jellychannie

[jellychannie]

ⓘ Tip You can skip part of the day by taking a nap.

[jellychannie]

he swam back in high school im his wife

[jellychannie]

oh, your love is sunlight

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: you were fine drawing in greyscale, until superman started showing up on your fire escape like sunlight in human form. suddenly, colour began finding its way back into every part of your life. tags: love at first sight, lover boy!superman (he invented yearning idc), artist!reader (more of a metaphor than a plot point), you get saved by superman but it’s quick, falling in love with without knowing his real identity warning(s): suggestive content (no smut), you get buried under a building for a sec, you get a concussion and tiny head wound, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader word count: 7.8k note: i’m back with another song-inspired superman fic!! this time based on sunlight by hozier, which i feel justified in using given that he’s literally solar powered 😌☀️

masterlist

You used to think that golden hour was a myth, something only photographers chased and poets romanticised. But Metropolis was different in August. The sunlight lingered, stretching long and low across the skyline, catching on glass and steel like it wanted to be remembered.

You sat on your fire escape, knees drawn up, and your sketchbook balanced precariously in your lap. You’d always been fascinated by monochrome sketches, the way simple lines and shades of grey could capture so much. Colour, you decided long ago, was a luxury you didn’t need.

Your fingers were smudged with graphite, but the page was mostly blank.

Superman landed a few feet away, quiet as a sigh.

You didn’t startle. You never did anymore.

Instead, you shifted over, making room for him as he adjusted his cape and sat down beside you, careful as always. You could feel the air shift as he settled, like gravity remembering itself.

“I figured you’d be up here,” Superman said, the warmth in his voice settling over you like the last light of day. The sound seemed to vibrate just beneath your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, quick and light, but you didn’t let it show.

“I figured you’d come and find me,” you answered, letting an easy smile tug at your mouth.

You looked up from your sketchbook and your heart hitched.

Superman’s face was all clean lines and impossible symmetry—like someone had drawn him with perfect intent. His jaw was strong, but not unkind, balanced by the slight softness around his mouth, where the colour settled in a gentle pink. His hair, dark and wind-swept from flight, curled just slightly above his brow, like even the sky didn’t want to let him go.

But it was his eyes that held you still: clear blue and startling in the dusk, like a patch of summer sky had settled into them and stayed. The light caught them in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural. 

Superman didn’t glow, exactly. It was subtler than that. 

He absorbed the light around him, like it belonged to him, and then gave it back. It clung to the high points of his face, softened at his throat and temples, bled golden into the deep blue of his suit. He looked like he’d stepped out of the sun itself.

You didn’t know if it was the hour or the way he always seemed to arrive at the cusp of it, but something in you responded every time. It was as if your body recognised his light before your mind did. Like you were meant to bask in it.

“You’re getting predictable,” Superman teased, resting his arms on the railing with a quiet clink of something solid against metal. “Should I start bringing snacks?”

“If you brought snacks, I’d never leave,” you said, giving him a wry look.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Pretty sure there’s a strict no-picnics-on-fire-escapes policy in the Metropolis city code. Article Five, Section Twelve, right after the clause about not feeding pigeons hot dogs.”

“Hey, that was one time,” you joked, even though you’d never so much as tried to feed a pigeon.

Familiar with your banter, Superman quipped, “One time too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be exchanging jokes with Superman almost every night, you would have called them crazy. And yet here you were.

“Maybe you’re the one who’s getting predictable,” you shot back softly. “You’re the superhero. I thought you’d have something more interesting to do on a Friday night.”

He gave a shrug—one that somehow managed to look self-effacing, even though his shoulders could probably carry the sky. “Some of us like routine,” Superman said. “Besides, you’re a pretty good Friday night.”

Then he shifted slightly, settling onto the narrow fire escape. Despite the awkward fit, his body language was open and relaxed. He leaned back, arms loose, head tilted just enough to catch the last light.

His comfort didn’t come just from the sun setting above him. It also came from being here with you.

You watched the sun catch the side of his face. Since getting to know him better, you had come to the conclusion that there was something different in the way light moved around him. You thought the sun was just a little slower to let him go than other people.

To distract yourself, you glanced back down at your sketchbook. Still blank.

Superman knew you too well. His eyes followed, his brow lifting just slightly with quiet notice. “You haven’t drawn anything,” he observed.

“Not yet.” 

Superman glanced at you sideways, his voice gentle, easy. “Is that a creative choice, or a mood?” 

You rolled a red pencil between your fingers and shrugged. “Both, maybe?”

“What about your latest piece? How’s it coming along?”

You hesitated, then flipped the sketchbook around to show him the incomplete drawing of a building collapsing—just like it had at Metropolis University half a year ago—coming undone like a ball of yarn.

“No progress,” you lamented.

Superman made a sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, low and warm in his throat. “I know the feeling.” His voice was a little rough around the edges tonight.

“Bad day?” you asked, your brows pinched just slightly. 

He shifted beside you, the fire escape creaking faintly beneath his weight. Superman’s gaze swept out over the horizon. His voice was quieter now, soft enough that it felt like it belonged just to you.

“The city never really sleeps,” he declared. “Neither do I, sometimes.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”

Superman turned to you. “How about you? What’s going through your mind tonight?”

You brushed your fingers over the pencil again. “I don’t know. I used to like shadows and shading, but these days I’ve been drawn to colour, for the first time since I was a little kid.”

“You always liked greyscale,” Superman recalled. “You said it was honest.”

You blinked, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he remembered. Superman remembered everything you said, even the details that most people would deem inconsequential.

You caught the last of the sunlight flickering over his defined cheekbone, painting gold onto skin that already held so much warmth.

“It felt safer,” you confessed. “Easier. But you’re making me reconsider.”

Superman reached out, fingers brushing yours as he shifted closer. Your hand moved almost on its own, tracing the curve of his shoulder, the way his red cape folded near his collarbone, the light pooling beneath his jaw. The red pencil stayed steady in your fingers.

Like you often did on nights like these, you reached up and smoothed the one errant curl that had fallen onto his forehead, brushing it back into place with the rest. Superman’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he didn’t move. You lingered just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips before your hand drifted down, flattening the edge of his cape where it creased at his shoulder.

“I haven’t used red in years,” you admitted softly. The implied, and I haven’t wanted to, not until I met you, dangled between you. 

The softness in Superman’s stare made the edges of his usually steady expression blur. His eyes dropped to the pencil resting between your fingers, the deep, rusted red of it sitting pretty against your skin.

For a moment, you wondered what your face looked like reflected in his eyes, and whether he could see the colour steeping back into you.

“Is that new?” Superman prompted, nudging his head towards the red pencil.

You shook your head, your heartbeat in your ears. “Old. Just forgotten.”

The line of Superman’s mouth thawed into something gentler than anything you were used to seeing from him in public. “I’m glad you remembered it.”  

You didn’t answer. 

There were too many things you hadn’t admitted—not to your friends, not to your professors, not even to yourself. Not about the way your chest tightened whenever you saw Superman above the city. Not about how you’d started feeling the urge to use colour around the same time you met him. Not about what that might mean.

The sun dipped lower, and you swore you could see it sinking into him. His body absorbed the light like it belonged to him.  

The colours of the sunset around you faded.

Superman didn’t say goodbye when he left. He never did. But you always felt the shift in the air, the way the warmth lingered just a little longer before it slipped away.

And when you looked down, the red pencil was still burning—like it had touched the sun and remembered how to glow.

Six months ago

The first time you met Superman, you were pinned under a science building at Metropolis University. It was a structural collapse—sudden, loud, and courtesy of a low-level alien threat. You were walking back from a foreign language class and hadn’t even seen Metropolis’s hero fight the extraterrestrial.

It was silent when you came to. Not peaceful, just eerily quiet.

Dust hung thick in the air, filtering the sky into a flat, formless grey. One of your legs was trapped beneath something heavy, and even though you couldn’t move, that was the worst of it. You didn’t feel any pain, just a persistent pressure.

And a terrible headache, but that was probably just a concussion.

It was dark, just rubble and smoke. Sunlight tried to pour through a fractured wall but didn’t quite reach you. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, or dreaming.

Then a shape moved through the dust.

You didn’t see his face, not then. Just the outline of him, backlit and glowing—shoulders broad, red cape rippling in the ruined air. He stepped forward, and the light seemed to follow him.

Superman.

You might have been amazed to see him if you had the energy. But all you felt was a sudden warmth, spreading slowly through your chest like someone had struck a match inside you.

He knelt beside you. His eyes scanned you carefully, pausing on the wound at your temple where you were bleeding.

“Can you hear me?” Superman asked. “Can you tell me your name?”

You tried, but your mouth was too dry.

He murmured something reassuring. Checked your pulse with a touch so careful you barely felt it.

“It’s alright,” Superman said. “You’re okay. I’m getting you out of here.”

He moved the debris as if it weighed nothing. His hands glowed faintly golden where they touched the stone—or maybe that was just the sun catching on his skin.

You only remembered flashes: the sky starting to turn blue again, the shout of a paramedic nearby, the call of your name from a friend and classmate who recognised you.

Somewhere between paramedics lifting you onto a stretcher and checking your eyes, you whispered, “I want to go home.”

Then arms stronger than anything you had ever felt cradled you against his chest. You must have blacked out again, because the next thing you remembered was cool air against your face, and Superman’s voice asking gently, “Where do you live?”

He must have gotten the okay from the paramedics, because there was no way Superman would let you go home without getting checked first.

You blinked blearily, lifted a hand toward your building, and slurred your address and something about always leaving your fire escape unlocked.

Superman paused. “You really shouldn’t do that, it’s not safe.” It might have been a scolding if he hadn’t sounded so worried.

You didn’t answer.

Superman carried you up anyway—slow, like he didn’t want to jostle your head. The metal grates of your fire escape creaked under his red boots when he landed. Your fingers curled lightly into the symbol at his chest. You were too fatigued to let go.

He laid you gently on the couch inside. The blanket he pulled over you had been left crumpled over the armrest the night before by your best friend. He hoped its familiarity would ease some of the day’s wreckage.

Superman hesitated, just for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to linger after someone was safe, not once the danger had passed. But he crouched beside you and checked your pulse again, just to be sure. He brushed the hair from your forehead, revealing the band-aid the paramedics pressed over your cleaned wound.

His hand stilled there, fingers resting lightly against your temple. Something in his chest ached; sudden and sharp and human.

You didn’t remember much, only that when you opened your eyes later, the light outside your windows was golden. And your chest felt warm, like something small had caught fire there.

A couple of nights later, you couldn’t sleep.

You planned to sleep before the sun even went down to capitalise on the fact that you needed rest, but you couldn’t.

According to the note Superman left you, the paramedics had told you to take it easy, let the concussion settle, which you had. Mostly. But that night, just as the sun began setting, the stillness of your bedroom was too quiet, the air too stale. So you’d crept up to the fire escape with a mug of hot cocoa, the steam soft and curling as it caught the breeze.

You perched with your favourite blanket, crossed your legs, and watched the city glow below.

This high up, in this quieter part of the city where university housing clustered under decades-old brickwork, the skyline appeared as if the sunset had dyed it pink and gold.

You liked the way the evening air nipped at your skin, how the mug kept your hands warm. It was the first time you’d been outside since the building fell, and Superman reached out and pulled you into the sunlight.

You didn’t feel the subtle ripple in the air. Superman landed silently, but you still flinched in surprise. Most of the cocoa sloshed out of your mug, and you mourned the loss of it with a quiet gasp.

