk. “Not everything’s about being impressive.”
He looked at you again, glad you had changed the subject, more fully this time. “What about you?”
You tilted your head. “Are we flipping the question back on me already?”
Clark gave a little grin, almost teasing, but there was warmth in his voice when he said, “Well… you started it.”
You leaned back in your chair, stretching slightly, your body cracking in protest after sitting for so long. “Well,” you said, considering his question, “outside of investigating shady billionaires and defending Superman’s honor in print... I like sleeping. A lot. When I can get it. And late-night takeout. And really bad movies.”
Clark’s brows lifted, intrigued. “Bad movies?”
You nodded with a mock-serious expression. “Oh, I’m talking truly bad. I’m talking alien-invasion-budget-of-twenty-dollars bad. Practical effects made of paper plates bad.”
He chuckled, the sound low and surprised. “So, you’re saying if I brought over, say, ‘Attack of the Radioactive Squirrel People,’ you wouldn’t turn me away?”
You narrowed your eyes, playing along. “Only if you bring snacks and don’t ask logical questions during the film. Logic ruins the experience.”
Clark feigned deep thought. “Would I not be able to ask why the squirrels are radioactive?”
You gasped dramatically. “Absolutely not. That’s part of the mystery.”
He laughed again, fuller this time, shoulders relaxing as he leaned a little closer. “You know, I never would’ve pegged you for a bad sci-fi lover.”
“And I never would’ve pegged you for someone who listens to old radio shows,” you shot back with a grin. “You hide it well. You’ve got the whole ‘mild-mannered’ thing down to an art.”
Clark made a face. “It’s not an act, you know.”
You hummed, skeptical. “Mmhm. Sure. You just happen to be the only person in the office who never yells, never swears, and always holds the elevator even if it means missing it entirely.”
“That’s just manners,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed now. “I wasn’t raised in a barn.”
You tilted your head at him. “Weren’t you, though?”
He paused—then gave you a half-smile, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Okay, maybe a little.”
You both laughed, the tension from earlier fading further with each second. The newsroom was almost completely dark now, lit only by your two lamps and the glow of the city outside. The silence between you felt different this time—not weighted by stress or urgency, but warm, companionable.
“I’m just saying,” you added casually, “if we end up working together more often, you might need to brush up on your bad movie tolerance.”
Clark raised a brow, teasing right back now. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
You smirked. “Depends. How do you feel about sequels that make the original look like a masterpiece?”
He mock-shuddered. “Terrified. But intrigued.”
You leaned back again, your eyes catching on the scattered papers across the desk, but your focus had long drifted from newsprint and ink. Clark was still sitting beside you, uncharacteristically relaxed—well, sort of. His shoulders were tense, and he was very obviously trying not to look at you too directly, which only made your curiosity grow stronger.
“You know,” you said, keeping your tone light, your voice laced with just enough teasing to make him look up, “you never answered the question.”
Clark blinked. “What question?”
You rested your elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in your hand. “What you do outside of work. Like—really outside. People. Dating. A girlfriend, maybe?”
His reaction was immediate, if subtle—his hand, which had been draped stiffly on the arm of his chair, flexed so hard his knuckles whitened, and the veins along the back of his hand stood out like cords. His glasses slipped a little down the bridge of his nose from the sudden shift in posture, and he pushed them back up with a quick, nervous tap of his finger.
“What?” he said, far too quickly.
You bit back a smile, watching him carefully now—not just his face, but his whole frame. The way his body filled the chair, broad shoulders and long limbs all seemingly trying to shrink and fold in a little. Like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space he very clearly couldn’t.
Your knee was pressed up against his—had it always been that close? You weren’t sure. But now that you’d noticed, it was impossible not to notice. Especially when his didn’t move. Didn’t twitch or pull away. Just... stayed there, warm and solid against yours.
You tilted your head again, letting your voice drop just a little lower. “It’s a pretty straightforward question, Kent.”
He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t. I mean. No.”
You turned slightly toward him, lips curving into a slow grin. “No girlfriend? That’s surprising.”
“What—Why’s that surprising?” he asked, clearly trying to sound casual, but his voice had gone scratchy, like his throat had decided to betray him.
You let your eyes trail down, briefly, taking in the way his forearms were tensed now too, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more of those oddly strong hands. The tendons moved with every subtle grip and shift along the chair’s arms, like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His fingers had curled so tightly over the edge now that you were sure he’d leave dents in the wood.
You shrugged, still watching him from the corner of your eye. “I don’t know. You’re kind of charming in that nervous, buttoned-up sort of way. Some people are into that.”
Clark’s brows drew together slightly, his lips parting like he was going to respond—but no sound came out. Just a breath. Just a little, flustered exhale like he couldn’t believe you’d said that out loud, like his brain had stopped functioning at the suggestion that someone might be into him.
His glasses slid further down his nose, and in his fumbling attempt to fix them, he knocked them a little sideways. His hands were big—awkwardly precise—and the way he pushed them back up just made it worse. He cleared his throat again, too quickly this time.
“Well, I—uh, I think that’s… that’s nice of you to say,” he finally managed, voice half-pitched and apologetic, like you were the one who had just walked in on him in a compromising position.
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not cruelly, not loudly. Just a soft, delighted kind of laugh that bubbled up from your chest because God, this man was endearing. Six and a half feet of solid muscle and broad shoulders, and yet here he was—blushing like a schoolboy because you’d complimented him. Barely. Lightly.
Clark looked down, probably trying to hide the growing flush on his neck, which had started to crawl past the collar of his shirt. “I’m not… I mean, it’s not like people are lining up.”
“Oh, come on, Kent,” you said, voice teasing now, elbow brushing his lightly. “Don’t play modest. I’ve seen the way some of the women in this office look at you. Even the new girl from research couldn’t remember her own name when you brought her coffee last week.”
“That was just because I brought the wrong order,” he mumbled quickly.
“Uh-huh. Sure it was,” you said, grinning. “And when she said she’d ‘never tasted anything sweeter’? Totally about the coffee.”
Clark groaned softly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand as if he could physically rub the embarrassment away.
He finally looked at you again—really looked—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward in spite of himself. His eyes were warm behind the lenses, full of something quiet and boyish and undeniably fond.
“You’re kind of mean,” he said, but there was no heat to it.
“And you’re kind of fun to fluster,” you replied, nudging his knee with yours again—deliberate this time.
He froze for a heartbeat. Just one.
Then he smiled, soft and crooked.
“I’m starting to think you like making me nervous.”
You tilted your head again, letting the silence stretch for a second too long. Then, with a little shrug, you whispered, “Maybe I do.”
Clark swallowed hard, then, with a kind of bravery you hadn’t expected, he let one hand slide gently to rest on the armrest closer to you—as if testing the boundaries, trying to be near without crossing a line he wasn’t ready for.
Your pulse sped up. You wanted to reach out, to close the gap, but something held you back—a delicate balance of respect and something else, something tender and new.
Before either of you could say anything else, the distant sound of footsteps echoed through the quiet newsroom. The moment shattered like glass.
Clark’s hand jerked back quickly, and he adjusted his glasses with a nervous chuckle. “Looks like we’re not as alone as we thought.”
You laughed softly, the tension easing just a bit. “Guess the newsroom’s ghosts don’t like to miss out.”
He smiled, eyes still warm as he packed away some of the papers between you.
“Tomorrow,” you said quietly, “we’ll finish this. And maybe… talk about other things, too.”
He continued right after that, standing up and stretching. “I’d like that. Maybe you can come over tomorrow to write the piece after work. If you want of course— Unless you have something else to do? ”
"Yes, Clark, I'd like that. I'll give you a call." You sent him a smile, trying to prove to him he had nothing to be nervous about anymore. But something told you that this act wouldn't be easy to drop. The poor guy was a lost cause.
As you gathered your things and headed for the door, you glanced back once more. Clark Kent—the man who was a mystery and a friend, awkward and brave all at once—gave you a small, hopeful smile.
The next day flew by in a whirlwind of stories, calls, and chasing down leads. The newsroom buzzed as usual, but beneath the noise, your thoughts kept drifting back to last night—the quiet moment with Clark, the way his nervous smile had stayed with you.
As the afternoon wore on and people began packing up, you were sorting through your notes when your phone buzzed softly. You glanced down and saw a message from Clark. You looked up and, almost without thinking, spotted him sitting across the room, his glasses slightly crooked as he fiddled nervously with a pen.
The message read: “If you’re still up for it, my place. 7 PM?”
You smiled to yourself and quickly typed back, your fingers flying over the screen: “You know you can talk to me like a normal person, right?”
Almost immediately, he glanced your way, cheeks flushing just a bit, before he sent a quick thumbs-up from across the room.
A little while later, as the last of the reporters packed up and the newsroom began to empty, Clark appeared at your desk with a hesitant smile, glasses slightly askew as usual. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at you.
“Ready to head out?” he asked, voice soft but steady. “It’s not far from here. We can walk—it’s a nice evening.”
You nodded, gathering your bag and slipping on your jacket. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Together, you stepped out into the warm glow of the evening, the city buzzing softly around you. The streets weren’t crowded, just a few pedestrians and the occasional hum of distant traffic. Side by side, you walked—easy, natural—sharing bits of small talk that felt surprisingly comfortable.
Clark occasionally stole glances at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips when he thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how the city lights caught the flecks of blue in his eyes, making him look a little less like the nervous, awkward guy at the office and more like someone who belonged here—right here beside you.
You found yourself smiling more than you realized, drawn in by his quiet earnestness, the way his eyes lit up when he described simple pleasures. It was a side of Clark Kent few got to see—behind the glasses, behind the awkwardness—a man who cherished the ordinary moments.
At one point, your knees brushed again, and this time neither of you moved away. Instead, Clark’s smile deepened just a little, shy but genuine.
As the outline of his apartment building came into view, nestled between a bookstore and a cozy café, the streetlamps cast a warm halo over the doorway. Clark pulled out his keys, fumbling slightly, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly at his endearing clumsiness.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said with a grin after taking the elevator and settling before his door, pushing the door open and holding it for you.
Inside, the space was simple and inviting, with shelves lined with books, a few framed photos, and a soft couch that looked perfect for late-night talks or movie marathons.
You both dove into the writing like something had possessed you—pure adrenaline and sharp focus, the kind that only came when the stakes were real and the story mattered. The laptop passed feverishly from one lap to the other, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes with a flurry of half-laughed instructions and half-bitten curses about formatting or sourcing. You’d never worked this quickly on any project, not even under deadline. But this—this felt different. Urgent. Important.
Clark had thrown off his suit jacket the second you'd settled into his apartment, letting it drape carelessly over the back of the sofa. His tie was askew now, loosened at the neck and clinging faintly to one side like it had given up trying to be proper. His white shirt was rumpled with the kind of lived-in texture that came from the day dragging on and on—and you couldn’t help noticing how the fabric clung in places. His shoulders looked even broader without the layers hiding them, and when he rolled up his sleeves again, the definition in his forearms was downright distracting.
Every now and then one of you would catch a typo or notice something off in the phrasing, and you’d lean in to fix it together. Once, you’d missed a whole line—your fingers hesitating over the keys—and without saying a word, Clark had reached over. His hand engulfed yours easily, warm and solid, his fingers dwarfing yours as he corrected the sentence himself. He didn’t move your hand—he just covered it, guiding it with a quiet, gentle pressure, his touch firm but careful.