He raised both hands in a silent gesture of apology as he slowed his approach.

“Sorry,” Superman said quickly. His voice was almost as delicate as you remembered it being when he saved you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, then blinked. “Um, hi.”

Superman raised a hand in a small wave, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And there they were—devastating dimples you hadn’t known he had, deep and boyish. A warm, open grin that reached his eyes. 

One perfect black curl had fallen loose from the rest, trailing down onto his forehead, and you had the sudden, silly urge to reach up and brush it back. 

You gaped at Superman, stunned, your breath caught before you could form a word. It was the first time you’d seen him clearly and not in dust and silhouette, or in a memory softened by dizziness and daylight.

Superman stood tall, his cape fluttering behind him. His suit was slightly more muted than you’d expected, deep sky blue with bright reds and golds, as if it were designed to shimmer when the light hit just right.

You found yourself cataloguing him the way you might study a figure for a life drawing class. The sweep of his jaw, the balance of his features, the way his eyes, so vividly blue they almost glowed, tilted slightly downward as if he were always on the verge of concern. 

Superman didn’t look real. More like something sculpted, idealised, rendered in impossible light. And yet he was standing there, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to take up too much space. 

As human as anyone you had ever met. 

You kept trying to find a flaw that would make him easier to look at, but he didn’t seem to have one. There was a softness to him that felt at odds with the weight of his legend. 

You couldn’t stop staring. And Superman looked right back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been checking in.”

You swallowed, trying to get your voice back. “Checking in?” you echoed.

Superman nodded. “Discreetly.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

Something about the earnest way he said it made your stomach turn. You tucked your legs under yourself and blinked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I didn’t think you made house calls,” you commented. “I thought you just rescued people and flew away.”

Superman’s smile was a little sheepish. “I usually do.” He glanced down at his boots, trying not to fidget. When he looked back up, his eyes lingered on yours only briefly before flicking to the side again. “This was different.”

Different. 

You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway.

“How are you holding up?”

You shifted your mug in your hands, the ceramic cool against your palms since its contents were emptied when he startled you.

“Better, I think,” you admitted after a pause. “The concussion made everything feel foggy for a while, like the whole world was muffled.” You glanced down at your blanket-draped knees, then back at the superhero. “But the headaches are easing now. I’ve been sleeping more. Or at least trying to.”

Superman nodded, his gaze almost cautious. His hands rested lightly on the fire escape railing, but you could see the way his fingers curled—like he was holding himself back from reaching for you.

“And the rest of it?” he asked gently. “Any anxiety, or panic attacks? Aftershocks like that can take time to develop.”

Superman’s expression wasn’t clinical; it was vulnerable and concerned. It struck you, in that small, quiet second, that this wasn’t some routine check-in. He cared. Not as an obligation. Not as Superman. Just as someone who had carried you out of the rubble and stayed.

Your voice dipped. “Sometimes. I still jump when something falls too loud. Or when I hear sirens. And I’ve been having dreams, or, I guess, nightmares. They’re not bad, but they make me feel like I’m back under that rubble.”

Superman listened like every word mattered.

“But I think,” you continued, “I felt safe once you were there. When I saw you, I stopped panicking.”

His gaze was steady in a way that felt real. You couldn’t believe he was a superhero, not at that moment. If anything, he just seemed deeply, comfortingly normal.

“You stayed. I remember that. Everyone else had to keep moving, but you stayed with me.”

Superman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. There was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t used to hearing what came after the rescue.

“I’m just glad I got there in time,” he said, his voice quieter than before. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a sheepish gesture that made something flicker and fold inside your chest.

You hesitated, then said softly, “I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Your eyes met his, steady and sincere. “I saw on the news later that I was barely under there for four minutes. Without you, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Superman shook his head, almost dismissively, but there was something humble in the way he spoke. “I just did what I had to. What anyone would have done, really.”

You smiled. “No, you did more. I would’ve been much worse off if you hadn’t gotten me out so fast. You saved my life.”

For a short moment, the city fell away. There were no sirens, no wind, nothing but the soft hum of Metropolis evening traffic. The sky above the rooftops had faded to pink and violet, losing its golden sunset gleam.

The last trace of the sun lingered at Superman’s shoulder, and you thought that he looked like he belonged in light. Like sunlight had created the shape of him and breathed him into being.

Then his gaze dropped down, and his brows lifted again, this time with a hint of curiosity and something almost amused. “Did I make you spill that?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark stain spreading over your blanket: your spilt cup of cocoa, its warmth soaked slowly into the fabric.

“Oh.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. A little. I wasn’t expecting to see you—or anyone, really—on my fire escape tonight.”

Superman’s eyes flickered with genuine apology, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry about that.”

You shook your head, already pushing yourself up. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, a flutter of awkwardness settling in your stomach. “I’ll make another and, um—I could make you one too, if you want.”

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, gleaming in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice firmer than you felt. “But I want to.” Your lips curved in a teasing grin. “Maybe then we can call it even?”

You watched Superman closely as he shifted his weight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. The way the fading sunlight caught the strands of his hair made them look like a halo you wanted to reach out and touch, or capture in paint. 

It felt ridiculous, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like to try to translate the warmth you felt from Superman into something you could hold.

When you returned from your kitchen, you carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the last glow of daylight. You held one out to the superhero on your fire escape.

“I added marshmallows,” you said, your voice gentle but steady.

Superman accepted the mug with both hands. The porcelain looked almost comically small, cradled between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up at you then, stared warm and steady, and just beamed.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw on magazine covers or in news headlines. It was quieter, sparkling a gentle heat somewhere in your chest. 

You settled back down and invited him to take the seat beside you. Superman took a careful sip of cocoa, then winced at the heat. Tried again, slower this time. You laughed softly into your own mug, thoroughly charmed.

A tiny flame bloomed inside you, threatening to grow into something warm enough to burn.

You took a slow sip of your cocoa, the rich sweetness grounding you in the fading light. The quiet between you felt easy, but you couldn’t shake the pull to know more.

“So,” you began, voice soft and a little hesitant, “what’s it really like? Having all that responsibility. Saving people, carrying the weight of the city? And the whole planet, sometimes.”

Superman blinked, as if the question caught him off guard, and then looked out toward the skyline. 

“It’s… a privilege,” he said, after a pause. “Mostly. It’s what I was made for. Makes me feel human, like I’m a part of something bigger. Sometimes it’s just helping someone cross the street, or fixing a roof after a storm.” Superman glanced at you, a hesitant little laugh bubbling from his lips. “And occasionally making house calls to people’s fire escapes.”

You grinned, and he seemed quietly pleased with himself.

“Does it ever feel like it’s too much?” you asked.

Superman got more comfortable on the fire escape, and you shared your blanket without him having to ask. His eyes flicked down to his cocoa, and he plucked a marshmallow from the surface, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, once he swallowed. “But those moments are rare. I guess I crave stillness more than most people might expect. It’s in those quiet in-between moments that I feel most like myself.”

You let your gaze drift to the soft glow of the city, blending with the comforting weight of Superman’s presence beside you. “Kind of like right now,” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.

He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Exactly like right now.” Superman’s eyes caught the last of the sunset, and you saw a flicker of relief on his face.

You shifted a little closer, enough to feel the edge of his arm against yours through the blanket.

“Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you?” you asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like a moth to a flame?”

Superman’s eyes flickered with something intense beneath the calm. His smile faded, replaced by something more fervent.

“More than I probably should,” he said, voice low. “But I keep flying toward it anyway.”

Superman never knocked or let you know he was coming. He just landed on your fire escape and made himself at home.

You got used to the sound of it—the faint ripple in the wind, like the shift of a wing or the rustle of fabric. Sometimes you heard it when you were already reaching for the window, like you’d felt him coming. Other times, you’d turn and see him there, silhouetted against the early evening sky, just waiting. 

Always waiting for you.

In the six months you’d known him, Superman never asked to come inside. But sometimes he stayed on the fire escape or the roof. Just close enough to talk.

He didn’t share much about himself. But you learned to watch him closely—how his shoulders dipped slightly when he was tired, how his jaw set when something troubled him. You discovered that he didn’t talk unless he meant to, and that his eyes could be impossibly calm even when the world was spinning around him.

One morning, just before dawn, you stood beside him on the roof of your apartment building. The air was still, clinging to the last chill of night, and Superman was silent beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, forearms resting on the parapet. 

He always seemed more human when he stood like that, like the sky was a place he visited, not where he belonged.

You glanced sideways and caught the faint mark on Superman’s cheek—a shadowed bruise, purpling against his skin. 

By the time the first edge of sunrise crested over the horizon, you saw the colour begin to lift from the bruise, healing as gold spilt across his face. His lashes caught the light, and his whole body seemed to exhale.

You stared. “You heal like that?” you whispered.

Superman nodded once, still looking forward. “I get my powers from the yellow sun,” he explained.

You tilted your head. “You told me that before,” you said slowly, the memory surfacing like something from a dream. “After the building collapsed.”

He turned toward you, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Yes, I did.”

“You said, ‘The sun always makes me feel better.’” The words rose in your throat like they’d been waiting the whole time.

Superman grinned then, all teeth and bright blue eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like me. It’s a bit dramatic, but I stand by it.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “Though I should clarify, it’s mostly ultraviolet radiation, technically. Very romantic.”

You huffed another laugh, but before you could reply, he turned a little more toward you, the humour softening in his eyes. “But also, you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You jolted. “What?”

“The sun heals me,” Superman repeated, this time with a shrug so casual it was almost bashful. “And so do you.”

There was a beat of quiet before you let out a small, startled giggle. “I’m nothing like the sun.”

“You are to me,” Superman said. He snuck a glance your way, unsure if he had said too much.

You raised your eyebrows, half smiling.

His gaze dropped to his hands, a little flustered. “I mean, I’m the one who can fly and shoot lasers out of my eyes,” Superman teased. “I feel like I’m allowed to stretch the metaphor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s corny, but things get quieter when I see you. I feel like I can breathe easier.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. You reached out and let your fingers meet his. Superman didn’t pull away. He curled his hand gently around yours, his palm warm and steady, holding you with quiet care. It was a touch you were familiar with by now.

“Ultraviolet radiation,” you echoed softly, tugging your joined hands in a quiet invitation.

Superman nodded. Then, in one smooth, easy motion, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like gravity had finally given up pretending.

“Healing properties,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “Very effective.”

Your head rested against his chest as Superman gathered you closer, like you weighed nothing at all. Your body folded into his without protest. And still, he held you like he couldn’t believe you’d actually let him.

Superman was warm. Not just body heat, but warm like the morning itself.

He gave a soft breath of a laugh. “You should probably come with a warning label.”

You tilted your head, not moving from the comfort of his chest. “Oh yeah? What would it say?”

“Caution: May cause accelerated heart rate, spontaneous honesty, and temporary flight.”

You let out a quiet laugh into Superman’s collarbone. “Temporary flight?”

“Well, you are kind of sweeping me off my feet here.” Superman grinned as your laugh deepened, his arms tightening just slightly like he wanted to memorise the sound. “Side effects may include goofy behaviour, emotional vulnerability, and excessive metaphors.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “I think I can live with that.”

Neither of you moved until the rooftops turned gold.

When the sun fully blanketed Metropolis, you asked, “Do you have a real name?”

Superman paused. The wind stirred his dark curls. You could see the sunlight touching his hair, gold glinting at his temple like a halo.

“I do,” he said eventually.

You waited. Superman didn’t offer more. You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly.

Trying to keep your voice gentle, you whispered, “Okay.”

You loved him like this, in the light, with your body encircled by his. You loved the way he watched the sunrise, like it healed him. You loved the heat in his voice when he said your name.

But you didn’t know where Superman went when he left you. You knew he had another life, somewhere beyond the skies and the city. A version that woke up, dressed in ordinary clothes, talked to people on the street, and had a name that wasn’t Superman.

You didn’t ask again, but the question lingered. Because you were falling in love with someone who felt like the sun, and half of him still lived in shadow.

You started painting again. You told yourself it had nothing to do with Superman, but the colours said otherwise. Warm reds. Quiet golds. The occasional streak of blue you couldn’t seem to keep out of the frame. You painted the horizon the way it looked from your roof when he sat beside you—lit by something more than just sunlight.

It was nearly midnight, and the lamplight spilt across your apartment floor in quiet gold. You’d left the window cracked open just in case, even though you told yourself you were only airing out the smell of oil paint.

When Superman landed on the fire escape, his steps were slower than usual. He moved like he was made of something heavier than muscle, like the weight of the day hadn’t left him yet.

You opened the window all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Rough night?”

Superman didn’t answer right away. He ducked inside your apartment, his boots soundless against the floor. When his eyes found you, they were slow and tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from a long day of work, but the kind that settled in your bones. The kind even sleep couldn’t cure.

You both sank to the floor, shoulders brushing. Superman reached for your hand before either of you said a word, like muscle memory. His fingers wrapped around yours and held on. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand, leaving slow, warm traces over the dried paint smudges.

Red, blue, yellow.

Superman noticed. You saw it in the flicker of a smile blooming on his face. He didn’t ask why you chose those colours; he didn’t have to. Your fingers curled around his, matching his pressure.

“You’re still covered in paint,” Superman murmured, voice more adoring than usual.

“I haven’t been able to stop lately,” you replied. After a pause, you added, “It’s kind of weird, actually. Almost like I can’t help but think in colour now.”

His hand tightened around yours just a little. It was like your confession was more than he deserved; it both steadied him and split him open.

Superman turned, eyes half-lidded but still painfully blue. “I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, hoarse. “Coming back here, letting myself forget about the rest of the world for a while…”

You turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “But you do.”

His smile was faint, barely there, but genuine. “You make it hard to stay away,” he argued.

Then Superman turned fully toward you, and everything in his posture affirmed his admission. One of his hands rose to cradle your head, adoring, almost aching with attentiveness. His forehead met yours. The closeness wasn’t new, but tonight it felt like a held breath. 

The silence returned, and it didn’t push against your chest like it used to.

Your free hand hovered just above his chest, paint-smudged fingers trembling. You remember asking him the night he first visited you: Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you? Like a moth to a flame? You wanted to touch him. You didn’t.

You shifted your fingers a little closer, almost close enough to touch the emblem on Superman’s suit.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Are you warm?” he asked softly.

You paused. “Why?”

Superman’s eyes flicked upward, toward the soft yellow glow of the lamp overhead. “Even in the dark,” he murmured, “you feel like daybreak.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise, but from recognition.

Superman lifted his hand—the one still cradling the back of your head—and guided your fingers the rest of the way, placing your palm over the crest on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin and spread outward, curling through your arms, your ribs, your lungs.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though he felt it too. When he opened them again, he looked a little dazed.

Superman leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. Your foreheads touched, and you felt the brush of his lips as they hovered—his final act of restraint.

He whispered your name, and then you kissed him.

Not hesitant. Not sweet. Not polite. Something in you gave way, something you’d kept sealed for too long. The contact wasn’t sharp or urgent; it was complete.

The moment his lips touched yours, every tether gave way.

You kissed Superman like you’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you like he couldn’t believe you’d let him.

His hand rose to your face, thumb sweeping your cheekbone. The other found your lower back, pulling you in until every point of contact felt like ignition. Heat curled through you, low and insistent. The kiss deepened.

You didn’t realise how breathless you were until you had to stop. You pulled back an inch, lips still grazing his.

“I don’t want to fall too fast,” you whispered.

Superman exhaled like he understood too well, almost like he wanted to say, me too, but couldn’t bear the sound of it. His hand stayed at your cheek, the other drawing slow, grounding circles against the bare skin of your back under your shirt. 

He couldn’t make himself let go.

“Then fall slowly,” Superman begged. “But please don’t stop.”

He kissed you again. 

It was dizzying. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as your hands rose to tangle in his hair, fingertips threading through the soft dark strands. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that didn’t quite match the quiet of the room. 

Superman’s hands cradled your jaw, but there was no caution in the way he kissed you. He tilted your chin up, drew you closer, and kissed you like he couldn’t bear to hold back a second longer.

His thumb stroked down your throat gently as your lips parted for him, and he kissed you deeper.

You made a sound against Superman’s mouth, faint and involuntary, and that was all it took. He lifted you, arms firm around your waist, lifting you to perch on the back of your sofa with a gentleness that barely contained the force behind it. 

His body pressed into yours between your knees, solid and real and warm, and the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the blazing heat of sunlight in the dark.

Superman held you like he didn’t trust the moment to endure, as if he might burn straight through you if he wasn’t careful.

At some point, he pulled back just far enough to catch his breath—though he kept his arms locked around you like he had no intention of letting go. His nose bumped carefully against yours. His smile was a little crooked. 

“I should probably—uh—mention something,” Superman said, his voice low and a little sheepish.

You blinked, still catching your breath. “What?”

He hesitated, then blurted it out with the sort of rush you’d expect from someone confessing to a petty crime, not saving the world every week: “My name’s Clark.”

You stared at him, echoing, “Clark?”

“Clark Kent,” he added quickly, like maybe the full name would help. “I mean, technically Kal-El, if you want to get all Kryptonian about it, but that feels kind of formal right now, and—” He stopped himself, realising he was rambling, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Sorry. I just figured you should know who you’re kissing.”

You blinked again. Kiss-drunk, stunned, still slightly out of breath, and then a laugh burst out of you, bright and incredulous and full of joy. 

“Oh my God,” you said, grinning so hard it actually hurt. “Of course, your name is Clark.”

He looked a little defensive, but mostly delighted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, still beaming. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark Kent.” The moment his real name left your lips, it sparked something in both of you—soft and giddy, like butterflies waking up all at once.

And Clark just stood there for a second, heart tripping over itself, arms full of the person he loved. He was totally, completely, unequivocally done for. 

Because it was happening. This was real. You were warm against him—flushed and glowing and laughing like he’d just handed you the moon—and every single ridiculous, hopeless, too-big-for-his-own-good feeling he’d been carrying came surging up at once.

You thought he was perfect, Clark realised. You were smiling like that because of him. What should he do with his face? Where should he put his hands? Had breathing always been this difficult?

He’d flown through supernovas, stood inside hurricanes, and heard the heartbeat of the earth. None of it came close to this.

You felt like the yellow sun—no, better than that. Like Kansas in July, like his favourite meal made by Ma Kent, like home and comfort and every love song Clark had ever heard.

He couldn’t help it. He beamed. You caught the expression and softened instantly, eyes warm and open.

Clark looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t let him. 

You kissed him, over and over, slow and then desperate. You kissed him until you didn’t know who had reached for whom first.

And it wasn’t a descent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was a surrender. 

Strap the wings to me, you thought. Let it melt. Let it catch fire. If Clark Kent is the sun, then let me fly to him.

Because for once, this wasn’t the story of Icarus falling. It was the moment just before. The moment he left the ground. The moment the sky opened and everything turned to gold.

The front door creaked open with the quiet click of a key turning in the lock.

“You used the front door again,” you called without looking up, brush still in hand.

Clark stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his usual soft care. “Some people think using doors is polite,” he reminded you.

You glanced over your shoulder, letting your eyes linger on how good your boyfriend looked in his work clothes. “I kind of miss the dramatic entrances,” you admitted.

“Oh, you mean the part where I tripped on your curtain rod that one time?”

You grinned. “Exactly!”

Clark walked toward you, still in the button-down he always wore to work at The Daily Planet, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’d tugged it loose the second he left the newsroom. You were standing barefoot in your living room, a half-finished painting drying in front of you. Your fingers were smudged with gold and soft blue, and you wore one of Clark’s old Smallville football t-shirts, now covered in streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt.

Clark paused when he saw it. His brow softened, and something in his chest gave a quiet little tug. You looked like a memory he didn’t know he’d already made—sunlight and colour and home, all rolled into one.

“You know,” he said, brushing his knuckles lightly over the painted hem of his t-shirt, “you really bring out the primary colors in me.”

You snorted. “Wow. You’ve been waiting to use that one, haven’t you?”

He looked mock-offended. “That was off the cuff! I’m a journalist. We’re good with words.”

“Oh, you’re great with words,” you agreed, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Like the time you called me ‘a phenomenon of gravitational significance.’”

Clark beamed. “You are one.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your canvas. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Clark’s arms circled around your waist like this was what he’d been made to do. He fit against you like gravity, always had. “Whatcha painting?”

“You,” you said, not even a little shy.

He blinked. “Oh?” Clark knew you had been inspired to start painting again because of him—and you gravitated towards Superman’s colour palette more than anything else these days—but you had yet to actually paint him.

“I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try. Everything else I painted’s been alluding to this, you know? Light through clouds. Rooftops catching fire in the evening. The color the sky turns when someone you love walks through the door.”

Clark let out a quiet breath. He pressed a kiss to your head, exactly where your minor head wound had been the day he saved you. 

“I think you’re my favorite subject,” you added, “even when you’re not wearing the cape.”

His smile widened. “I thought I was your favourite, especially when I’m not wearing the cape,” Clark teased. “Or, you know, wearing anything.”

You made a face like you were disappointed by the crude joke. “Oh, you’re impossible,” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep the laughter from your voice.

“Very likely,” Clark said, unperturbed by your response.

You leaned into him. He was so warm it made you ache. Your free hand reached up, paint-streaked fingers brushing through the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck. 

He dipped his head toward you, and you met him halfway—lips parting in a kiss that was immediate and unthinking. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone you’d missed all day, the kind that left no room for doubt. Clark kissed you like he meant it, like he always meant it, one hand steady at your waist, the other slipping up your back until you were pressed against him, breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in like he was trying to hold the moment inside him.

“You know,” you murmured, “you used to land on my balcony like you’d burn the whole sky behind you.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You never blinked.”

“It made me think you were the sun,” you said. “Too bright. Too far away.”

“I used to think the sun was something I could never touch,” Clark said quietly. “Something I had to chase, or carry, or be. But with you, I finally feel like I can stand still in it.”

You smiled at him, the way you used to when you saw him hovering outside your window, and said, soft and certain, “You’re still the sun, Clark. You just finally know what it feels like to be warmed by someone else.”

[jellychannie]

finally getting the regina george hype

Shut Up, You’re Hot

Pairing: Regina George x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Body Shaming and Fluff!

Word Count: 1,567

Summary: Your sister mentions how big you're getting from dating Regina, causing you to be determined to lose a few pounds, but Regina makes sure to get that thought out of your head and that you’re loved, skinny or not.

A/N: First time writing for Regina and I wanted her to come off as an ‘aggressive lover??’ but I don’t think I rlly hit the mark. I’m def gonna write for her more so hopefully I can write better for her. Anyways, Hope You Enjoy!