You were sitting side by side on the couch, your thighs touching, pressed flush together. It wasn’t a small couch, not by any stretch—but Clark somehow still managed to take up half of it. More than half, if you were being honest. His long legs sprawled slightly, the muscle clearly visible beneath the fabric of his pants, shifting every time he adjusted. You could feel the strength in him, just sitting there, all that quiet power contained and careful and... close. His thigh next to yours was solid heat, twice the size of yours, pressed from knee to hip.
His fingers lay sprawled casually across his own thigh, thick and unhurried, veins prominent against the backs of his hands. You watched them for a second too long, eyes tracing the way they twitched occasionally with thought—how one hand flexed when he leaned forward, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his back, drawing your attention to places you probably shouldn’t be looking.
After a while—maybe the fourth round of proofreading between the two of you—you sat back with a satisfied hum, eyes scanning the final draft on the screen one last time. It was perfect. Crisp, clear, bold. Every line landed. Every quote hit. The tone, the flow, the weight of it—dead-on.
Clark was rereading a paragraph you’d rewritten when you looked at him and grinned. “I think we did it.”
He glanced at you, then back at the screen. “We really did.”
Without even thinking, you held up your hand. “Fist bump.”
He blinked at it like it was a foreign concept, then chuckled and tapped his knuckles lightly against yours. There was something deeply satisfying about it. Not just finishing the piece, but finishing it together. You slumped back into the couch with a dramatic sigh, and Clark followed suit, both of you sinking into the cushions like deflating balloons.
It wasn’t even that late—maybe just past ten. The soft hum of the city drifted in through his windows, and for once, there wasn’t anything left to worry about. The story was done. All that remained was… whatever this was.
And well, you couldn’t let a moment like this go to waste.
You turned your head toward him, voice light. “So… as I was saying yesterday—no girlfriend?”
Clark let out a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really don’t let things go, do you?”
“Absolutely not,” you said sweetly. “Especially when I see an opportunity to make a certain someone all red in the face again.”
“I wasn’t red,” he mumbled.
You tilted your head, grinning. “You so were. Somewhere between strawberry and a ripe tomato.”
He let out a quiet huff of a laugh, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. “It’s not a crime to be single, you know.”
“No, of course not. But it is curious. Clark Kent, charming, gentle, built like he could bench press a building—and not a single soul to call his own?” You gave a dramatic sigh, leaning back further into the cushions and tilting your head toward him. “It’s practically a scandal.”
His hand came up to cover his face for a second, and you heard him mumble behind his palm, “You’re relentless.”
You nudged your knee against his. “I just think the people deserve to know. The truth is out there.”
He peeked at you through his fingers. “You’re making this weird.”
“I’m making it fun,” you corrected. “And I haven’t even started with the follow-up questions.”
Clark gave you a look like he was trying very hard not to smile, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching—and more importantly, the way his shoulders had hunched up slightly, like he was trying to disappear into the couch. As if that was even remotely possible with how big he was.
“I mean, it’s not like I haven’t—uh—dated before,” he stammered, eyes suddenly fixed very intently on the ceiling. “I’ve just been… focused. On work. And other things.”
“Oh? Other things?” you echoed, eyes gleaming. You leaned a little closer, chin propped on your hand like you were very seriously conducting an interview. “Mysterious. Do these things wear lipstick and heels or—”
“No—God—no! Not like that, I mean—” He fumbled, his voice jumping an octave, ears turning red now. “I meant like… just life things. Family. Writing. Coffee. The weather. Taxes. Normal things.”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Taxes.”
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face with a low groan. “Can we pretend I said literally anything else?”
“Nope,” you said cheerfully. “Clark Kent: tax enthusiast. Definitely the sexiest answer I’ve ever heard.”
“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he muttered under his breath, shifting slightly like he wanted to vanish into a fold of the cushion. His shoulders were so wide that when he tried to hunch them, it only made them more obvious—like a mountain trying to duck under a table. His thigh was still pressed to yours, firm and warm, and when he moved slightly, your whole leg moved with him. The man was gravitational.
You tilted your head slowly, letting the silence stretch between you, a teasing glint sparking in your eyes. “You don’t?” you repeated, voice low and rich with mock innocence. “Do I make you nervous, Kent?”
It hit him like a sucker punch. Clark’s mouth parted as if to reply, then faltered. Closed. Opened again. Whatever he wanted to say, his brain wasn’t cooperating. His gaze darted to your face, lingered on your mouth just a second too long, then snapped upward toward the ceiling—like maybe salvation was written somewhere in the paint.
“Nervous isn’t… the word I’d use,” he finally muttered, voice deeper now, rough at the edges. “More like… wound up.”
You blinked.
The shift in the air was immediate—like someone had struck a match and held it between you. The words settled in, thick and full of implication, and you didn’t miss the way Clark immediately stiffened once he heard himself. His body locked up, like the realization hit him two seconds too late.
Your eyes met, and you watched it register behind his glasses—the double meaning, the subtext, the blush already blooming beneath his collar. His pupils dilated just slightly, and for a moment, he genuinely looked like he wanted to rewind time.
You smiled. No, you grinned. Slow and amused, dangerous in the way only a woman who knew exactly the effect she had could be.
“Wound up, huh?”
His ears turned bright red. You didn’t think you’d ever seen that happen to an actual adult man before. It was adorable.
“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, the words tumbling over each other. He sat up so fast the cushions shifted, his glasses sliding slightly down his nose. “I meant like—tense. Stressed. Not like that. That's— you're so dirty-minded.”
“Oh, no no no,” you said, turning toward him fully now, the couch creaking just slightly beneath your combined weight. You lifted a brow, voice thick with faux concern. “You already said it. Wound up. It’s okay, you don’t have to backtrack. It’s really bad for the human body to stay that way, y’know?”
He coughed—hard—into his fist, as if his lungs were trying to eject him from the situation entirely.
You inched in a little closer, chin resting in your hand like you were very seriously interviewing him. “When’s the last time you let off a little steam, anyway? That kind of tension? It’s terrible for your health. Builds up. Makes you twitchy. You could explode, in more ways than one.” You joked, clearly enjoying how flustered you were making him
His mouth opened, then immediately snapped shut. Again. His whole frame looked like it was short-circuiting—eyes wide, neck stiff, hands suddenly very still on his lap like he didn’t trust them to move. The tips of his ears were crimson now, and his knee gave a visible twitch where it touched yours.
“I… I don’t know,” he said finally, voice hoarse and absolutely not helping himself. “It’s… it’s been a while.”
You leaned in just a bit more, your voice dripping with playful condescension as you arched an eyebrow. “No one at work, then? No girls sneaking around, taking care of you? Or outside work? Surely someone’s keeping you from turning into a walking ball of tension.”
Clark’s face flushed deeper—if that was even possible—and he shifted awkwardly, trying to make himself smaller in the already cramped space. His broad shoulders hunkered down like he wished he could disappear entirely into the couch cushions. His fingers gripped the edge of the sofa tightly, veins standing out from the strain. His leg twitched where it pressed against yours, betraying how flustered he truly was.
“I—I don’t think that’s really... how it works,” he stammered, eyes flicking away, unable to hold your teasing gaze. His voice cracked just slightly as he added, “I’m not really—uh—good at that sort of thing.”
You softened your tone just a little, letting the teasing linger but adding a hint of genuine curiosity. “Alright,” you said, your eyes locking with his, “setting aside how things are—which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly thrilling—would you want that? For someone to take care of you? To take real good care of you, Clark?”
His breath hitched, and you caught the sudden catch in his throat. His body tensed for a split second, fingers tightening a bit more on the sofa’s edge. He swallowed hard, eyes darting away for a moment before he met your gaze again—this time softer, more honest.
He hesitated for a moment, then finally looked down, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… I think I’d like that. Someone to—take care of me. To make me feel… wanted. To help me relax. I don’t really know how to ask for it, but… I want it.”
His fingers twitched nervously on the edge of the sofa, and he shifted slightly, as if trying to make himself smaller—almost like he was half-expecting you to laugh it off. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on yours, vulnerable and honest in a way that caught you completely off guard.
“I just… I don’t know how to say it out loud. But I want to be held. To be touched… And—Um, well, yeah.” His voice faltered, thick with something unspoken, as he glanced up briefly, cheeks flushed and breath shallow.
You looked at him softly, your voice gentle but steady. “Would you let me help you with that, Clark? To… take care of you the way you need?”
He blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. His eyes widened, and for a moment, he looked almost speechless—like he hadn’t expected you to ask.
“I… I—” he stammered, words catching in his throat. “Y-yes. Please.”
As he spoke, his voice low and whispery, you couldn't help but notice a sudden shift in Clark. His broad frame tensed subtly, shoulders stiffening like a wire pulled taut. Your eyes flicked downward, and there it was—an undeniable bulge pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. It hadn’t been there earlier, not when you first began talking, but now it had made its unmistakable presence known.
The sight hit you with a raw intensity. Was he really this pent up? This desperate, maybe? The way his hands clenched and unclenched on the edge of the couch, the quick, shallow breaths rattling in his chest—it all spoke volumes. His steady composure shattered, replaced by a vulnerability so fierce it almost scorched the air between you.
Clark shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust himself, covering the imprint of his twitching cock, like it would somehow disappear or at least be less obvious. One of his hands wrapped a hand around it, looking to shield himself from your view, trying to not seem like some pervy teenager. His thigh pressed a little harder against yours in the movement, muscles flexing under his pants, taut and commanding. Every subtle twitch, every tiny flex of those long fingers gripping the sofa’s edge, betrayed the storm raging just beneath the surface.
Your gaze flicked to his clenched hand resting just above the unmistakable tent, and without hesitation, you reached out gently, sliding your fingers around his wrist. His breath hitched, and his eyes widened as you slowly pulled his hand away, freeing the evidence of his need from its grip.
“You’re trying to hide this from me now, huh?” you tease, your eyes flickering between the bulge straining against his pants and the glaze settling over his eyes. “Can’t have that.”
Clark’s breath catches, and he swallows hard before meeting your gaze with a shaky, “Um, No, I’m not.”
As you take his hand from his lap, you finally place a hand over his cock. He was radiating heat, and from what you could feel as you rubbed your hand gently up and down the length of him, he was huge and ridiculously girthy.
Clark’s breath hitched sharply, a soft, barely-there noise escaping his lips—half gasp, half moan. His face flushed crimson, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open, wide and vulnerable. His jaw clenched tightly, as if trying to hold back whatever words or sounds threatened to spill free.
Clark’s breath hitched again, his eyes darting nervously as your hand traced slow, deliberate circles. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, thick with a mix of disbelief and desire. “You’re… you’re really mean, you know that? You can’t just—do this to me,” he murmured, cheeks flushed deeper, words stumbling over each other as he struggled to keep control. “It’s… unfair.”
"Can't I? You want me to stop touching you? Because I can do that." You began, looking right into his eyes. Most of the time, the poor thing couldn't keep eye contact; his eyes flickered from your eyes to your hand, or to the ceiling. As you stared him down, the motion of your hand limited itself to his tip, feeling around the wet spot he had begun to make on his pants.
His breath hitched, voice shaky but earnest. “No! please don’t stop… I want this.”
A shaky sigh escaped him as his body tensed under your touch, every muscle stretched tight with anticipation and need. Despite the vulnerability in his eyes, there was something fierce simmering just beneath the surface—an unspoken surrender that made the air between you crackle with electricity.
Your hands stopped stroking him for a second, your fingers wandering around the strap of his belt, shuffling under the fabric of his dress shirt. "Then what do you want? I can't just do whatever I want with you, can I?" You raised a brow teasingly, pushing for an answer.