You rushed into the cafeteria almost tripping over a book bag that laid on the ground, but you didn’t care as you were trying to get to the Plastics lunch table.

You sat down next to Regina, her attention from Gretchen switching to you. “Finally, you’re here. I was texting you, but you weren’t answering me.” Regina complained, feeling angry.

You leaned over and kissed her lips. “Sorry babe, I had to give some Freshman a tour and it ran a little later than expected. I’m literally starving!” You exclaimed, grabbing some fries off Regina’s plate and messily shoving them in your mouth.

You covered your mouth, looking up at the girls. “Sorry guys, I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.” Regina opened her mouth, ready to scold you, but the bell saved you. “I know, I know, I need to eat more. I promise I will. I gotta go, love you!”

Regina wanted to stop you to get her goodbye kiss, even though she was gonna see you in the parking lot after this period, but you were already speed walking down the hallway.

On your way to History class, you saw your sister and her ‘art freak’ friends. She had a look of disgust on her face as she saw you. “Damn Y/n, you had enough to eat?” She said, earning a laugh from Janis. You ignored her words, throwing a middle finger at her.

After History, Regina drove you home, but not before stopping at a fast food place, wanting to make sure you had a filling dinner.

When you got in front of your home, you two sat in the driveway for about 5 minutes in a heated makeout session, full of tongue and moans. The sound of a bang broke you two apart as you saw Cady standing in front of the car.

“My god, stop with the PDA. Get in the house before I tell Mom.” Regina rolled her eyes as she sat back, watching you annoyingly get out of the car. You made sure to throw a kiss her way before stepping inside.

“Jealous much?” You said with a mocking tone. Cady ignored you, going upstairs to her room while you did the same.

It was later on in the night when you took a shower and was brushing your hair when the bathroom opened. “Ugh, Cady, get out!” You annoyingly yelled.

You stood in your bra and panties, body exposed to her as she looked at you, her mouth scrunching up. “Damn you’re fat, Y/n.”

You stopped mid-brush, looking at her. “What did you say?” Cady grabbed something out the drawer, repeating what she said.

“I said you’re fat. If you look at your body from the side you can see your stomach poking out. It’s probably because you’re dating Regina. All that fast food and cheese fries is getting to you.” She explained before leaving and closing the door.

You stood there in silence, looking at your stomach through the mirror. You put the brush down and turned to the side, studying your stomach. It did look big and your waist was getting a little wide as well.

How could you not realize this? Being a part of the Plastics and dating the Queen Bee, you’re supposed to be on top of your game, noticing anything different about anything or anyone, but you didn’t even take the time to look at yourself and see the differences.

“I need to lose some weight.” You muttered to yourself as you pressed down on your stomach, wishing it was flat.

The next day at school you didn't go through the line for breakfast or lunch.

Breakfast wasn’t a big deal, Regina always choosing to go out to get a coffee from Starbucks and a small sandwich rather than the school food, but it was cheese fries day again for lunch and you didn’t even go through the line with her!

Meanwhile at the table, Regina tore up the fries, but saved some with the most cheese for you, hoping you would eat them, but when you didn’t, she spoke up.

“Babe, these are for you.” She said, pointing to the fries. You shook your head, declining them. “Oh it’s okay, you can have them.” Regina stopped eating, turning to look at you.

Did you just decline cheese fries?

“What, but you love cheese fries, they’re your favorite!” Gretchen reminded you, worry coming to her face.

“Yeah I know, but I think I should cut back on all that unhealthy stuff. I wanna lose a couple of pounds.”

That caught the attention of Karen. Now all the girl's eyes were on you. “You sound like Regina when you say that!” She joked with a giggle.

“Yeah, you sound like me...” Regina agreed with slight confusion trailing her voice. “And I don’t like it.” Regina deadpanned. “Don’t say that again. You don’t need to lose any pounds, you look fine.”

Her words should’ve been reassuring, especially coming from your girlfriend, but that only seemed to make things worse, your eyes seeing the flaws. By her saying that, it only made you think more about your stomach.

The next day rolled around and it was the same thing at lunch. This time, Regina had a burger and fries from dinner she had last night.

She was chowing down, ketchup on the side of her lips, and fingers greasy from the buns when she noticed you staring at her, her mind instantly thinking of the food that sat in front of her.

“Do you want some?” You snapped out of your stare, shaking your head. “No, I got my granola bar. It’s healthy and low in calories!”

Regina scoffed. “Babe, if you don’t put that small bar down and eat with me, I’m gonna sue the whole company.” She threatened with a fake sweet voice. “Don’t Gina, I told you I’m trying to drop some weight.”

Regina rolled her eyes, looking at Karen and Gretchen. “Either of you want the rest of these fries?” Karen quickly jumped at it, snatching the fries from across the table.

“Yay, thank you!”

She happily popped a fry in her mouth, a satisfied moan coming from her. You had a sad look on your face as you watched Karen eat, wishing you could taste the salty potato, but instead, you nibbled at the stale granola bar that probably wouldn’t even help you lose the desired weight.

After school you and the girls went to Regina’s house, the first thing the 3 did was go to the mirror to pick out their flaws.

“Gosh my hips are huge.” Karen started, while running her hands over her hips. “Oh please, I hate my calves.” Gretchen complained. Regina quickly joined. “Well at least you guys can wear Halters, I got man shoulders.”

You walked over to the mirror, frowning at yourself. “You all are lucky you’re skinny, my stomach is getting so big. I really need to lose a few pounds.”

Regina turned around with an annoyed look. “Y/n, what did I tell you about that. You’re not fat, you’re hot.” You sighed, walking over to her bed and sitting down. “Not anymore, Gina. I don’t see why you’re still with me.”

A small gasp was heard from Gretchen as Karen looked on in confusion. Regina stomped her way towards you, grabbing your chin with her manicured French Tip nails, forcing you to look at her in the eyes.

“I don’t know who or what’s got you thinking like that, but you better stop it right now. You’re my girlfriend because I love you and you’re hot. You don’t need to lose weight.”

She aggressively, but lovingly said, wanting to make sure she got her point across to you.

“Why are you thinking like that anyways?” She asked with a softer tone, not caring that her friends were in the room watching. You avoided her eyes, messing with the loose string on her bedsheet.

“Cady mentioned how big I’ve been getting. She said it’s because I’m dating you and all we do is eat fast food and cheese fries. I just wanna lose a few pounds to get skinny again.”

No sound was made in the room after you finished, the uncomfortable silence making you wish you could crawl into a hole and never come out.

You heard a quiet curse from under Regina’s breath as she grabbed you by your wrist and dragged you to the mirror. She flipped her shirt up and turned her body to the side.

“Baby, look at me. I got a little fat on my body, but you don’t see me going ape shit. I don’t care if you gain a few pounds or if you lose them, but don’t do it because someone said so. Especially if it's a nobody like Cady.”

You had no reaction as she basically insulted your sister because she was right, Cady was a nobody. After her and her friends, Janis and Damian, tried, but misberly, failed at ruining Regina’s life, she became no one to everyone in school.

“Now, you’re gonna go downstairs, ask my Mom to make you something that’ll fill you up, and while you eat, I’m gonna go pay your sister a visit.”

You smiled knowing you couldn’t stop her. Cady did deserve whatever was gonna come to her.

Nobody upsets Regina’s girl.

[jellychannie]

Thinking abt ghost sharing food with you...

Hes a creature of survival before hes anything else. Childhood days spent hungry in the summer heat has made ghost protective of his food. He doesnt share, not even with his teammates. Ghost always eats alone, and he keeps his food on him at all times.

No one takes it personally, they just accept it was one of the many things ghost does. They know better to expect him to share.

That is, until you join the team and somehow rewire ghost brain after a few conversations. All his instincts telling him he has to keep you safe, and food means safety.

So now when ghost ears MREs on the field hes dragging you along with him. He never speaks more than a few jokes, and you never press. His hands are steady when he rolls up his mask enough to take a bite of food, slightly difficult with a good chunk of lip missing. The next bite goes to you, the same spoon that was just in his mouth now bringing food to yours.

His eyes crinkle in happiness when you take a bite. He doesnt know why his brain latched onto you. Maybe hes got a crush. Maybe you remind him of Tommy. Maybe ghost just feels guilty and hes looking for absolution in your mortal form.

Whatever the reason, it causes ghost to learn how to cook beyong frozen foods. Slowly improving just so he can feed you better on base. The increase in energy and hid improved mood surely have nothing to do with it. Even if hes gives you a big toothy grin when you slip into his office for lunch.

Its nice. Sharing food. It makes him feel a bit less like hes caught in a room with a tiger at all times.

[jellychannie]

UGH so good

What He Comes Home To

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary:

When Clark Kent invites his coworkers over for supper, all he wants is for them to love his sweet, small-town wife; he just hopes they overlook the Superman decor she forgot to take down.

Tags/Warnings: established relationship, Clark being cute, pre-Superman2025 Superman decor

WC: 5k

A/N: After seeing the new Superman movie, I couldn't not start writing from Clark Kent fics! I hope everyone enjoys my first fic on this app!

Clark Kent had wrestled alien warlords, flown through meteor storms, and defused a thermonuclear device at the bottom of the ocean...twice, but nothing made his palms sweat like the idea of his coworkers coming over for dinner.

Real dinner. Not catered. Not some rooftop debrief with takeout boxes and files. A Southern supper cooked by his wife in their apartment.

Their new apartment, to be specific. The one he and his wife had moved into just four weeks ago when they left their small-town home behind to finally, fully step into city life. Or rather, she had stepped in. He’d been straddling both lives since the day the cape came out of the closet.

“I don’t know if this was a good idea,” Clark said, pacing the kitchen as she tied the last knot on her apron. “Maybe we should’ve waited. Maybe we should’ve just done coffee. Or...something less...intimate.”

She was pulling a peach cobbler out of the oven like she hadn’t just slow-cooked two roasts, sautéed fresh collard greens, and folded a dozen buttermilk biscuits like she was born doing it in pearls. “Baby, it’s not a congressional hearing. It’s supper.”

“It’s my coworkers.”

“It’s your friends. And besides,” She turned and smiled at him, soft and warm and butter-in-a-skillet golden. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to meetin’ ‘em. I’ve read every article, you know.”

“I know you have. You made annotated notes in Lois’s exposé about Intergang’s shell corporations.”

“Couldn’t help myself.” She grinned, then kissed his cheek. “That woman’s a powerhouse. And I’ve got a few words for Jimmy about how he crops his wide shots.”

Clark groaned. “Please be gentle with him.”

“Clark,” she said, wiping her hands, “I teach middle school. This is nothing.”

At 6:01 PM, there was a knock on the door.

Clark was already sweating.

“Okay,” he muttered, tugging at his shirt. “Okay, okay. It’s fine. It’s fine. You can catch a plane midair, but you cannot panic,”

“Breathe, baby,” his wife said from behind him, sliding the apron off. “You look handsome. And you smell so handsome with that new stuff I got you.”

He gave her a look.

She gave him his look. The one that could stop a panic attack in its tracks. The one that had kept him steady after a rescue mission gone wrong. The one he only ever saw when she knew exactly who he was and loved him for all of it.

He opened the door.

Jimmy Olsen was first inside, carrying a bottle of sweet tea like it was champagne. “Ma’am,” he said, grinning wide, “you have no idea how long I’ve been dreaming about this dinner.”