Clark’s voice trembled as he finally found the courage to speak more directly, eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. One of his hands found the back of your head and cradled it, brushing soft circles against your scalp. “Um— well, you can… You can use me. You can use your hands on me too, if you want,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing deeper as the words slipped out, raw and unguarded.
You smirked, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. “That’s very unspecific, Kent. What exactly would that imply?”
Clark’s cheeks flared bright red, his breath catching as he swallowed nervously. “Don’t—come on, you’re really gonna make me ask for it, just like that?”
You chuckled softly, voice low and teasing. “Yup. Tell me what you want, big boy.” One of your fingers curled just below the hem of his pants, making him suddenly shiver from the unexpected contact. His abs and the muscles on his torso jerking suddenly.
The hand resting lightly on your head suddenly stilled. Clark shut his eyes briefly, as if gathering every ounce of courage to say what he felt but barely dared to voice. When he finally tilted his head toward you, his brows knit together and his eyes glistened with a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He looked so raw—so close to breaking—and for a moment, you almost felt sorry for him.
“Please, baby, jus’ touch me,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Can you—God.” He cut himself off abruptly, blinking up at you, clearly torn between shame and need, unsure if he could even say the words that were burning behind his lips. Yet, there you lay, watching him, waiting.
He swallowed hard, voice rough and desperate now. “Jesus… you’re really driving me backwards. Look at what you’ve got me saying…” His breath hitched. “Can you please jerk me off, baby? Put me to good use. Do something. Whatever…”
Your fingers fumbled almost instinctively at the buckle of his belt, heart hammering as you slid his pants down his thighs just below his knees, leaving him in his boxer briefs, feeling the tension release with the sound of the clasp. Calvin Klein— you weren't even surprised, he even looked like the models in the magazines. Without hesitation, you moved over him, settling on his lap, heat radiating from your bodies as you leaned in to capture his mouth with a hungry kiss.
His breath hitched when your legs came into contact with the flesh of his thighs, hands gripping your waist as the space between you vanished.
There was no gentleness here—only the raw need that had been building between you, unleashed in a rush of heat and urgency. His mouth opened beneath yours, inviting, desperate, and you wasted no time slipping your tongue inside to explore, tasting the sweetness of his tounge and the tremble of his lips.
His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, making you drag the heat of your clothed cunt against his leaking cock as if trying to make up for lost time. Your fingers pressed firmly against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat beneath the fabric. You began humping him, and so did he. He whimpered into your mouth every time his tip caught the seam of your jeans, serving him as some sort of satisfaction. His hips rolled hungrily against yours as he kept shamelessly moaning into your mouth, sounding like a desperate man, each whimper more needy. The kiss was possessive and wild, a fierce claiming that left no room for doubt about the fire burning between you.
You broke the kiss suddenly, something which thankfully lent you the view of his soft, plump lips now swollen and red, his cheeks and ears rosy as ever, and his glasses, as always, lying askew on his nose. You latched onto his neck, and he let out a high-pitched noise. He's so cute. As your tongue lapped against the skin of his neck, your hands wandered down to the hem of his boxers and slowly snaked themselves under them. As your hands wandered further, you could feel how soft the skin of his abdomen was, and later, just below, you could also feel he was trimmed, and then, just further down—
Jesus. Christ.
He was fucking huge. Your hand wrapping around the base of his cock basically counted as a miracle; you almost couldn't clasp your hand into a fist around it. He was long, too, your hand wrapped tight around him, and you stroked him once, earning a shiver from him. Even without looking at it, you could feel the ridges of the veins running along the side of his cock as you stroked him. God bless this man, truly.
"Mhmph." He flinched as he clearly had tried to say something, but that was the only thing that came out of his mouth. A pathetic sigh.
Just as your lips left a blooming mark on the side of Clark’s neck—deep, flushed, and unmistakably yours—a flicker of something wicked sparked to life in your mind. You let your tongue trace the edges of the bruise for one last second before your hand, which had been steadily working his cock beneath the waistband of his boxers, suddenly stilled.
He gasped, a breathless whimper catching in his throat at the loss of contact. You slowly withdrew your hand, dragging it out deliberately, your fingers slick with proof of just how far gone he was. He let out a soft, pitiful noise, equal parts frustration and pleading, as if you’d stolen the only thing keeping him grounded.
You leaned back just enough to meet his eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—your own gaze dark and commanding. Then, you lifted your hand, palm up, just beneath his face.
“Spit on my hand, Clark,” you said, low and deliberate, your tone a perfect blend of authority and challenge.
His breath hitched. He blinked once, twice, as if trying to determine whether he’d heard you right. His lips parted, trembling slightly.
“I—wha…?” he stammered, voice thready and wrecked. “You want me to…”
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” you murmured, voice like velvet and sin.
His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed. You could see the war in his head—modesty clashing with the overwhelming desire to please you. Finally, he nodded, barely perceptible, and whispered:
“O-okay.”
Clark’s breath hitched audibly, chest rising with a sharp inhale as you pulled your hand back and held it in front of him. His eyes—already wide and glassy—darted to your fingers, then up to your face. You could see the war inside him, flickering right behind his glasses. Some part of him still wanted to be composed, respectable. The other part, the one unraveling at your words and touch, was clawing its way to the surface.
His jaw tensed like he might say something—but then he didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, lips parting just a bit. His breath brushed against your palm. And then—
Spit.
It was small, and hesitant as he let it drip from his mouth to the palm of your hand, but it was there. His cheeks flushed instantly deeper, as if even the action startled him. He didn’t look away, though. No—his gaze held yours, almost defiantly now. There was shame in his expression, yes, but also something else. Want. Trust. Hunger.
You let a smirk tug at your lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, low and warm like velvet. The way he shuddered at just that made your pulse kick up. His fingers were still clenching the fabric of your pants, like he was holding himself back from... something.
With your other hand, you reached down and tugged at the waistband of his boxers, fingers fumbling slightly against the elastic. Finally, you hooked them properly, intent clear in your movements. Clark let out a shaky breath, lifting his hips in a silent invitation, and his own hands moved to help, pushing the fabric down with an urgency that betrayed just how far gone he already was. For a second, the waistband caught his shaft, making it even harder to pull down.
What a sight.
This was probably the first time you'd ever seen a man having a hard time taking off his boxers from how utterly huge he was.
Finally, in an act of desperation, he yanked them down, freeing his cock from under the fabric. It sprang out, slow and steady, oscillating back and forth from the front of your jeans to his belly button. Jesus. His tip was a deep shade of red, leaking with eager drops of precum, coasting hungry down the very slit. He was thick, like oddly girthy. His shaft was very faintly a darker shade of skin than the rest of his body, something tending towards pink or light mauve. Veins, humming with desire, painted the sides of his shaft, making it all the more intimidating. Clearly, you had been staring for too long because his breath hitched, and his whole cock twitched before you, swaying towards him. His eyes darted away for a moment, glancing anywhere but at you—as if the weight of your gaze made him suddenly self-conscious.
He shifted slightly, the vulnerability of the moment pressing on him, and yet there was an undeniable softness in the way he looked back, hesitating but trusting. “You’re… really looking at me, aren't you?” he joked quietly, letting out a soft nervous laugh.
You became aware of the look on your face, and your eyes darted towards him. "Yeah, well, I don't know if you're aware of how big you are, Clark." You let out a breath as your hand, still slick from his spit, slid down to stroke him once and for all. Your hand glided down effortlessly, making wet and sloppy noises under you.
Clark blinked, clearly caught off guard by your words. His cheeks flushed deeper, and he shifted uneasily, sucking in a breath and puffing his chest the second your hands started working on him. “I—uh, dont give it much thought…” he murmured, voice soft and a bit breathless. “You really think so? It’s not like I’ve been hiding it on purpose.”
That made you scoff, but your hand kept working at the same pace. You wanted to put your mouth on him so bad, but considering how he was reacting now, he'd probably implode from just having your tounge on him. But then again, wasn't that the whole point? So then you decided to do so. You got off his lap, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, working him oh so sweetly, and as soon as your knees found the carpet, you brought your tounge to his tip, swirling the slick around it.
Clark flinched suddenly, muscles tensing like coiled springs beneath his shirt. You had begun to stroke his cock faster, your mouth taking him deeper into your mouth, you kept one hand at his base helping yourself with what you couldn't take fully. The flesh of his thighs tightened and strained, every movement charged with raw energy. His head fell back against the cushion of the couch, eyes closing briefly as a low, guttural sound escaped from deep within him.
Without hesitation, his hand shot up to your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. Despite the strength behind the motion, his touch was soft and soothing, cradling you at the base of your skull and tracing slow, comforting circles along your neck.
You arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as your hand continued its slow, deliberate motion. “That feel good?” you teased, voice dripping with mischief. Your grip tightened just slightly, testing his reaction, fingers sliding with purpose along his shaft.
Clark’s breath hitched again, eyes fluttering open to meet yours—wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a mix of surprise and something deeper. His voice came out husky, uneven, betraying how much your touch affected him. “Y-yeah… Fuck,” he cursed. He cursed?
That was the first time you had ever heard Clark Kent curse, really curse.
That only ignited you. Your mouth and hands began to work at new speeds. You kept yourself coordinated, sometimes pulling away to spit on the very tip, or to pull away for a second to look at him from under your lashes. The poor man was done for; you could tell he was close by the way he had begun to hold onto the back of your head tighter, pushing you down onto his cock.
Clark’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as his eyes darkened with something raw and unguarded. The usual calm that defined him seemed to melt away, replaced by a flicker of desperate yearning that made his entire body tense and shiver.
His gaze locked onto yours, glazed and unfocused for a moment—as if the world had narrowed down to nothing but the heat of your touch and the magnetic pull between you. His lips parted slightly, breath hitching as if he struggled to find the right words, but none came.
Then, something completely and utterly unexpected happened: he spoke—without being coaxed, prompted, or begged. His voice, low and certain, cut through the air like it had always belonged there. He furrowed his brows, lips pulling into the faintest pout as he locked eyes with you, unblinking. And then, like some quiet ritual had reached its climax, he reached up and slid his glasses off, tossing them onto the table behind you with a casual flick of his wrist.
In an instant, he changed. Not in a subtle way—not in a blink-and-you-miss-it kind of way. It was seismic. Gone was the quiet, anxious boy who shrank into himself. He rolled back his shoulders like he’d just remembered he had them. His knees spread wider, his posture now dripping with a kind of authority that hadn’t been there a minute ago. It wasn’t just confidence—it was control. Power. Presence.
He looked like a completely different person—no, he was a different person. And you were choking on that realization as much as you were on him.
What the actual fuck just happened?
"Yeah? Y'taking me so good, you know that? Jesus— your mouth's so warm, baby." Then the hand on your hair pulled your hair into a makeshift ponytail. He was close, you could tell. His hips bucked involuntarily, making you take him completely, and for a few seconds, he held you there, nose nestled against the trimmed hairs of his pelvis.
"Taking care of me so nicely. Just like— just like that." He tilted his head to get a good look at you. "Atta girl," that sent shivers down your spine, only fueling you further. Your head bobbed with your newfound speed, only making him groan louder.
He began once again, "I’ve been trying to be good. Trying not to think of you like this— always so nice to me. But you've made it so hard— God." You moaned around him, and that's when you began to feel his cock twitch around your lips, so you sped up. "Hell, you made it so hard. Tried not cummin' in my pants like a teenager every time you walked with one of those tight little pencil skirts."
"Tried not to think of you like this. Never touched myself—God, never, not once. I felt so bad thinking of you this way after you had been nothin' but nice to me. Such a sweet angel. Nothin' but a good little girl to me." You smiled as you bobbed your head faster, helping yourself with your hands every now and then. He really was such a kind, pure-spirited person (putting away the fact that his cock was shoved down your throat). Even if you had begun to guess how he felt about you the first few weeks, it was still sweet hearing him say it. Spit had begun to pool around the corners of your mouth, making the noises coming from your lips even filthier. They were wet and sticky, echoing around the room, sometimes interrupted by a sudden pop when your mouth slipped away from his cock.
"Oh, baby, you're drooling everywhere." He brought a single knuckle to your lips and cheeks and began brushing off spit. "M'gonna cum in your mouth, honey, can I?" His finger then caressed your cheek as his breaths began to grow rapid and unsteady. You nodded with a small hum.
His hand stayed pressed against your head, still holding your hair into a ponytail. Even now, knee deep in such filth, he was still such a gentleman. But then, his grip shifted—tightened. A low, instinctive reaction. His eyes, darkened and wide, dropped down to meet yours. The soft blue was now nearly eclipsed by pupils so dilated they looked black in the dim light. His chest rose sharply with each breath, muscles tight under his shirt, as if his body couldn't quite decide between tensing up or melting down completely. And just when you thought he might say something—anything—he tilted his head back again with a low, stuttering whimper, shoulders twitching like he’d lost the strength to hold back.
"M'gonna— God, taking me so well, such a messy girl. Fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fuckme, fuck-" His words died out on his throat, and his throat closed up. Your mouth continued to lap at him up and down, forcing him into your throat and bobbing your head to meet the snapping of his hips. Suddenly, with one last thrust, he moaned, and you felt the warm sensation of cum trickling down your throat. He held you there by the back of your head, pressed flush against the skin of his pelvis. His hips stuttered and his muscles flexed as he let out a string of incoherent words.
As he continued to paint your throat, he tried to excuse himself and be the gentleman that he is once again. He sounded like he was about try cry, and for a second you were sure he was when you saw a tiny speckle of light catching a tear on his cheek. "I'm not usually like this—Oh!" You tried not to cough or choke, but eitherway the sounds of your throat closing up on him were nothing but quiet. "M'sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. So good to me, making me feel so good..."
Finally, he let go of the grip on your hair, and you swallowed everything he gave you. You pulled away from his cock with a small pop as a string of saliva followed your lips. He looked so genuinely fucked out, his breaths came in uneven rhythms, your cheeks were flushed red, some tears had gathered right around the corner of his eyes, and most definitely in yours too.
You sat beside him, curling a hand around his shoulders, gently combing through his damp hair as he softly opened his eyes. His lashes fluttered like he was waking from some fever dream, and for a moment, he just stared—like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he blinked a few times, the last of the tears clinging to the corners of his eyes, and let out the softest, shakiest breath.
"Hi," you whispered, your thumb brushing a stray lock from his forehead. God, what a ridiculously gorgeous man—even flushed and undone, or maybe especially then.
"Hi, right back at you," he managed, voice breathless and rough-edged. He giggled—just a short, embarrassed sound, like he couldn’t believe himself. His hand found your thigh, grounding himself.
You leaned in, your forehead brushing his temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “You know…” you murmured, voice all soft and teasing, “You’ve still got to get that Superman interview.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t blush like he usually did when you got close. Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough that his mouth nearly brushed yours, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing.
“Oh, absolutely. You’ve got the right person for that.”
The way he said it—low, smug, a little amused—sent a flicker down your spine. There was a glint in his eye that hadn’t been there before. Not the bashful gleam of Clark Kent fumbling with his words. No. This was something else entirely. A secret he was daring you to notice.
Clark’s eyes darkened with playful mischief after that as he suddenly shifted, moving with surprising speed to pin you gently against the corner of the couch. His broad frame hovered over you, breath warm against your skin.
A slow grin spread across his face. “But I think,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “It’s your turn now. Pa always said a gentleman knows how to return a favor.”
He held your gaze for a moment longer, that mischievous smile still playing on his lips. Then, with a soft chuckle, he leaned in just slightly, the space between you charged with unspoken promises.
And just like that, the moment hung suspended—waiting, electric—before the world around you slipped away, leaving only the two of you in that quiet, perfect pause.
MINI AUTHORS NOTE: would yall believe me if i told you i got my period while writing the smut bit…
synopsis you moved to smallville because you had to save your family's farm. it was a place you never wanted to stay but also one you couldn't escape. then you met him: quiet, steady, and the one person who saw through your walls. slowly, without warning he became the part of you you didn't even know you were missing
a.n my longest fic to date. there will be a part 2 cause i didn't wanna make it too long. this part spans reader and clark relationship from childhood to late teens (ends with them just starting uni), reader will be a punk rock musician in the next part. also wrote the song lyrics myself so sorry if they're cringe lol not betaread
wc 10.2k (ik it's long but give it a chance!)
heads up slow burn, porn with plot, bestfriend clark, no use of y/n, reader is female, they get into a fight but they get over it, lana lang and peter ross are mentioned but their personalities are completely my own creation. clark is a munch, mutual loss of virginity, fingering, p in v, unprotected (wrap it b4 you tap it), mentions of car crashes, reader and clark are a audhd duo
You loved Blüdhaven. It was where you were born, where you’d been raised. The only time you ever spent outside of it was when you were visiting your grandparents in the summer. There was never much to do, but making friends with the cows and watching your grandma knit were admittedly things you liked doing. In moderation of course, 3 weeks out of the year in slow living was all you could handle.
Blüdhaven had loads to do, there were always events going on, concerts happening, new exhibits at the museum. Your class field trips were anything but boring, and you loved going on little adventures or “side quests” as you liked to call them with your friends. On the last day of school, you even got to have a water balloon fight after field day. You had walked home soaking wet but happy, smiling from ear to ear.
That smile quickly dropped when you saw the look on your parents' faces. Your mom had ushered you into the shower, bringing you neatly folded clothes and resting them on the countertop before telling you to come back to the living room once you were done.
As the steam curled around the patterned tiles, your thoughts ran wild with what they had to tell you.
Had they found out you had helped Amelia cheat during the math exam in April? Had your teachers told them you had accidentally dropped the paint in art class a few weeks ago? They had said you weren’t in any trouble though, that couldn’t be it.
You pondered like this for a few more minutes before your heart sunk into your stomach.
Your library book
It sat under your bed, mockingly collecting dust. It was 4 weeks overdue yesterday. You had been meaning to give it back, but you had accidentally tore the spine away from the pages after reading a particularly angering scene. Great. You were really in for it now.
Before you could think too much about what exactly your punishment would be, your mothers yelling pulled you out of your trance. Twisting the knob, the water came to a halt as you dried yourself off before changing into the clothes your mom had picked out. The pajamas were soft, but offered little comfort to your now terrified mind.
Carefully padding down the stairs, you sat in the chair across from the sofa, looking at the floor dejectedly before opening your mouth to apolgize. Your parents speak before you can.
“Sweetheart, we have some important news to tell you”
Your shoulders immediately relax, realizing that this isn’t going to be a lecture. But something about your dads tone has you nervous. What could be so important that they had to sit you down?
Pausing for a beat, he continues.
“So you know how we were planning on not going to the farm this summer? We were gonna have you go to that summer camp with your friends instead”
You nodded as he began again
“Well, Grandma and Grandpa have been having a hard time taking care of everything on the farm, you know they’re getting older. It’s hard to keep up with all the animals and crops when you’re our age let alone theirs” He moves forward slightly, linking his fingers together. “Grandpa had a scare yesterday, he almost fell while getting off the baler. He called us asking if we could come stay there with them.” He stops speaking for a moment.
You’re confused, and pretty upset. You go to the farm every summer, this is the only time in your 9 years of living that you’ve ever asked to stay back. Your best friends were going to Camp Ivy, you had asked months before and now you were going to have to go to that stupid farm again while all of them had fun. Without you.
Great, just great.
Digging your nails into your palm, you stiffen a little as your mother continues where he left off.
“We said yes, but we aren’t just going to be staying for the summer, we’re moving there permanently”
Your heart stops for a moment. You’re genuinely at a loss for words. Your mother reaches out her hand, to comfort you, you think. But you quickly move back, the tears you were holding back move freely as you get up and run into your room. You let your body hit the bed, crawling under the covers as you put your pillow over your head to muffle your crying.
Your life is officially over. All of your friends, your teachers, everyone you know was going to forget about you while you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Great. Just great.
You wake up the next day and on your way to the bathroom catch sight of the outfit you had worn yesterday, you had been so happy when you had gotten home and now you were just like the shirt. Crumpled up, dirty, and in desperate need of a wash.
Your parents had given you space, but within the next few days you had already begun to pack. Your whole life soon was boxed away and put into a truck as you got in the car. It would take 2 days to get to Smallville.
In all honesty it doesn’t fully even set in that you're moving, your mind warps it into being just another summer trip. But for some reason, the minute your head hits the hotel pillows in Indianapolis it really hits you.
In all honesty, you should’ve seen it coming. For a while now they had been talking about moving (they didn’t know that you’d heard them of course, it was always after bedtime). Also Grandma and Grandpa needed help, they were strong but even you couldn’t do all that work on your own. Even though you were upset you were leaving everything you knew behind, you would rather do that than make your parents stay unhappy and your grandparents stay overwhelmed. Sighing, you let yourself sink further into the pillow, closing your eyes as you drift off to sleep.
The next day is spent the same. Staring off out the window. You had tried to read, but your motion sickness forbade it, feeling nauseous before you could even turn a page. As you watched the sky darken and rain begin to come down, you let yourself day dream about what you would be like if you were a character in the book. Maybe even the main character. It was fun, and as you got lost in the scenario the sun slowly moved further west, gently hiding as it fell past the horizon.
It’s late when you reach the farm, your eyes open after what feels like hours as you stretch softly. Your mom opens the backseat door, and you get out. The air is refreshing, warmer than you remember it being, but comforting nontheless. Your grandparents are already asleep as you quietly open the door. Your things would arrive tomorrow, the movers had said they’d arrive sometime between 8am and noon.
The house, like the farm it resided on, was massive, to you at least. Out of the 5 bedrooms of the house, you had your own special one, decorated mostly with things your grandma had crotched or knitted.
You let your backpack hit the floor as you took a shower to get the long car ride off your body. After changing you stayed up to finish the last few chapters of your book.
-
The next few weeks weren’t like anything you had expected, The fomo of not going to summer camp and the harsh reality that you wouldn’t be going back to Blüdhaven really set in, and you struggled to do much more than lounge around on the couch all day. Even the animals could feel the resentment you had. The last time you tried hanging out with the cows, they had basically run off.
You spent most of the day either watching old black and white films with grandpa, watching grandma knit, or reading. You had been evicted out of your room after you had been “in there too much” according to mom.
Now you would read sitting in the cornfields. At first it was kinda scary because they were tall and when they moved it almost sounded like someone was behind you, but you got used to it. May was ending and you were feeling more miserable than ever, so it didn’t really come as a surprise to you that your parents were sitting you down in the kitchen later that morning.
You were having a staring contest with the gingham tablecloth as your parents went on and on about how they were “concerned for you” and how you “needed to make more friends” honestly, did they expect you to just forget about all the ones back home? Making new friends now would be accepting the fact that they weren’t going to be your friends anymore. The thought of that made your eyes sting and before you could even think about it you abruptly stood up, tearing your eyes away from the cloth as your palms made an echoing thwack sound as they hit the table.