“Ever since you started stealin’ Clark’s leftovers, I reckon,” she teased, guiding him in. “Go on, now. Get comfortable.”

Cat Grant strolled in behind him in heels no human should be able to walk in. “This is adorable,” she said, scanning the room. “Who decorated? This is the opposite of what I expected from Kent.”

“That would be me,” Mrs. Kent said with a little wave.

“Oh. You have taste.”

Lois came next, shrugging out of her jacket, observant eyes already clocking the throw pillows. “Is that… is that a Superman logo?”

Clark’s wife froze for half a second.

“It is,” she said brightly. “My little joke. We keep findin’ merch at pop-up markets, and I can’t help myself.”

Clark tried to casually step in front of the Live, Laugh, Lift sign hanging by the kitchen.

Lois smirked.

Steve Lombard barged in last, already talking over Perry, who was right behind him. “Smells better than a tailgate in August,” Steve announced. “Is that cornbread I smell?”

Perry just muttered, “Don’t embarrass us, Steve.”

Plates were passed. Glasses filled. Butter melted. Laughter cracked through the steam.

Clark's wife moved through the dinner like she’d known them all her life. She made Perry laugh so hard he had to remove his glasses. She humored Steve’s football analogies while refilling his sweet tea. She complimented Cat’s perfume and even managed to win Lois over by referencing her early reporting work from before the Planet.

Clark watched it all from the far end of the table, too full of awe to speak.

He’d never seen her quite like this before: charming and confident and holding her own among Metropolis’ sharpest. She was still soft. Still sweet. But this wasn’t the classroom or their porch swing back home. This was the big city, and she’d stepped right into it without missing a beat.

She glanced at him once across the table, as Perry launched into a story about a Cuban cigar deal gone wrong. Just a glance. And it grounded him.

She knew him. All of him. The alien. The cape. The flight paths. The things he’d seen and done and tried to carry without ever letting anyone else feel the weight.

And she just—smiled.

Dinner had stretched into the kind of evening Clark had always hoped was possible. The apartment was humming with the sound of second helpings and overlapping stories, of friends finally seeing the home he’d built—the home they had built.

Jimmy was leaning back in his chair, rubbing his stomach. “I gotta know,” he said dreamily. “What’s the secret to your biscuits? Did you make a deal with the devil?”

“Close,” she said sweetly. “I used cold butter and prayer.”

“Whatever it was, I’m converted.”

Clark, meanwhile, was trying to physically block anyone from seeing the Superman: Farm Raised tea towel that had somehow made it into the drying rack. She’d warned him she forgot to put some of the joke decor away.

Steve wandered toward the bookshelf. “Hey, uh… is this Superman holding a kitten calendar?”

Clark’s wife didn’t even turn around. “That one’s my favorite. Reminds me to stay hopeful.”

Jimmy nodded solemnly. “It does.”

Lois narrowed her eyes. “You’re really into Superman stuff.”

Clark’s wife tilted her head. “He saved my whole county last summer. You bet I am.”

Lois looked at Clark.

Clark blinked.

Lois looked back at the throw pillow.

She didn't say anything, but the gears were turning.

Later, when the plates were cleared and dessert had reduced even Perry to sleepy contentment, Clark and his wife stood side by side in the kitchen, hands brushing.

“She’s onto you,” she whispered.

Clark nearly dropped a spoon. “Lois?!”

“She’s not sure, baby. But she’s close.”

Clark looked stricken. “Oh...”

She reached up and smoothed the wrinkle between his brows. “You’re fine. Just stop lookin’ like you’re hiding a secret identity, and you’ll be fine.”

“I am hiding a secret identity.”

She just smiled and tapped his nose. “Exactly.”

He groaned and pulled her close, arms around her waist, tucking his face into her shoulder like she could shield him from the most dangerous woman alive.

“You’ve faced Zod and Braniac but the real threat is a dinner party,” she teased, fingers playing gently with the curls at his neck.

“She’s Lois Lane. You know what she could do with a gut feeling and a loose thread?”

“I also know she’s never seen you look at anyone the way you look at me.”

He went quiet. Tightened his arms a little. Let the world fall away.

“You’re my sunlight,” he murmured.

She closed her eyes.

“I know,” she said.

Out in the living room, Lois was sipping the last of her sweet tea, eyeing the binder on the shelf labeled Favorite Daily Planet Articles.

“Clark’s Wife’s Picks?” she said, flipping it open.

Her name was everywhere. Highlighter, margin notes, a tab labeled “Underrated Intros.”

Cat peered over her shoulder. “Are those color-coded?”

Jimmy popped a leftover biscuit in his mouth. “Yeah, she’s a teacher.”

Lois looked up, toward the kitchen. She couldn’t hear what Clark was saying. But she could see him. Could see the way he leaned toward her. The way he listened like everything she said mattered.

Something in Lois softened.

She still didn’t have the full story. But she didn’t need it.

She could see enough.

[jellychannie]

title is literally me

lovestruck and looking out the window

pairing: clark kent x fem reader 4.6k

summary: you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar

content: clark kent invents what it's like to be a gentleman time and time again. reader finds herself in trouble quite a bit lol. title from superman by tswift of course. divider from hyuneskkami ♡

Addy19 @Addison_Malii Anyone else in Arkham District hear the evacuation sirens turn on and off? Was that a test or should I be running for my life lol Mark 💸 @markusup ↳ replying to @Addison_Malii That’s what you get for living in “Arkham District” bro 💀💀💀 cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @markusup don’t speak on arkham district with metropolis in ur bio lmfao. i hope ur insurance covers ur house the next time superman drops a building on ur ass Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer superman haters can not be real. like damn do you guys hate joy happiness fun and rainbows too cait (old acc got hacked…) @batmanslawyer ↳ replying to @mightycrabjoysluvr are we forgetting the fact that he’s an ALIEN from KRYPTON? i don’t care how hot he is i will take batman over him any day Mari ♡ @mightycrabjoysluvr ↳ replying to @batmanslawyer a vigilante defender in my replies shitting on superman… i have really seen it all. bookmarking this tweet for when the police finally catch batmans ass btw

“—you want some?”

“Hm?” 

Clark sinks into the couch next to you, his weight tipping you closer in his direction. The edge of the bowl in his hand prods your side.

“You really shouldn’t hold your phone so close to your face. You’re going to wreck your vision.”

You finally look up at him, unimpressed. “Didn’t know you believed in old wives’ tales.”

“It’s not a myth!” He insists. “Put your phone down. We’re putting the movie on, and I know you’re going to complain when you don’t understand what’s happening—”

“I don’t complain, you liar.”

“—but you do, and then you’re gonna beg me to rewind. But then you’re gonna fall asleep and ask me to rewind it again, but I won’t want to because I’ve rewatched the same part five times—”

“That’s never happened before,” you lie blatantly. It happened last week and he won’t stop bringing it up. You toss your phone somewhere onto his couch and ignore the look he’s giving you when you take the bowl from his hands. “You made popcorn? Why didn’t you say anything?”

Clark laughs, the sound full and warm. He drapes a throw blanket over your laps — one of yours that he stole from your apartment — and hands you the remote. “I did. You were too busy scrolling.”

“Sorry.” You make yourself comfortable on his couch, pressing yourself into his side and stretching your legs out onto the ottoman. “I was busy doing some very important things.”

“Such as?” he asks, watching you flick through his TV subscriptions. “Oh, come on. We aren’t watching that one again.”

You frown as you click past one of your favorite movies. “I was just looking at it.”

“I’m sure.”

You kick at his ankles and watch the dimples crease on his face. It’s hard not to stare too long at the way he looks in the golden lighting from the TV. The brown of his eyes seems warmer.

“Whatever,” you grumble. “You can pick. As long as it’s not that trashy zombie show you like.”

He takes the remote from you, leveling a look at you from under the frames of his glasses. “It’s not trashy.”

“We can agree to disagree, babe.”

You fight the urge to laugh. You aren’t sure Clark realizes it, but he has the same reaction to that nickname every time — he looks up at the ceiling, and then away from you as the blush creeps up his neck. It’s even easier to see when his face is lit up like this, his sweet face tinged pink.

The two of you scroll through the movie and show selections in relative silence after. You’re sitting close enough that you can nudge him in the side when you want him to skip something, and he does so with only some complaints. You make it all the way down to the romcom section before he breaks the silence. 

He coughs. Then asks, “So, what were you doing on your phone? Texting someone?”

You hum absentmindedly, inspecting the movie thumbnails. “I was reading through some Superman hate posts, actually.”

It’s not the most accurate description of what you were doing, but you say it just to get a rise out of him. Clark would never admit it, but you’re almost one hundred percent sure that he’s a secret Superman megafan. 

There’s a look that he gets in his eyes whenever he reads something about him. It’s hard to place, but it kind of looks like he’s a little kid again, his entire face lit up with emotion.

But if he really is as big of a fan as you think he is, you have no idea how he’s so blasé about all those interviews he gets with him. Clark Kent really is one of the most interesting people you’ve ever met.

He looks at you sideways, glancing away from the TV. “You were,” he says, less of a question and more of a statement.

“Kidding. Kinda. You know what people are like. Your friend’s famous, you know. People are going to scrutinize him no matter what he does.”

Clark clears his throat and his eyes dance back to the screen, but you know he’s only half paying attention to it now. “And you… do you agree with them? With what people say about him?

Something in his voice is odd. You sit up against the couch to look at him properly, though all you can see is his side profile. 

On the screen in front of you, he clicks past the titles the second they load, uncaring of what he’s scrolling past.

“I think Superman’s great,” you say honestly. You speak slowly, trying to gauge his reaction. The only change in expression you get is the slight twitch of his mouth. “Don’t know why people complain so much about someone who saves lives. Like, who cares if he’s from Kirpton?”

“Krypton,” he corrects.

You smile. “Right, sorry.”

The slight tension in his shoulders release. “You really think he’s great?”

“Yeah.” You slip the remote out of his hands and click play on the first movie you recognize. Surprisingly, Clark doesn’t complain. “He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us? I hear his harem has quite the waiting list.”

He laughs, tossing the blanket back over your leg where it’s exposed. “He’s not my friend, and there’s no harem. And hopefully, you won’t be meeting Superman anytime soon.”

“Why not? Don’t want to mix your friend groups?”

He nudges your side, relaxing into his cushions again. His arms cross over his chest, and you try not to focus on the way his biceps pull against the sleeves of his shirt. “No. If you ever run into Superman, it probably means you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be.”

The two of you sit quietly with the weight of his words. Sure, he’s right, but you’re sure a totally normal Superman interaction isn’t out of the realm of possibility. 

You wonder if the superhero has a favorite coffee shop. And how he would even order from it if he did. Would he wait in line? Maybe he’d have a priority lane specifically for him on the roof.

“Wait, what?” Clark’s voice cuts into the silence. His features have scrunched up in confusion. “When did we agree on watching this?”

“It’s Saw.”

“I can see that.”

“I chose it when you were too busy talking.” 

“You sure you want to watch this one? You remember what happened when we watched The Exorcist, right?”

“The lights went out, Clark. What was I supposed to do, not scream?”

“I was sitting right next to you. Nothing was going to happen. If anything, we’d get possessed together.”

“That’s so not funny. As long as nothing supernatural happens, I’ll be good with this one, I swear.”

He blinks at you.

“I swear.”

You wake up drooling on Clark’s t-shirt. 