Before your parents could open their mouths, you turned around and ran, the door shut loudly as you ran. You winced, you hadn’t meant to be so rude but you couldn’t help it. You had obsiously been upset, they hadn’t even thought about what it would mean, making new friends. The tears flowed freely down your cheeks as your arms pushed against the neverending cornstalk. You didn’t know where you were planning on going, but you knew for a fact you couldn’t stay on the farm. They’d come looking for you, and the last thing you wanted was your parents to look at you with the eyes they’ve been giving you recently. Always a little sad. You hadn’t been able to put your finger on it for a while but you had finally realized what it was, pity.
The gentle breeze and the moving of the plants hid your quiet sniffles. You continued to walk for what felt like hours. Once you hit the fence that marked where your farm ended, you made your way to the side of the road as you continued walking. The sun was fully out now, it was probably mid afternoon. You were starting to get thirsty, but your pride wasn’t going to let you turn back now, you were in too deep.
Just as your feet started to ache a little bit more, you began to make out what looked like a farmhouse. You continued walking just off the road, and as you got closer you came face to face with a mailbox. Leaning your head to the left you noted in bold white letters, KENT was written on the side. You contemplated for a moment what you should do. You hadn’t spoken to anyone but your family for nearly a month so you weren’t sure if you would sound stupid or not, but the dryness in your throat quickly made the decision for you.
Oh well, even if the Kents were your grandparents' age, maybe you could befriend them. That would shut your parents up. Could you be friends with people your grandparents age though? Before you could deliberate any further you had reached the porch. You stopped, looking side to side for someone outside. After seeing nobody you exhaled, straightening your back and looking at your parents eye level. Most adults are that height and that way they wont have tio stare at your head when you open the door, the long hike you took here probably messed up your hair, and that wouldn’t make for a good first impression. You knocked on the door. Once. Twice.
The door slowly creaked open and you were confused when you didnt see someone looking down at you, as you let your eyes fall back to normal your breath got caught in your throat. Looking back at you wasn’t someone your grandparents age, not even your parents. He loooked as old as you, maybe older cause he was a little bigger than you. And his eyes were bluer than you thought was possible. Bluer than clear skies, the oceans you had seen, even your markers.
You both stared at each other for a moment before he opened his mouth.
“Hi, can I help you?”
Around 50 thoughts ran through your mind, all slamming into each other and making you stare at him blankly for a second or two.
“Um hi I took a walk, a really long one, longer than I meant to at least-” before you let yourself ramble and make yourself look even stupider than you already have, you shake your head before speaking again, more coherently this time. “Could I get some water? I think i’m dehydrated”
He smiles at you, cheeks caving into dimples as he pushes the door open. “Of course! I’ll have Ma get you some, she’s making some rhubarb pie, if you stay long enough you can have some too!”
You’re pretty shocked at the instant kindness and welcome in your random arrival, but you feel yourself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in weeks. “I’ve never had Rhubarb pie before, but it sounds good”
He gapes at you for a minute, before beginning to ramble about how it’s the most perfect, amazing dessert to ever exist. You listen intently, following him further into the house after you take your shoes off. Clark, who tells you his name after he proclaims his love for rhubarb pie, brings you to the kitchen.
A woman with wavy brown hair turns around, meeting your eyes with a smile as she shakes your hand gently. “Hi! I’m Martha, it’s nice to meet you! You’re (Grandpa and Grandma’s names)” grandbaby aren’t you?”
You nod, somewhat surprised that she already knows who you are. Whenever you visit you stick mostly to the farm, rarely going out more into town. Knowing your grandparents, they probably gushed about you to their neighbors so you shouldn’t be too shocked.
You sat down at the table, a glass of water in hand. Martha asked how long you were going to be staying, and Clark perked up when you said you’d moved here permanently.
“Does that mean you’re going to go to Weisinger?” He asks
You nod, you’re pretty sure that’s the elementary you’d be attending. It is the only one in Smallville after all. Behind you, grabbing a pie tin Martha assks.
“What grade are you going into honey?”
“Fifth grade” You smile at this, at least after this year you would get to be out of elementary. You were excited to go to middle school, it seemed more grown up.
After hearing that, Clark says that he’s going into fifth grade too, and you smile wider. A friend. You had actually gotten a friend.
As June began, so did the slump you had been in. You had been driven home later that day, with two tupperware, one full of pie, and another full of casserole. Martha had insisted. You waved goodbye to her and Clark as you sheepishly stepped inside. You heard quick shuffling, you steeled yourself, ready to get yelled at.
The last thing you expected was to be wrapped in an enveloping hug. After a more concerned than angry lecture, you held out the tupperware for them and told them all about the very interesting day that you had.
You spent the rest of the summer having fun, mostly with Clark. You guys caught fireflies at night (you always let them go, it was fun watching them all come out at once), climbed and fell off of hay bales, started a book club made up of just you two, and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to teach him the guitar. You introduced him to your favorite series, loaning him books that you would read together in the corn fields. By late August you even pinky swore. From that day on, you two were officially best friends.
-
Adjusting to Weisinger was hard at first, you weren’t used to such small classes. It didn’t help that everybody knew everybody, most of them since birth, but Clark made it easier. He introduced you to his friends, and soon enough you had a new little circle. The school year went by fast like it always did, and soon enough you were getting ready to go to Junior High. You didn’t feel as grown up as you thought you would, but it was exciting nonetheless.
That was until you got your schedule back. Unlike in Elementary school where you just had one teacher that taught you all the subjects, in middle school you had a different teacher for each one. When you compared your schedule to Clarks, your heart sank. You didn’t have any classes together, only lunch. Ever the optimist, he could sense your frustration. He reassured you.
“We still have lunch together, don’t worry. Besides we have a promise don’t we? I’d never let myself drift away from my best friend” He smiles, and you feel your heart skip a beat. You shove him a little before bringing your hand up to his, pinkies interlocking as you smile.
Clark, as usual, was right. Your classes were still full of people you knew, as moving here like you did was pretty rare. Most of them were boring, but some classes you always looked forward to. The two main ones were English and music.
Over the summer the ‘Book Club’ you had with Clark turned into a writing club, you had exhausted all the books both of your parents thought you were mature enough to read, and so after putting your heads together you decided to just write your own stories.
You both went about it differently. Where Clark was methodical, direct, almost documentative, you were more metaphorical, lyrical, introspective.
It was fun seeing how the other would have such different takes on prompts, and class gave you an oppurtunity to imporve your skills.
Music was also like that, but instead you got to play on an electric guitar. You had wanted one since you had first picked up an acoustic, but your mom insisted that playing on an acoustic would “sharpen your skills”. She was right, it had been what she had done when she learned how to play. Nothing could beat the adrenaline rush you got when playing an electric for the first time though. It felt like the notes itself were flowing through your veins. This was definitely something you could get used to.
Clark and you still hung out at least twice a week. Sometimes you did homework together, trying and failing to work on math. Two heads is better than one didn’t apply to you guys when it came to anything math related. Other times you wrote lyrics as he wrote up things for the daily announcements, it let him write about stuff the way he wanted. You guys were great.
You two had somehow gotten even closer, you were both rarely seen without the other during breaks. In seventh grade you had three classes together, that was fun. And going into eighth, you only had one. Anything was better than nothing though, and you quickly settled into the new routine.
It was orgnaized chaos, until yesterday at least.
As you guys were biking home from school Clark told you about a crush he had one one of your classmates. Not just anyone though, he had a crush on Lana. Lana Lang. The perfect, beautiful, frustratingly nice Lara Lang. You almost crashed your bike when he told you, but luckily a rock you passed over hid it for you. Truly a blessing in disguise. You listened to him talk about her, offering input on how he should ask her out. He thought he didn’t have a chance, but you convinced him otherwise later.
As you had predicted she had said yes to him, and they had a date planned for Sunday. It wasn’t anything too crazy, just getting ice cream and biking to the creek. He admitted he was nervous though, because he didn’t know if it was normal to kiss someone after a date. You didn’t really know either, it’s not like your parents talked to you about things like this, and you didn’t have an older sibling to ask, so you both tried to figure out what the social norms were. After deliberating for hours (20 minutes) you guys thought that before she went back to her house, he would kiss her if it felt right.
That followed another long discussion about what “feeling right” meant and how he would know. One of the things you and Clark had in common was not really understanding social situations at times. While he had to actively identify them and figure out how to react, you had a hard time reacting in what you knew was the “normal” way. It was nice having someone that you didn’t have to pretend all the time around, and you think he appreciated having someone besides his parents that he didn’t have to constantly overthink around. He could be honest with you, blunt even.
That’s why it didn’t really shock you when he asked you a question the next day. You’re in your bedroom- him at your desk, writing; you at the foot of your bed, practicing chords. The question itself does surprise you, though.
“Do you think we could kiss? For practice at least, I don’t wanna kiss Lana badly. That would be a nightmare.”
You pause for a moment, accidentally playing a chord a little flat before you laugh. He looks back at you and you laugh, shaking your head.
“Practicing sounds smart but are you sure? You’d be losing your first kiss to me instead of her.”
He contemplates for a moment before responding. “I don’t think I would, besides I'd be your first kiss too so it would balance out.”
It’s your turn to think now, and after a moment of deliberation you nod your head. What he said is logical, besides you don’t really mind losing your first kiss to Clark, you’ve known him for a long time and he’s one of the few people you fully trust.
“How should we do it? Also do you mean like right now?” You put your guitar to the side, leaning to your right and cracking your back.
He gets out of your chair and sits in front of you. It isn’t awkward per se, it never is with the two of you, but something is different. He looks at you differently than he normally does. You don’t know how to describe it, before you can contemplate longer he interrupts your thoughts.
“If you dont mind, that is. You do know that you can tell me no, right?” He looks at you a little worried but that disappears when you smile.
“Yeah yeah, I know.” looking at him. Both of you sit still for a minute again before he grabs your hand, gently tugging you closer. You can feel your heartbeat thrumming. He tells you to not be nervous, and before you can quip out a retort, his lips are on yours. It’s an interesting feeling. He’s warm, like always and the hand that had pulled you closer is slowly bought up to your face. A second later your eyes are opening as you both simultaneously pull apart.
“How was that? Was it bad?” He asks
You think about it for a moment, but after seeing him get more nervous you reassure him it was fine. You were just trying to figure out how to describe it. You’re careful to not sound overly enthusiastic, and for the first time since knowing him, you lie to Clark. Lie might be a stretch, it’s more of a half truth. I mean it’s not like you could tell him that you liked it, or that you wanted to do it again. Lana. Pretty, perfect Lana. You shove whatever confusing emotions youre feeling down as you and Clark go back to normal, he’s still sitting on the floor with you , but now he’s to your left, reading over your lyrics and helping you edit them while you keep playing chords trying to figure out what sounds right.
You find yourself dreading Sunday. The usual excitement you have for the weekend is dampened when you remember how it’s going to end. You’re supposed to be happy for Clark, be the one cheering him on from the sidelines. So why is it that you’re struggling so much to do it?
And so like you always do when you’re feeling things you don’t fully comprehend, you grab your journal. The leather is worn around the edges, and you pull the thin bookmark to the side as you begin to write. You write in pen, it doesn’t fade like pencil does, but it makes for a very annoying writing utensil when you seem to be writing all the wrong things. Three hours and much more pages later, you read over the lyrics you’ve scrubbled down.
You said she makes you happy, so why can’t I breathe?
I smile like I mean it, but it cracks my teeth
I tell myself it’s nothing, just a shadow in my mind,
But when your eyes find hers the colors start to blind
You groan, getting angry but not having the heart to strike what you’ve written. You drop your journal at your desk and grab your backpack, you have algebra homework due.
You should’ve known Clark would come straight to yours after dropping her.
Your parents just let him in now, the only thing that you need to hear to know he’s here is the special knock you both came up with last summer. You perk up, composing yourself and making sure you don’t look like you’ve been wallowing in self pity for the last few hours like you actually are. You open the door with a smile. Clarks eyes meet yours and you quickly usher him into your room, pulling out some snacks as you sit down.
He tells you everything, what the bike ride to hers was like, all the mosquitos that bit him, what she was wearing when she came out. Red shirt and blue jeans with some grease on them from working on a car project with her dad. They had gone to get ice cream, he was still being assaulted by mosquitos. He got vanilla cone, she got bubblegum. They ate their ice cream then biked haphazardly to the creek, then sat and talked.
You followed along, you were happy for him, and all seemed to have gone as smoothly as could be imagined.
“Once the sun got closer to setting we biked back to hers and before she left she leaned in and hugged me. I think she pecked my cheek? I got really nervous and kinda forgot. I did smile at her at least, and hugged her back. But duh who wouldn’t hug someone back if they were- anyways yeah then she went inside, and I came here.
The excitement you had for him earlier much to your dismay only increased when you heard how it ended.
You hugged him, told him he did a good job, and hung out for a few more minutes.
It was getting late, and you guys had school in the morning. You gave him your algebra homework before he left, telling him to follow the steps you did to get the right answer. You made sure to mention that your dad had looked over it to make sure you were right. The last thing you needed was to be wrong while trying to help other people. He thanked you and you walked him down, giving him another hug and waving as biked off.
You closed the door behind you, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. As you turned around to go back upstairs the whole family stared at you from the living room, the movie on the tv being all but forgotten. Just illuminating their faces as they gave you a collective look that screamed ‘I know something you don’t’. After a second you went back to your room upstairs, catching a sliver of conversation as you did.
“When are they going to get together”
“Oh hush ma, what if she hears you?”
“Oh please, I’m sure she already likes him”
Your heart quickens a bit as you make your way up.
This is really bad, what are you going to do?
For the first summer since moving to Smallville, you and Clark don’t spend basically everyday together. Sure, you still hang out at least once a week, but the feelings you were trying to deny are just getting stronger and you don’t know what to do with them. You write more songs now, and for your birthday your parents finally got you an electric guitar. They complain about the noise if you play too late, but you know that they don’t mind, not really. You even build more on the lyrics you had written down a few months ago back when you really didn’t know what was going on. You glance over the page, playing the chords you had color coded with highlighters as you hum along.
You talk about her like she hung the sky
And I'm nodding along just to get by
You laugh and I crack a little more
Staring at the shoes I wore to your front door
I’m the margin where your thoughts begin
The line you cross then write again
You talk about her, I laugh on cue
Fold up my feelings, just like you do
I swear i’m happy and it’s half true
But I still wish she was me to you
It’s frustrating, feeling this way. You should feel happy for him, you do feel happy for him. But you can’t help it.
You go to bed restless that night.
That fall was the worst harvest Smallvilles ever had. Some of the farmers had crop loss so severe that they had to sell some of their animals. Smallville was as tight knit as they come, and so people helped each other out where they could. You and Clark worked together, opening a small food pantry for those in need.
Because of the rough start to autumn, back to school morale was at an all time low. That coupled up with the fact that this was your first year of high school made your nerves all the more worse. You tossed and turned restlessly before deciding to just get up. You walked to your closet, pulling on a pair of comfy shorts before biking over to Clarks. His room is on the second floor, but he always leaves the first floor studys’ window unlocked so that you can come over if you need him. You leave your window open, he manages to get up somehow, you don’t really know how but you don’t ask questions.
After pulling the window up and avoiding making any creaks or noises, you contort yourself into the house. Gently going up the stairs you reach Clarks door. You knock quietly.
After a few seconds Clark comes to the door. He clearly hasn’t slept yet either, and his shoulders relax as he sees you. After letting you in, he closes the door behind you.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
You drop onto his bed responding with a hum. “I blame it on nerves”
“How come you’re nervous?” a familiar weight joins you on the mattress.
“I dunno, it’s nothing really”
His eyes narrow a little before laying down, you’re both laying horizontally on the bed now, knees to the edge. “You’re lying”
“No i’m not”
“Yes you are”
“Am not”
“Are too”
You roll your eyes, looking to the side before staring at the ceiling. The fan moves along lazily, doing little to cool the burning you felt in your face
“High school just seems scary, after this I either have to get a job or go to college. Either way, i’ll be leaving Smallville and leaving Smallville means leaving you. And the last time I left behind my friends we basically stopped speaking all together save calls on our birthdays. I don’t know if I can handle that. And I know it sounds dumb-”
He cuts you off, he looks at you, and you can feel it. Meeting his eyes you look back at him, they’re still the same shade of blue. Bright, blinding, beautiful.
“We aren’t gonna stop being best friends just because you move y’know. We made a promise. We keep our promises.” His pinky intertwines with yours and you can’t help the smile that reaches your face.
“I know I know, but we’re both only going to get busier. Me with my music and you with your writing. We’ll join clubs, you’ll finally ask Lana out and i’ll probably go out with Pete”
“Wait Pete Ross? Of all people, why Pete?” He gets up, leaning back on his elbows, looking at you in disbelief
Immediatley you feel defensive, you get up too, mirroring him. “Why not? We have music together and he’s pretty cool.”
“Well I don’t know, he seems” Clark pauses for a moment. Knowing him he’s trying to figure out how to say a not so nice thing in a nice way. He settles on calling him “Unique”. You scoff getting up feeling anger start to bubble up in your chest.
“Ok I dont understand why you can’t be supportive of who I want to date when I've been your number one when it comes to you and Lana” You start to walk towards the door. Before you can make he grabs your arm, stopping you. You flinch, he’s holding onto you, hard. He lets go immediately, apologizing.
“Look I didn’t mean it like that, I'm sure he’s great.” His hands come up to his neck, scratching it softly. He’s lying, you know it. Great. Just great.
You had given him the decency to be happy for him and Lana, so why couldn’t he even pretend to be happy for you? It wasn’t even like you guys were together. You pushed out a quick goodbye and made your way quietly down the steps. You had never left his house feeling worse than when you had come, but apparently there was a first time for everything.
You knew he’d be waiting to bike with you in the morning, so you left for school half an hour early. Your mom looked at you skeptically before handing you your lunch. After saying bye to your grandparents, you left.
You honestly don’t know if you were even hiding how shitty you felt. Last night kept playing on loop, and you dreaded the day ahead as you got closer to your new home for the next four years.
Smallville High seemed huge and intimidating to you in the past, but you were older now. If you looked close enough, you could see the grout chipping off the bricks. You looked up, seeing SMALLVILLE HIGH SCHOOL in bold red letters. They loomed over you mockingly.
Letting out a sigh, you made your way into the mostly empty halls. Checking your watch, you still had some time before first period, so you decided to go to your music class and scope out the place. It wasn’t grand by any means, but it was a huge upgrade from junior high. The room was small, cosy. There were rows where the choir would sing, and along the side of the wall opposite lay an assortment of instruments. Guitar, bass, drums. There were also cases, you assumed, for the band and orchestra instruments.
While you were busy exploring your new school, Clark had arrived at your house. He had some of Ma’s oatmeal cookies with him, they were your favorite, and he really was sorry. He felt even worse after your mom told him you had left early. Said it was something about trying out for band. She had looked at him with pity, like she knew something he didn’t. Smiling and nodding, he turned around and picked up his bike.
Since when did you want to do band?
The first bell rang and you made your way to class. The first period of the day was history. It was a subject you liked, but your teacher Mr. Jensen seemed to have a natural talent for making the most interesting of things boring. As his monotone voice dragged on you felt yourself nodding off a little before someone to your right nudged you gently.
Looking over, you noticed Pete Ross of all people signaling his head to the board. You almost laughed, how ironic.
The rest of the day passed with a similar vibe, you were exhausted and if you had to do one more ice breaker you were going to slam your head into the wall. Everyone already knew everyone so what was the point? At least you hadn’t seen Clark today though, small wins.
Speaking of Clark, he had spent almost all day trying to spot you, this year you guys didn’t have any classes together, or lunch so he had resorted to wasting his passing period. Not like he really needed it to get to class on time. He bit on the inside of his cheek, he had really messed up this time.
-
The following 3 weeks were some of the worst you had ever had. You didn’t know if it was because you had been ducking Clark, or if it was because your music teacher seemed to hate everything you had to offer. He said your music was “too rough” and it would lead to “sin”.
As if.
You rolled your eyes, getting angry just thinking about it. You tried to write new songs, but you kept on turning back to one of the earliest pages of your journal. The page was worn out more than the ones surrounding it, and was dotted with a few old tearstains. You flicked your pen back and forth before writing
I wrote your name in every line
You traced hers over it, realigned
I was the echo you never heard
Just background hum beneath your words
This was getting really pathetic, you knew you were in the wrong by now. He had tried to apologize and you had been too upset to forgive him. You steeled yourself, and decided that today was the day. You grabbed your bike, and headed over to the Kents.
Your heart was hammering in your chest, you honestly thought you were going to throw up. You took deep breaths as you walked up to the porch.
Clark. This is Clark. The same guy that cried when he saw ant piles disappear in the rain, the same Clark that walked a mile with you on his back when you were 10 because you scraped your knee playing. You’re fine, he’s fine, you guys will be ok.
You knock on the door
It opens and familiar green eyes meet yours. Lana Lang. She smiles at you, but it doesn’t fully reach her eyes.
“Oh hey, you! So good to see you?”
“Yeah, you too Lana, is Clark here?” Your resolve is crumbing by the second, your feet itch with the urge to just turn around.
“Clarkie? Yeah he’s here, do you want something?” She bats her eyelashes at you, waiting for a response
You grimace at the nickname. Clarkie? Really?
“Uh yeah, I wanted to talk to him actually, can you just send him out? Or I can come in-” As you say that she closes the door so that just her face peeks out.
“I’ll see if he can come out” She smiles at you, then slams the door in your face. And so you wait. And wait. And wait. Three minutes turns into five, and before you know it it’s been fifteen minutes. You’re contemplating just leaving but the door opens again.
You perk up, expecting Clark but it’s Lana at the door instead. Something is different about her though, your eyes narrow and you notice the lipstick she had on earlier is almost gone, smudged around the corners. Her face is flushed, and she’s breathing heavily. You feel yourself start to get sick.
“So sorry love but he’s too busy to come talk right now. Maybe some other day?” She doesn’t even let you speak, and closes the door in your face. Wow.
What you didn’t know is that Lana hadn’t even told Clark you had come, when he asked who it was she said it was just some delivery man that had gotten the wrong address.
They had been working on a piece for the Smallville Torch, his first issue was a big deal and he had wanted a second pair of eyes. He had tried going to you, and you needed space. Lana had offered and he didn’t see the harm in it. He wasn’t really expecting her to just abandon helping him though, she basically out of nowhere had started to give him the look and started to kiss him. He didn’t mimd, but he really needed to work on the piece.