Thirty minutes into Saw you were holding onto his arm so tightly that he put you out of your misery and put on National Treasure instead. The last thing you can remember is Nicolas Cage asking for lemon juice before the comfort of Clark’s shoulder became too much to resist drifting off.

You untangle your legs from his to sit up properly, a different movie playing in the background. Much like you a few seconds ago, your friend is fast asleep, his head leaning against the armrest in a way that can’t be comfortable.

His glasses are askew now, resting politely on his chest. You worry about the chances of them getting squished and leave them on the side table for him to find.

It’s only then, when you’re staring at the black frames on the wood, that you realize something silly. 

You’ve never seen Clark without his glasses on. 

He often talks about how his bad eyesight is why he’s so adamant about wearing them. You’ve asked him once before about wearing contacts, and he’d said something about how he has sensitive eyes and didn’t like them much.

You don’t mind at all. He looks very gorgeous with them on, and you find it very cute how they fog up when he gets flustered enough. 

You’re grateful for the light of the TV, because it means you can still somewhat see Clark’s face. You rub the sleep from your eyes to look at him, and—

Huh. 

You wonder if it’s normal to look this different without your glasses on. Sure, they can sometimes change the size of a person’s eyes, and losing a significant feature on anyone’s face is bound to make them look a little different, but… 

Clark looks different. Still familiar, but undoubtedly different.

It’s weird. The changes are so subtle you wonder if you’re hallucinating. The differences are written clear as day on his face, but it feels impossible to put them into words. 

Is it the shape of his jaw? You don’t remember it always looking so carved, and you would know, with how often you look at him. Maybe it’s the shape of his mouth.

Something in the back of your mind twitches, like a memory begging to come to the surface. It’s a slight tension against your skull, a pressing feeling trying to nudge you in the direction of something.

You have no idea why you do it, but your hand moves without thinking. Your fingers thread through his hair, the same way you do when you tease him for looking like he’s just rolled out of bed in the morning. As you do it, the features of his face shift just so, and…

Woah. 

Clark doesn’t just look familiar. 

He looks exactly like fucking Superman.

You pull your hand away so quickly the joints in your arm protests. Clark shifts underneath you, his eyes twitching as he rouses from sleep. He pats the fabric of the couch before he feels you under his hand, and he squeezes your thigh when he does.

“You alright?” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “What’re you doin’?”

“Nothing. I just woke up.” 

The sentence is true in more ways than one. It feels like you’re seeing Clark’s face for the first time. How had you not noticed just how much he looks like the same man that saves the city for a living? 

He blinks himself awake, and it’s like your heart flips. Staring at his devastatingly long eyelashes, it’s like everything becomes ten times clearer. 

You weren’t hallucinating — he looks just like Superman. It’s uncanny.

He pats you as he sits up, still clearly in the last dregs of sleep. His words slur together when he asks you, “What time is it?”

“Uh,” your eyes search the couch for where you’d ditched your phone earlier, and you find it on the floor next to the ottoman. It’s covered in spilled popcorn from the bowl that must’ve fallen off Clark’s lap during the night. “It’s two.”

The reminder is enough to make you yawn, and you rub your eyes to clear your vision. He leans over to the side table to get the lamp, and the room is filled again with warm light.

“Geez,” Clark says. “My neck hurts like crazy. Is your back okay?”

You turn back to face him, and with the lights on you can see him a lot better. His glasses are back on, and he…

Looks absolutely nothing like Superman anymore.

You must look a little surprised, because he stops massaging the back of his neck to scan you with his eyes. “Is everything okay?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Superman without your glasses on?”

The words land awkwardly. 

Clark laughs, but it’s not real. He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “What?” 

“You…” It feels like you’ve said something you really shouldn’t have. “You just look a lot like him.”

“Oh,” he says. His hand rises to adjust where his glasses sit on his face. “That’s funny.”

If he really thinks so, you aren’t hearing much laughter from him.

You aren’t sure why he’s so unsettled at the thought. Based on the limited information you have about him, Superman kind of seems like the perfect guy. He’s kind, selfless, great with kids, and…

Oh no.

It’d been such a brief stint in your conversation — there’s no way he remembers it. It’d been a joke, albeit one wrapped in underlying truth. 

“He’s gorgeous, too. You think you could introduce us?”

Clark is one of the most rational people you know. It’s no question that he knows you were kidding about that — hell, he’d laughed — but your technical confession is enough to make embarrassment rush through your entire body.

He seems completely upended by your comparison between the two of them. You stand abruptly, suddenly wishing you were anywhere but here. 

“It’s late. I should go back to my apartment.”

It’s not far. Few people in the world live closer to Clark actually, with your apartment being directly below his. When that dog he’s fostering is running around too much, you can hear his footsteps scurry above your head.

(Oddly enough, you’ve never actually seen the dog in person, and Clark refuses to tell you what his name is, but you’re pretty sure he’s real.)

The furrow Clark gets between his brows is so deep you wonder if it hurts. “You don’t want to take the bed?”

You slip your phone in your pocket and start looking for where you’d kicked off your shoes. “No, it’s okay. Your neck deserves a break from the couch,” you say, busy checking underneath the kitchen table. 

There’s nothing there. You wonder if it’d be weird to leave without them.

Clark places one of his broad hands on your lower back before he passes your shoes to you. He is so irritatingly perfect it borders on unfortunate for you.

“Thanks,” you say, quickly. You’re even faster to slip them on, uncaring of the way the heels fold uncomfortably inward. 

“Hey. Hey.” His hand encircles your wrist when you turn away from him. He’s frowning, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something. “Are you okay? You know I don’t mind taking the couch.”

The smile that softens your expression is real. “So selfless, Clark Kent. I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Thank you, though.”

He tries one last time. Glances furtively at the door, like he’s hesitant to let you go. “It’s late.”

You feel evil. It can’t be ethical to turn down Clark when he looks like this, sleep mussed and soft and a little worried about you.

“You can watch me walk to the elevator if you’d like.”

“I’ll walk you downstairs,” he offers instead, opening his door for you and stepping out. “It’ll help me sleep better.”

Looking at him waiting for you in his pajama pants and his wrinkled shirt, you wonder how you haven’t proposed. 

But when he leans against the doorway of your apartment downstairs, smiling at you with sleep in his eyes and telling you to get some rest, you come very close to it.

Your friendship with Clark Kent kind of started the same way — with him taking you home.

The Daily Planet is a block away from your office building, a much smaller structure with just enough windows that you can watch the next world-ending threat from anywhere inside. Once, you got to watch Superman save an entire floor of people in the building across from you before some creature gutted half the skyrise.

You’ve witnessed enough extraterrestrial villains to not be too surprised when you see them on the news, or catch a glimpse of them in real life.

The one thing you didn’t expect, though, was to run into one from this planet.

It’s late when you’re walking to the metro after work. You’re barely half awake, exhausted after dealing with some data issue that had you and a few other people on cleanup duty late into the night.

You’re digging around in your purse, searching frantically for your phone. To make a bad night even worse, you come up empty.

“Shit,” you say under your breath, stopping to press your fist to your forehead. You remember it vividly, now. You’d left it on the counter when you’d cleaned up the cup of coffee you spilled when you were dead on your feet.

You let out a few more curses under your breath as you continue walking, hoping that you didn’t throw out that old alarm clock you found in your closet.

It happens a few minutes later, and it’s nothing like in the movies. There’s no anticipatory music, or a suspicious sound that makes you turn your head, or the hair on the back of your neck standing up. You’ve walked down this street countless times before, one well-lit by the street lights and store signs, and felt safe every time.

The universe gives you no warning. It only lets you make it three blocks before someone seizes your arm and tugs you into a damp, dark, Metropolis alley.

You don’t have time to scream. A hand, grimy with sweat and something else clamps hard over your mouth, muffling any sound you could’ve let out.

Your back presses into the rough brick of the alley. You recognize where you are immediately — a small deli that you and your coworker frequent. You don’t know how you’re going to tell her that you’re never coming back here ever again.

“I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. And you’re not going to scream, or lie to me, because I will stab you.” The man’s voice is thick and gravelly, almost as sharp as the blade he presses into the give of your stomach. “Nod if you understand me.”

You jolt when he presses hard enough to nick your skin. The nod comes immediately after.

“You’re going to give me all the money in that purse of yours, and your phone. I need your phone.” 

You glance over to your purse where it sits on the pavement. It must’ve fallen when he’d pulled you into this alley.

“Take it,” you say quickly, voice wavering with stress. You aren’t going to fight with this man over chump change and your lip balm. “You can have all of it.”

He ducks down immediately to reach for the purse, and sniffs out the money quickly. He shoves the few pathetic crumpled bills into the pockets of his worn out jeans, before turning his attention back to the inside of the bag.

You swallow, glancing towards the entrance of the alley. He wouldn’t chase you if you made a run for it, would he? 

There’s a sickening crack as your stuff hits the floor, and your daydream is crushed. The man is shaking his head, pressing his hand to his forehead, mumbling to himself in hushed tones. 

You press yourself further against the wall, like the extra inch of space between you will save you.

“Your phone. I need your phone.”

Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth. You know he won’t believe you. You’ve never been more scared to speak.

“Did you hear me?” His voice shakes uncontrollably, his eyes narrowed to near slits. “Your phone. I need… You have to give me your phone.”

“I don’t have it with me,” you choke out. Your hands curl protectively in front of you. “I forgot it at work.”

He turns the knife back at you, though his hand wavers. Spit flies from his mouth and onto the ground in front of you. “You’re a liar.”

“I’m not lying, I swear. I swear. Please, you can take whatever I have—”

Another voice pierces the silent street, one firm and so authoritative that both of you turn to look.

The man doesn’t waste another second. He turns and flees down the dark alley, taking the few things of worth in your purse with him. You don’t feel strong enough to move until he’s completely gone from your sight.

The adrenaline crash doesn’t take long to set in. Your head feels light, like it’s filled with helium. You think that’s why you don’t notice yourself walking directly into the other person there with you.

The universe had been the reason why you’d gotten mugged, but the universe also brought Clark Kent into your life.

You had caught glimpses of him at your shared apartment all the time, your similar schedules meaning you often left for work and came back around the same time. He’d held the door open for you a few times, and you’d seen him help some of your neighbors with their groceries before. You’d always known he was nice, but you had no idea stopping crime was on his list of talents as well.

After he’d saved you from that man in the alley that night, he’d walked you back to your apartment.

He did the same the next night. And almost all of the nights after that, too.

It didn’t take long for the two of you to become close friends, and for your lives to start merging together. You’d invited him over for dinner as a thank you, and it slowly turned into a regular thing. You soon found yourself splitting your time between your apartment and his. 

You really like Clark, and can barely remember life in Metropolis without him. 

That’s probably why it feels so terrible to ignore him.

[4:29] farmboy kent: I’ll be running a little late today

[4:29] farmboy kent: White sent us out to Park Ridge and the train back is delayed. I’ll be by your building around 5:20

[4:33] you: No problem!! also no need to swing by today. my cousin invited me over to hers so i’ll be in civic city until late

The message is marked as read a few seconds after you send it, making the next few minutes agonizingly long. 

Around 4:35, Clark finally starts typing, only to delete his message. A minute later, he continues again.

[4:38] farmboy kent: Ok. Be safe

[4:39] farmboy kent: I’ll pick you up at the station later

[4:39] you: Are you okay with that? i’m not sure when i’ll get back

[4:40] farmboy kent: Of course. Text me when you know what time your train will get in

You feel like a dick pressing the thumbs up reaction on his last message. What kind of person lies to Clark Kent?

You aren’t even sure why you do it. It’s probably the lingering embarrassment from last night — it was the closest you’ve ever come to telling him how you feel about him.

So… maybe a Clark-free day is what you need. 

You can’t remember the last day you’ve spent without seeing him at least once. On your days off from work he’d come by after his shifts, and even on days that one of you were busy, you would still show up at his place to say hello.

No wonder he makes you crazy. You haven’t had a Clark Kent detox since the day you met him.

Surely all good friendships need time apart, right? You’ll just spend a day by yourself and when you see him again tomorrow, you’ll be back to normal. There won’t be any more slips where you compare him to one of the most gorgeous people you’ve ever seen, or where you tell him he’d be a great husband, or something friendship-ending like that.

It’ll be good for you. Tomorrow will be a great, much needed, neighbor-free day.

You’re buying a paperweight for Clark when a building falls on top of the Metropolis Museum of Art.

The remorse from your little white lie followed you through every second of your Clark Kent boycott, effectively ruining it. Your plan was to head down to the park and enjoy the weather, but you found yourself making a quick detour to the souvenir store inside the museum. 

You’d come here with him a few months ago, and he’d seen the paperweight and loved it. It was a little glass sphere depicting Superman flying over Metropolis, and he’d almost bought it before reading the price tag. The guilt following you around now was enough to choke a horse, and you decided that it’d make for a great apology gift. 

(Not that he was aware you were apologizing for anything.)

The crash of the building sends plumes of dust into the room, coating everything in a haze of white. The emergency sirens start their crying almost immediately, joining in what sounds like the actual crying of children on an after-school field trip. 

You cough to clear your throat and find that even the air is saturated in thick dust, the cloud becoming even worse as more debris drops from the ceiling.

The roof of the museum is clearly trying its best, but it seems like the entire structure groans in protest. One of the overhead lights hangs precariously above your head, and you take a few healthy steps back from it.

Distantly, you can see the blinking red light that marks the exit. The cashier you were talking to a second ago makes a mad dash for it, ducking under a fallen beam while she does. Hordes of people crowd by the door as everyone rushes out, eager to flee.

The sun shines through the gaping hole in the museum made by the other building, and through the light it offers, you see it on the floor— the gift you’d gotten Clark.

The little paperweight sits sadly on the tile about five feet away from you. 

If you weren’t afraid of inhaling too much dust, you would’ve groaned. There’s no way you’re abandoning the thing after all this trouble you’ve gone through to get it. 

Against your better judgement, you move further from the exit to go and pick it up.

In the end, though, it doesn’t matter. 

There’s a strong gust of wind and a bright flash of light, and you’re outside again. 

When your feet hit the pavement, you resist the urge to vomit. It feels like your stomach has been flipped inside out and then put back again. The dizziness makes you double over, but you’re braced by a pair of firm hands around your forearms.

You’re halfway through a mumbled thank you when you look up. 

You blink a few times to clear your vision. When nothing changes, you’re forced to wonder if you hit your head somewhere in the museum.

Standing in front of you, with his perfect hair disheveled and windswept, is Superman.

notes: theyre both losers LOL. thank u for tuning into my fic lmk if u enjoyed! :) i do have a part 2 planned bc i think clark kent deserves to be kissed

[jellychannie]

js getting into ac (thanks to a friend) and ts hits right

Could I request something? We all know that young Ezio was a fuckboy. He's interested in the reader (female or gender-neutral please) and tries to woo them. The reader does like him but rejects Ezio's advances. Ezio can't understand what's going on and decides to ask the reader why do they reject him when they show signs of liking him. The reader then explains that they do like him but they don't want to risk getting hurt by his womanizing. It's up to you if they get together after that or not!

Womaniser

"What would I do without you, gioia mia?" He hummed with that flirtatious smile of his adorning those perfect lips.

"Bleed out probably," (Y/n) replied with an unimpressed look, glancing up at Ezio's face through her lashes seeing as she was kneeling on the floor beside him as he sat on her bed, watching him wince as the needle pierced the flesh over his left ribs again. "You and Vieri quarrel like little children," She tutted as she pulled the stitch carefully enough to not hurt him, "and look at what it's done to you this time."

"Well it's good that you love me so much then, isn't it?" He leaned back on his arms a little more, hand gripping the sheet for a moment when the slither of metal went through him again.

"Love is a strong word, Ezio. . . but I do care about you, yes." She murmured, voice quiet with concentration. In fact, she was so concentrated that she missed his look of disappointment entirely.

"I have to run an errand for my mother later." He began, "Would you like to come with me?"

"Stop trying to change the subject, Ezio. I may not be Maria, but I'll scold you like her if you keep on showing up on my doorstep bleeding out like this. What if Vieri had stabbed you instead of slashed at you, hmm? Then what?" He watched the way her brows furrowed and her eyes saddened as she spoke, "I want you to be more careful."

"I don't think that change is in my nature, I'll be pursuing that pezzo di merda until he's gone." He grumbled.

"I know. . ." She mumbled, her emotions now unreadable, her face straight.

"Hey. . ." He got the feeling that he'd upset her and reached forwards to cup her face in his hand, being a physically affectionate person and not knowing how else to comfort her. She let his palm rest there for a while, exhaling and leaning into his touch, closing her eyes. But it was over all too soon and she was pushing his hand back by his side and continuing with her task of treating his wound.

"You should go run that errand for your mother as soon as I'm done, you shouldn't keep her waiting. He realised that she was trying to chase him out as soon as possible now that he had started making advances again; it hurt more than just his ego.

"(Y/n)?" He spoke up after a while.

"Hm?"

"I let Vieri get me on purpose." Her eyes widened and her head shot up to look at him, appearing somewhat angry.

"Are you mad?! Why!?" She exclaimed, letting go of the needle and feeling almost insulted that she was stitching him up for something he had lied about.

"Because you only ever let me see you when I'm hurt." He replied and watched her lips part, looking for words but finding none.

"Ezio, please don't intentionally get hurt in your pursuit of me." She shook her head, her shock beginning to melt down.

"So you do know that I like you?" He spoke, now as confused as her.

"I may be oblivious at times, Ezio, but I'm not that blind." She sighed, moving so that she was sitting more comfortably, setting herself beside him to finish off her work, fingers already lightly trembling with emotion.

"Then why do you push away all my advances? Do you not like me?" She was half-tempted to lie then and there, to say no and have him hopefully drop it altogether.

"Because. . . Because you don't love me." She murmured as she tied off the last stitch, getting back up to gather the bloodied rags and throw them into a bowl, grabbing some bandages that she had placed on her nightstand.

"I d-"

"No, Ezio! You love women. You love your little exciting flings until they're no longer exciting and then you move onto the next. All of them are so willing because you're so handsome, so charming but. . . But I won't let myself get hurt because of that." She paused, realising that her hands were shaking and this was a really awkward time for her to ask him to take his shirt off so that she could dress the wound.

"(Y/n), look at me." He murmured. She refused to look up from her hands in her lap, "Belleza." He raised a hand to her cheek in order to try and turn her face towards his but she remained stubborn. Instead, he took her trembling hands in his. "I can see why you think that of me. But I've been trying to go back to girls I've been with before. I've spent the night with some of them but. . . None of it felt right. But do you know what feels right?" There was a long pause.

"What?" She whispered, unintentionally squeezing his hands back.

"You. Every time I visit you, it's something so much more than the excitement of a new fling. I know that excitement well and this isn't it. I just want to take care of you, to make you feel loved and safe. . . per favore, give me a chance?"

"Ezio, you have to understand that I have so much more to lose in this than you do. . . How am I supposed to trust that you won't leave me feeling like it's my fault that things went wrong? How can I trust that I won't be left feeling like I'm not enough?"

"Because you deserve better." He replied, her slowly looking up to him despite her hanging head, "But I don't want you to be given that by someone else so I want to be better for you and I can't prove that until you give me a chance. Let me try to give you all the good you deserve: love, affection, safety, loyalty, support, whatever you name you can have." He shifted so that he was on his knees beside the bed, holding her hands to his chest, tucking one under her chin. "Please?"

"I've wanted this for so long but I've been holding back because I've been so afraid that you'll hurt me." She murmured, bringing his hands to her lips and delicately tracing kisses over his knuckles. "Just promise me one thing above all else?"

"Say it and it's yours." He spoke with hope alight in those warm brown eyes of his.

"Don't prove me right." He quickly nodded his head and his heart fluttered at feeling her lips press such delicate kisses to his hands. Those same lips smiled against his skin as she slid down to join him on the floor, throwing her arms around his shoulders to hug him tightly. His strong arms coiled around her waist and she sighed against his neck, feeling him gently pull back to cup her face in his large hands, eyes flittering from each one of hers, stealing glances down to her lips.

"Can I kiss you?" He whispered, feeling so lucky to have her in his arms even though every part of him had been telling him that she would have said no.

"Can we take things slowly?" She replied, cheeks heating with an embarrassed blush. He opted to sweetly press his lips to her forehead instead, watching how it caused her to grin, it making her feel so warm inside.

"Whatever you want, gioia mia."

[jellychannie]

Uhm hello?!! This is something i never knew i was looking for-- I'm not mad.

A Wizarding World x Call of Duty crossover disclaimer: the usual "JK Rowling sucks" and "I don't condone military violence"

When you join the quiet little Office of Magitech Integration at the Ministry of Magic, you're granted a top secret security clearance. It doesn't become relevant until years later, when your boss surprises you with a shocking revelation and the real reason why you were hired:

To create magically modified Muggle weapons to combat the rising Dark Lord Makarov.

There's only one task force mad enough to test such abominations. Their captain strikes you as a bit insane. The two sergeants treat you like a sibling. And the one in the mask? Well, he doesn't really have much to do with you at all.

At least, not at first.

A little adventure, told through snippets and one shots, on mixing magic and modern warfare. No coherent plot. Reading the intro for context is recommended, but most other parts should be standalone and can be read out of order. All parts, unless otherwise stated in the chapter, are rated T. tags: crossover au, canon-typical violence, fluff, slice of life, background plot, romance

PARTS

UNBURIED | FAMILIAR | MOBILE HOME | STATE OF MIND | STATE OF MIND II | ARTS & ENCHANTMENTS | PORTUS ( july 27 )

↓ INTRODUCTION BELOW ↓

“Welcome to the Office of Magitech Integration.”

“Nothing below an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on your NEWTS. An Outstanding in Ancient Runes and Magical Theory.”

Bartholomew Thorne pauses, looking up at you over your credentials to give you an approving smile.

You smile back, aiming for cool and unaffected. Inside, your heart is racing. Please, please, please…

He taps another file on his desk. “Led the House E.L.F. project, too?” At your nod, he laughs. “Caused quite the stir at the ministry, that one.”

You remember. Your final two years at Hogwarts had been spent working with a development team on the House Enchanted Labor Familiar, House E.L.F. for short. After four semesters of hard work, a crude yet serviceable machine, equipped with the latest artificial intelligence and an arsenal of housekeeping charms, had been presented to the Ministry. 

Magical Ethics had shaken their heads gravely over the little bot. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had immediately submitted a flurry of complaints, stating this overreach in magitech would replace “willing elf labor”. 