After giving her some more pecks he got back to work. Lana had left the room saying she needed to use the restroom, but he heard the front door open.
He honed his listening in, and when he heard Lana telling someone that he was busy he was confused, then he heard your voice. You sounded hurt. It dawned on him then, what had actually been going on.
Ever since you guys had that argument, he had gotten kinda lonely. All of his other friends had told him to just find you and apologize again, but he knew you wouldn’t really accept it until he had given you space. He had started to hang out with Lana more, and more, and she always acted weird when you were brought up. He put his head in his hands, god he had really done it this time. He was ripped out of his thoughts when the door opened and a smiley Lana had waltzed in. He told her to leave nicely, or so he thought. She started crying, asking what she did wrong. When he wouldn’t give her an answer, she started to yell. At least Ma and Pa weren’t home, they wouldn’t have liked to hear him speak that way to a lady, even if she was hurting him.
As he walked her back to the stairs, she kept on talking, but about you now. Started saying all kinds of awful things and if he hadn’t known better he would’ve cussed her out. He closed the door as she left and went back to his room to try and figure out how to fix this mess.
You’ve been crying for a good hour by now, you can’t help it. You keep on trying to tell yourself that he’s just a friend but you can’t help the way your heart aches. You can’t deal with it anymore. You open the all too familiar page in your journal and write the final chorus to the song.
I’m the silence when you need a friend
The start of stories that never end
You talk about her, I know you should
She makes you smile the way I wish I could
And maybe that’s just how it goes
Some hearts stay hidden, some never show
As you finish the last line, the ink is still wet as you make your resolve. If you can’t get rid of the feelings you have for Clark, you’ll just shove them down.
You lay in bed trying to figure out what chords are gonna be the best for your song when you hear your window start to creak open. You don’t tense up, but you are thankful that your tears had stopped flowing a few hours ago.
A weight dips into the bed in front of you, and as you look up your heart breaks just a little bit. Sitting at the foot of your bed is Clark. His clack curls lay messily on his head, he’s looking at you apologetically, and you don’t miss the redness in your eyes as he stares. He’s been crying, the poor thing.
You don’t even speak, just letting your guitar rest softly on the bed as you move to stand up in front of him. Standing, you cradle the head of the boy sat beneath you. You can hear small sniffles as he begins to apologize. Your fingers toy with his hair gently, as you apologize to him too.
“And I’ve been meaning to tell you, honestly I was just going to tell you tomorrow, but me and Lana are done” His voice shakes slightly as he nuzzles his head further into your stomach.
Whatever anger that you had immediately vanishes as you listen. He tells you about what happened earlier that day, how he had been feeling, him trying to find you.
You both had been so lonely these last few weeks. You move his head gently so that he’s looking at you, and raise a pinky. Silently, they interlock.
-
You find yourself falling into a new rhythm, you aren’t that sad anymore, not really. Clark and you both date your fair share of people in highschool, you start a band that (miserably) falls apart. He’s always at every gig you had though, within fail. Clark gets better and writes more stories for the Torch. By senior year, not only is he editor in chief, he’s also the Captain of the Smallville Crows, the varsity football team.
You guys make an odd pair, him in his letterman and blue jeans, and you in your studded leather jacket and ripped jeans. You guys were still two peas in a pod.
While most things were the same, some things had changed. You had started to dye your hair, going from purple to green, before settling on the dark cherry red you had now. You couldn’t tell when it was down, but you buzzed the sides of your hair so that you could put it into a mohawk when you wanted. Clark had changed too, he had gotten taller, stronger. He was able to lift things that shouldn’t even be humanly possible, he would flinch at loud noises, and vanish when there were emergencies in town.
-
You guys decided to go to prom together, as friends of course. Neither of you had dates and you didn’t see the fun in going alone. You arrived at the gym around 9:30pm, in the Kents pickup.
It’s been pretty fun so far, the music they’re playing isn’t half bad. They played a lot of the Mighty Crabjoys, you shouldn’t be too surprised though. Clark had managed to get the whole team hooked on them. As you guys are sitting at the bleachers chilling, he suddenly freezes.
You freeze too, and ask what’s wrong. He says something, barely a whisper but you make out “My parents. It’s my parents, somethings wrong.” Getting up he looks to you
“Stay here for me”
Matching him, you get up.
“Like hell I will”
He flashes you a smile before worry covers his face again. He grabs your hand and rushes out of the gym, leading you both to the truck.
Turning the car on, he speaks
“Ok I, I don’t know if I can explain this right now”
“Then don’t. Let’s go”
He hesitates for a second before backing out and speeding away from school. You guys are going fast. Fast for your standards means lightning speed for Clarks. You guys are going down the dirt roads and when you glance at the wheel, you see his knuckles turning white.
The truck comes to a screeching halt, and through the highbeams you see a truly scary sight.
Jonathan's truck crashed off the side of the road, crumpled. You feel your heart drop as you scramble to get out of the car.
Looking at the scene in front of you, you bring your fingers to your hair, trying to calm yourself.
“Clark this is bad, really bad. We gotta call someone”
He shakes his head “There isn’t any time”
And for the first time since you’ve known him, Clark Kent has rendered you truly speechless.
You watch as he rips the mangled door of the truck off its hinges with his left hand, getting Jonathan and Martha out like they weigh nothing. You wonder for a second if the gas tank is leaking and if you're hallucinating this whole thing. You snap out of it, opening the back of the pickup to lay his parents down.
You don’t question him, Clark has always made sure you were safe. So what if he was insanely strong and could probably pick your whole house up without breaking a sweat. He was still the same Clark.
He begins to drive towards the farm and you break the silence
“Does anyone else know?”
“Just Ma and Pa, and you now too”
There’s a brief silence before you ask, quieter “Why me”
“Because I trust you.”
After his parents are put in bed and their injuries taken care of, (You had insisted on them getting xrays but he said he could see their bones. That weirded you out for a second, then you asked him to describe your skull. It was his turn to be weirded out then)
You guys don’t end up going back to the dance, and instead lay in the fields watching the stars. A comfortable silence envelops you both, and you guys slowly drift off to sleep.
-
Graduation creeps up quickly, a small ball of dread has been building for the last few weeks. You had already been accepted into Gotham University, full ride courtesy of a Mr. Bruce Wayne. Apparently, if you were poor enough, he’d just throw money at you. You weren’t sure if it was charity or penance, and honestly, you didn’t care.
It was funny, though, how one man could casually bankroll someone’s entire education without blinking, while the rest of the country drowned in debt just for daring to want a future. You wondered how deep his pockets went, how many zeroes it took to feel absolved.
But you weren’t about to spit in the face of your ticket out. If the system was rigged, you were taking whatever scraps fell off the billionaire table, and running.
Clark was going to be leaving too, but to Metropolis. He had gotten into Metropolis University for journalism and you couldn’t be more happy for him. He’d finally be somewhere bigger, somewhere that matched him. Not just his powers, though that would probably help, but the rest of him too. His inherent goodness, the kind that made people want to be better by just standing next to him, would probably create more positivity in the city.
The night before you both were to walk the stage, you went out into the fields like you always did. It was basically tradition at this point. You guys could be quiet together, no small town noise, no teachers, no futures looming on acceptances and job offers.
Just the two of you and the stars.
You were both laying in the back of his truck, staring up at the kind of sky that makes you feel small in a good way. Crickets chirped in the tall grass. His plaid flannel was draped over your shoulders. You strummed your guitar absentmindedly, playing some song you had heard on the radio earlier. You guys sat in comfortable silence
“Do you ever think,” he said quietly, eyes still on the stars, “about how weird it is? That we’re supposed to just.. start our lives tomorrow? Like real ones. Adult ones. Without ever really being with someone we trusted?”
You stopped strumming
Not because the thought was strange, but because it wasn’t. Not at all.
“Yeah, actually” you said. “All the time.”
You shifted slightly, and the flannel slipped down your left shoulder.
“People act like we’re supposed to have all these big experiences already figured out. Like we’re gonna just wake up in our dorms or our apartments or wherever, and just know what the hell we’re doing”
Clark smiles at that, small and sad. “I’ve been working since I can remember and I still don’t feel like I know anything”
You laugh softly, nudging him a little. “You know plenty, you just think too much”
He turned his head to look at you, something was different about his eyes. They seemed to glow in the moonlight, a bright, blinding blue.
“Maybe I do, but not about this.”
Your breath catches in your throat
“This?” you repeat, almost afraid to ask
He doesn’t look away, just says that he “trusts you”
It wasn’t a confession, not really. But it felt like one. Something quiet and huge at the same time. Something that shifted the air in between you
You swallowed, “I trust you too”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but was pronounced. It pulsed with everything you had wanted to tell him but hadn’t, not yet.
You set your guitar aside
“I don’t wanna go into the rest of my life never having felt close to someone y’know?” you admitted, voice quiet. “Not like that, I mean really being close to someone, them actually seeing me and choosing me”
His hands found yours in the space between you. “Me neither”
You leaned in first. Or maybe he did. You weren’t sure, because the second it happened, time seemed to stop.
It felt unreal having his lips on yours again. They were soft, and his hands pulled you closer. The boy who you had lost your first kiss to al those years ago grew up, and so had you.
You broke the kiss as you straddled his waist, and then you kissed him again. You had kissed people before, but it never felt like this. Your arms looped behind his neck as you felt yourself grinding into him subconsciously. He whimpered into your mouth before bringing his hand to your waist to help you move.
His hands both came to your waist, and he gently flipped your positions so that you were lying on your back and he was on top of you.
His kisses began to trail down, moving from your lips to your neck, down to your collar bones. When he was met with the barrier of a shirt he looked at you for permission. Once you gave him the go ahead he brought it over your head. You couldve sworn you saw hearts in eyes as he stared at you.
He looked at you as if you were a work of art, a sculpture of a deity so holy that you had to worship it. He began to kiss down your sternum, unclasping your bra before his mouth found your nipples. Swirling his tongue, he sucked gently while tweaking the other. It made a familiar heat rush down between your legs and you couldn’t help the small pants that escaped your mouth.
This seemed to only spur him on however, and he went further and further down before removing your shorts. He groaned when he saw the wet spot of your panties, glossing over it with his fingers before he pulled them down too.
“Is it alright if I try something?” He asked you softly
You nodded your head, unsure about what exactly he was planning on doing
And that was when you felt a warm tongue pressing into you. Clarks head was deep between your legs, his fingers gripped your thighs gently but firmly as he ate you up. The feeling you had now was entirely foreign to you, and you couldn’t help but grab at his hair as he pushed himself deeper and deeper in. His nose rubbed against your clit as his tongue continued to prod at your folds and you felt a coil building up in your stomach. He brought his right hand down, letting go of your right leg while pushing your left up higher, causing him to hit you at a new angle. That on its own would’ve been a lot but his thumb began to make small circles on your clit. It was too good, and far too much. You barely got out a warning before you were cumming, he stayed put, helping you ride out your high. He pulled away from you with a smile on his face, and wiped his lips before coming up to kiss you.
As his tongue wrapped around yours you could taste yourself on him, it was embarrassing how much it had turned you on. While he kissed you, he began to fumble with his shorts, getting them pushed down and then kicking them off to who knows where.
“Is it ok if we go all the way? It’s totally fine if not-” You cut him off by kissing him and claw at his boxers. He laughs into the kiss as gets them off and for the second time in your life, Clark Kent has left you speechless. He’s big, really big, I-dont-even-know-if-it’ll-fit kinda big, but you’ve never backed down from a challenge.
“Can you lay down f’me? I read somewhere that I have to get you ready for it first”
You laugh at that, imagining him trying to find a website that gives sex tips. You oblige, laying down as he covers his fingers with some of his spit before bringing them back down to your entrance. He starts off with one finger. It’s a stretch, but after a while he adds another, then another, he slowly scissors you open and after a few minutes you’re ready. He asks you if you’re sure one more time as he lines himself up. After you tell him again, smiling “yes, i’m sure” he begins to push in slowly.
You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt. For the first few minutes you thought you were gonna be ripped in half. Clark made sure to rub circles on your clit, and kissed your face as you adjusted inch by inch. Soon enough, you’ve taken all of him and you give him the ok that he can move.
And move he does.
He starts softly, his arms are at either side of your head and he thrusts softly in and out. He begins to pick up the pace and your back starts to arch. It feels so good, it's like your whole being is wholly consumed by him, he’s everything you want and everything you need.
You open your eyes and he’s at your neck, smiling as he presses kisses into it. You feel yourself get closer and he shifts slightly. He’s hitting deeper in this position, his arms holding you up by the hips as his thrusts quicken in intensity. He’s hitting something deep inside you and you can feel the knot building inside you getting tighter and tighter.
You manage to get out that you’re close and somehow his speed starts to increase even more. He’s letting out quiet moans and whimpers. Whispering out small praises for you, that you’re “doing so good f’me” and taking him “so well”. It all starts to be too much for you and you reach your arms out, grabbing his face to pull him in for a kiss.
He fills you to the hilt and you let yourself go. He follows suit shortly after, smiling and pressing kisses all over your face before gently pulling out. You’re already on the pill so he isn’t as worried as he would’ve been otherwise.
You both lay tangled together in the back of the truck, the stars reflecting back, forming constellations that you both know like the back of your hand. Neither of you said I love you. Neither of you had to
But god, did you both wish you could.
You guys drive back home. He drops you at yours, walks you to the door before hugging you goodbye. You hear him leave as you close the door.
You go over the next day, you had borrowed one of Clarks writing books to help with some lyrics, and you knew he was going to need it if he started packing.
Opening the door you saw Martha at the kitchen table, hunched over. As you got closer you made out what she was doing, she was sketching out.. suit designs?
After noticing you she quickly ushers you over, “Come look sweetie, it’s a project. For Clark”
You join her at the kitchen table, helping her come up with a color scheme. You decide to use the primary colors. You add a cape too, for “pizzaz”
The night before you both leave for college, you guys hang out in your room. Things aren’t awkward between you two, but you’re holding yourself back from telling him how you feel. You don’t bring up that night, or the suit.
Before he leaves, he hugs you. Tight, like always. He tells you that you’ll do amazing in Gotham, and that he can’t wait to visit. You smile, telling him that if he doesn’t come see you at least once this semester that you’ll murder him.
-
You hear about a new hero that’s popped up in Metropolis called Superman a few weeks later. As you’re sitting in your dorm watching the skyline a flash of gold and red streaks across the night sky
It’s just a blur, but it brings a smile to your face anyway
summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.
word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.
a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂
Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.
It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.
Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.
And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.
If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.
The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:
It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.
But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:
It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.
Just so much for a girl in her twenties.
You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.
She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.
Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—
“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.
He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”
At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”
A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.
Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.
Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”
With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”
As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”
“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”
You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.
The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.
Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.
“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”
Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”
Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.
Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.
You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”
He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”
No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.
He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.
Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.
“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”
“Shut it.”
“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”
You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”
Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”
A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.
He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”
Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.
He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.
At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.
Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.
“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”
Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”
You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.
Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.
“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.
Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.
In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”
Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”
Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.
“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”
“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”
You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.
Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”
Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”
But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”
Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”
Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”
Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”
Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”
“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”
The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.
You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.
Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.
A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.
It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.
Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.
Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.
Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.
Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”
“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.
“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”
“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”
To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.
You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.
Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.
You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.
“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.
You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.
He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.
Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.
An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.
At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.
Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.
Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.
It’s yours.
Goddammit.
Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.
[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]
[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]
[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]
You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.
The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.
A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.
It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.
Don’t beat yourself up over it.
It’s just one article.
Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.
What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.
You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.
Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.
He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.
“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”
Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.
The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.
You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.
You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.
You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.
A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.
You hear it. His voice.
“…Hey.”
Clark.
You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.
There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.
Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.
He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”
That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.
“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.
You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”
It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.
Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.
“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”
“It’s not.”
You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.
That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.
Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.
You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.
It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”
You choke on your own saliva.
“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”
Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.
He smiles, barely. “I know.”
A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.
Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”
He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.
“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”
His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.
“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”
Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”
His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”
“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”
“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”
Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”
There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.
“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”
You scratch your nose. “Sure?”
“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”
“…No.”
He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”
“Oh my God.”
“I warned you.”
“No, but—a thesaurus?”
“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”
“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”
“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”
“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”
He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”
“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”
You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he echoes.
A pause.
“Wanna hear another one?”
“Clark, please—”
“What do you call fake spaghetti?”
“I don’t even want to think about that one.”
“An impasta.”
You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”
Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Of terrible puns?”
“Of coffee and emotional support.”
You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.
By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.
“You always carry tissues with you?”
“A man needs to be prepared.”
He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.
You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”
Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”
Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.
Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”
Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.
You like Lois.
You really, really do.
She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.
You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.
Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.
They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.
In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.
All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.
“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”
You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”
Jimmy blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”
You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.
“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”
The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”
“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”
“Drop it, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”
You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”
“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.
Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.
Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.
Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”
You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.
And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.
Again.
They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.
And somehow, that settles it.
The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.
The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.
The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).
You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.
The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.
You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.
He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.
“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”
You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”
He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”
“Well, are you?”
His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”
You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.
“Are you annoyed?” you ask.
His smile fades. “What?”
“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”
“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”
You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.
Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.
Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.
“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”
“She’d eat you alive.”
“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”
“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”
Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”
Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”
“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”
He smiles then. “The team.”
“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”
“Caro?”
“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”
“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”
You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”
“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”
He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”
And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.
The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.
But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.
The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.
“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”
You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.
Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”
“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.
You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”
He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”
“How do you…?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”
“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”
“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”
“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”
“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”
“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”
Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.
He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”
“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”
“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”
As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.
“You say that like I’m not honored.”
“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”
“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”
You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”
He pauses. “I had a feeling.”
You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”
Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”
You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.
By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.
You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.
“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”
“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.
There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—
An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.
He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me a call if it gets worse.”
“Only if I want to be carried again.”
“Happy to oblige.”
And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.
You’re beyond head over heels.
Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.
Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.
Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.
You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—
“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”
“Clark told you,” you say flatly.
Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”
“I cannot believe he told you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”
“I hate you.”
He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”
“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”
“Not attention in general. Just his.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.
Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—
“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.
You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”
Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”
“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”
“...Okay.”
You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.
“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”
“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”
He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”
“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”
And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.
Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.
You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.
Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”
You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.
Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.
Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.
You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.
And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.
Your charger.
Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.
Jimmy Olsen.
You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”
“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.
“You left your charger here—”
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
“—but I already gave it to Clark.”
Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.
“You what?”
“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”
“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”
“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”
“Jimmy—”
“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”
The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.
You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.
Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.
In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.
“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”
You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”
He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”
You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”
He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”
You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.
“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”
You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”
He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”
He says nothing. So you keep going.
“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”
You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”
Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”
Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.
“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”
“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”
And so he begins to read.
You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.
There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.
“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”
“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”
He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”
“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”
Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”
“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”
Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.
You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.
He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.
“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”
“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”
When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.
You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”
“Do what?”
Does he want you to say it?
You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.
That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.
One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.
His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”
You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.
Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.
You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.
He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.
“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”
A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.
Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.
At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.
It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.
He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.
Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.
Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.
And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.
At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.
Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.
Then:
“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.
That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”
He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”
He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.
You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”
“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.
“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”
“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”
“How noble of you, Kent.”
Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.
But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.
Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.
It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.
Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.
One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”
Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.
Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”
He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”
“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”
“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”
Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”
Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.
Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”
The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.
“Mr. Kent.”
His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”
He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”
“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”
“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”
It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”
His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.
As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.
Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.
Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.
You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.
There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.
You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.
Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.
The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.
Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.
Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.
Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.
And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.
The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.
Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.
The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.
Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”
You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.
You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.
Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.
“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”
He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.
Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”
You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”
His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”
If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.
Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.
In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.
His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.
For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.
A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.
You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."
He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.
Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”
“I told you—”
“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”
He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Disappointed, then?”
“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”
He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”
You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”
That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”
“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”
“I’ve been telling you—”
“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”
“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”
“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”
“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.
Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”
“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”
“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”
You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”
“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"
“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”
Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.
He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”
“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.
“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”
Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.
The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.
One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.
You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.
Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.
He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.
It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.
Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.
Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.
But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.
You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.
Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.
Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.
Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.
Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.
His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”
You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”
He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”
“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”
He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.
His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.
Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”
You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because I want to know.”
“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”
“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”
For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.
Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.
So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”
“Then you know what comes next.”
Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.
It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.
Sleep won’t come.
You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.
So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—
You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.
And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.
It all makes you wonder where Superman is.
He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.
You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.
Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”
It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.
You can’t look away.
The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.
For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—
No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.
Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.
“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”
Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.
Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”
You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.
Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.
There he is.
Clark.
Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.
Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.
Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.
Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.
Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.
Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.
If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.
If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.
They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.
Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.
You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.
The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.
The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.
Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.
For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.
Straight through you.
Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”
You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.
He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.
You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.
Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.
Gone.
You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.
“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”
The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.
Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”
Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside
At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.
“Clark—”
“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”
It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.
They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?
“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”
Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.
You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?
“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”
You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.
In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.
“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”
You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.
Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.
The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.
He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.
A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.
“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”
You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.
“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”
His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”
“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”
So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.
“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.
There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”
“What do you mean—”
“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”
Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”
It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”
“I love you.”
“Again. Please.”
You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”
He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”
“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”
“Then let’s keep it that way.”
You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.
Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.
But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you
He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.
You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”
“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”
You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”
“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”
A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”
“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”
Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”
“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”
Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”
“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”
You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.
“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.
He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous
Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.
He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”
“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”
Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.
“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.
“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”
You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.
You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”
“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.
Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.
“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”
Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.
“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.
“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”
It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.
His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.
“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.
“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”
Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.
This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.
When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.
He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—
Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.
Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.
Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.
By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.
You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.
He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?
“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”
And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.
The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.
Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.
At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.
To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.
“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”
You slow your pace but don’t let go.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.
You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.
“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”
“Baby, I swear—”
“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”
“Then you deserve it.”
“But twice?”
“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”
Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”
One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.
“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”
He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.
Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.
In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.
Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.
His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”
“Condom?”
He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”
“I told you you could come inside me.”
That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.
“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.
He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.
“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”
“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”
Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”
“Yes.”
“Bare.”
“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”
He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”
“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”
“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”
“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”
He pushes in.
At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.
“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”
“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”
“Want me to kiss you?”
He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”
You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”
“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”
A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”
His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.
“Why not?”
“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”
It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.
As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.
Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.
He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.
The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.
“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.
The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.
You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.
“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.
It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.
His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.
You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”
The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.
“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.
“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.
It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.
He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.
Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.
You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.
He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.
Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.
“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”
You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.
The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”
You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”
“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”
You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.
There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.
“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.
A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”
“What does that have to do with what I just said?”
“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”
“That… was a weird route to get there.”
He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”
You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”
“It was like a week ago.”
“We weren’t even speaking.”
He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”
“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”
“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”
“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I—”
“Are you going to?”
“I—would you want to?”
You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”
When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.
“So is that a yes?”
“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”
At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.
Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