Your only support had come from the House Elf Rights Advocates, who had enthusiastically applauded the innovation. But they occupied a corner of the Ministry even smaller than the one you currently sat in, and in the end it hadn’t amounted to much.

Back in the present, Thorne hovers only a brief moment longer over your paperwork before setting it neatly aside.

Folding his hands on the desk, he looks at you directly. “Now, why do you want to join this office?”

It’s a question you’re ready for. “Because I believe that the Muggle world has a lot to offer us, sir.” It’s a dangerous phrase you wouldn’t even think to utter anywhere else in the Ministry. “The Ministry still uses paper airplane memos to send information between departments; Muggles can do it in a second over email.”

You hesitate, and Thorne waves you on with a careless gesture. “We still use quills and parchment–they use pens and paper. If we need information, we have to go to a library—they have everything you could ever possibly need to know stored digitally, where anyone can access it at any time.” You catch your breath. “There is so much that we could do better—faster—if we’re given the chance to develop it.”

“It’s an uphill battle,” he warns gravely. “There’s too much old blood still in the ministry to accept hybrid products.”

“I understand.”

“And what do you bring to the table?”

“I’m smart.” You lift your chin. “I’m smart, I know what I’m doing, and the E.L.F. project gave me the experience to learn what works and what doesn’t. It taught me how to work on a team, too. And,” you force a little extra steel in your voice, letting it harden your tone. “I’m not afraid of a little challenge.”

Thorne’s eyes gleam. He stands and, a little shaky after your declaration, you stand too. 

“Well, then.” He offers his hand out to you and you take it. A flicker of electricity runs up your fingers and into your arm, like an oath seeping into the skin.

“Welcome to the Office of Magitech Integration.”

For an office you had assumed was generally ignored by the Ministry, the OMI is shockingly opulent.

You had been expecting basement-level offices, dim halls, and cramped workspaces. Instead, you walk into a bright and spacious atrium, the glass ceiling charmed to show a sunny blue sky. It’s so masterfully done that you can feel the warmth of the artificial sunlight on your back as you approach the front desk.

The receptionist looks up at you kindly, greeting you by name.

“That’s me,” you confirm, a little surprised. “How did you know?”

“I’ve got your badge here somewhere—it’s got your picture on it. Just a minute.” He shuffles through the stacks of paperwork on his desk. As he looks, more memos materialize in his inbox tray, which chimes a pleasant little melody at the new additions.

“What is that?” You ask, leaning over the desk for a closer look.

“Oh, those? Our Instant Inboxes.” He yanks the new paperwork out of the tray. “Whenever the boss wants to give us something, he just writes our name on it, slides it into his outbox, and—poof!” He laughs a bit sourly. “Now it’s on my desk.”

Now that you think of it, you hadn’t seen one flying piece of paper since you had walked into the office. That old dog, you think. He let me ramble about the Ministry memos and didn’t even mention this once.

“Here we are!” The man exclaims, fishing out your badge from between two files. He dangles it out to you by the lanyard, and you slide it over your head. “Now, Thorne wants you in Experimental Prototyping, but we’re still waiting on a few things to clear with your security clearance. Until then, you’ll be shadowing an officer on the Ethics and Oversight Council.” He laughs when you can’t disguise your grimace fast enough. “I know, boring old lot, aren’t they? But it’s good to learn sometimes what you can’t do before you learn what you can.”

“And,” he gives you a conspiratorial wink, “the atrium’s just for the stuffy officials. The real office is down that hall. I hope you weren’t hoping for peace and quiet.”

“No, sir.”

He waves you on with another laugh.

You walk away, your new badge suddenly heavy around your neck. The blow of being shuffled into Ethics of all places momentarily overshadows all else. You had been itching to get your hands on some tech, to strip it down and put it back together better.

Everyone starts somewhere, you remind yourself. Patience.

It isn’t until you’re halfway down the hall, headed for the door marked EOC, that the other details catch up to you.

Hang on…security clearance?

Much to your surprise, the EOC is much more lenient than the Department of Magical Ethics.

“They’re the real duffers,” one of them grumbles to you over morning tea, a few weeks into your assignment. “We know how to bend the rules a bit.”

You suppose they have to. Even though you’re not working firsthand on any projects, the ones that cross your desk for review are outrageous in nature.

On one memorable occasion, a handler wearing thick dragonhide gloves had brought in a mystery object swaddled in magic-suppressing blankets.

“You’re joking,” you say flatly when the blanket is opened to reveal a keyboard, of all things.

“I wish,” the senior officer says gravely. “It was supposed to motivate the user to work on their projects, but made them obsessed instead. The tester hasn’t slept in three days and had to be pried away.”

She flips the keyboard over, indicating the obvious runes etched into the back. You recognize Dagaz and Inguz. Completion. Goals. Strangely, there’s still a battery compartment.

You point it out. “Funny that they’d leave that if it runs off of magic.”

Together, you open the compartment and shake out the batteries onto the desk. They’re not a brand you recognize.

“Careful!” The senior barks when you automatically reach for one. You pull back your hand, but not before a fingertip brushes the side of one battery. You’re immediately seized with the urge to do something, anything, just as long as you’re doing it—

She performs a diagnostic spell with a graceful arc of her wand, hissing as red sparks fly over the table. “That’s why we didn’t catch it the first time—they snuck the charms in through the bloody batteries, not the keyboard!”

You get a front row seat to the row that ensues between Ethics and Prototyping, fighting the urge to make yourself small when some of the developers’ eyes find you standing behind the senior ethics officer. I’m on your side, you want to say, but at the same time, you understand the EOC’s reasoning.

“Promise me you won’t cut corners, kid,” your mentor seethes when you walk back to her office. “In this line of work, shortcuts get people killed.”

It’s a promise you try to adhere to in the following years.

You officially enter Experimental Prototyping and Development after two months spent shadowing the EOC. 

After the time spent among filing cabinets and old rule books—if you never saw a copy of the Ministry Rules of Experimental Procedures again, you’d die happy—the labs are a breath of fresh air. Fresh being relative; it’s mainly oil, ozone, and a whiff of gunpowder.

If the EOC is willing to bend some rules, the EPD is willing to completely bulldoze them.

“Don’t you worry about those old bags,” one of your new coworkers advises you after you hesitate over the latest project—a Muggle photocopier with the capacity to copy even magical moving pictures. You’re impressed until you notice the flaw—every individual in the picture can walk out of their frame and into the frame of another.

It’s a level of magic you were familiar with from the portraits at Hogwarts, but you didn’t think that it extended to the average photograph.

The original photo had been of an old couple waving, but now, ten copies of the man occupy one frame while ten copies of the woman occupy another. The remaining eight photographs stand empty. 

As you study the picture, one of the men makes eye contact with you and taps on the front of the picture, where glass would be if it were framed. He squints his eyes, leans forward, and breathes in front of him; a tiny cloud of fog appears on the photo. With one tiny finger, he writes two words: SU PLEH.

HELP US.

Blood running cold, you slam the photo facedown on the table.

Your coworker doesn’t even look up. “Gotta push the limits somewhere, or else you get nowhere, right?”

It’s your first real brush with the darker side of development. An eerie, lingering reminder that magic—and its users—doesn’t always play by the rules. But it isn't the last. In fact, it’s nothing compared to what comes later.

Years after the photocopier, when the true reason for your security clearance finally reveals itself, you’ll look back on this moment and think: That was only the beginning.

You’re tinkering with a laptop when a tap on the door breaks your focus.

It’s Thorne. There are a few more wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and his hair has begun to go gray at the roots, but he more or less looks like the same man that had hired you four years ago.

If it had been anyone else, you'd have dismissed them. But Thorne’s not just your boss—he’s a mentor and a friend. And he wouldn’t interrupt without good reason.

Setting the laptop aside, you wave him in. With a flick of your wand, the pile of blueprints and design schematics cluttering up your extra desk chair banish themselves to a box in the corner of the room. 

He sits, and you follow. He’s not looking at you; he’s eyeing the innards of the laptop currently strewn across your desk. 

When he makes no move to speak, you clear your throat awkwardly.

“How can I help you, sir?”

He glances up sharply as though startled, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. 

For a moment, he still doesn’t speak. 

Then: “What do you know about this new Dark Lord?”

It’s a conversation-starter so far out of left field that it hits you like a brick. After gathering your wits, you scramble for some sort of coherent answer. “Er, I…I guess what the Prophet’s been reporting, sir.”

And the Prophet had been reporting very little.

Vladimir Makarov had been a name whispered in the halls of Hogwarts from your sixth year onwards. By the time you graduated, professors had adopted a permanently pinched, worried look. Professor Longbottom, if you recall correctly, had been especially stricken, and was absent from the school more often than not.

Makarov, a young Russian upstart, had been weaving in and out of the shadows since, making headlines one year and becoming virtually invisible for the next two. What baffled the Ministry, according to the Prophet, was that he and his followers didn’t appear to have any sort of manifesto. No cause.

Just chaos.

Thorne smiles grimly. “I’ll get straight to the point. Makarov is a dark wizard, yes. A powerful one. But he’s been working with Muggle fringe groups to extend his reach in their world as well.” He holds up a hand as you open your mouth. “Wait a moment. It gets worse. He’s been working with PMCs—Private Military Companies,” he clarifies, seeing your expression. “These groups are wreaking absolute havoc in the Muggle world.”

After a long pause, he saves the worst blow for last. “We suspect that they have been provided with magically-modified Muggle weaponry.”

The statement hangs in the air between you. Sentient photocopies, manic keyboards…every mishap from over the years pales in comparison.

“The Ministries—ours and the Muggle one—have worked together in the past during times of war. Top secret initiatives, of course. In the years of Grindelwald and Hitler, there were specially-designated hit squads from the DMLE that aided Muggle military operations in undermining the Nazi regime."

You follow the conversation only barely, sitting open-mouthed as Thorne continues.

"During the Muggle Cold War, we had our own spies stationed in the Soviet Union and throughout the Eastern Bloc. They helped the Americans and other NATO-aligned states gather intelligence.”

The implications set your mind in a spiral. “You’re talking about a massive violation of the Statute of Secrecy,” you say slowly. “How on earth did the Minister ever agree to it?”

“Because the right people in the right places recognized that these were conflicts that would affect the entire world, ours included. This wasn’t some petty spat between nations—this was nuclear war, kid.”

Nuclear. The word stabs into your brain like an ice pick. You have vague recollections of learning about it in primary school, remember seeing snatches of it on television (something something weapons of mass destruction), but your time in the Wizarding World has dulled your knowledge on Muggle warfare.

While you’re still thinking, Thorne moves on. “What I’m trying to say is, throughout history, there have been times when Magical Law Enforcement has worked together with the British Muggle army. And it’s looking like that time is coming around again.”

You have a creeping suspicion of what Thorne is getting at. It would violate every ethical rule in the book, but he’s got that hard look in his eye that tells you he’s not really asking. “And what does this have to do with the OMI?”

“If Makarov’s giving his Muggle followers modified weaponry, the Muggle Prime Minister wants his soldiers outfitted with the same.”

The laptop parts on your desk vibrate; a slip of accidental magic on your part. Scooting yourself away from the desk, you take a deep breath and try to control yourself. 

Thorne looks sympathetic but unyielding. “The Prime Minister says that soldiers are being shot to pieces in Kosovo. Some of them young men and women, just in their twenties—”

“Don’t manipulate me!” You interrupt sharply, and the laptop parts give a little jump. “I can read the implications for myself! It doesn’t change the fact that you’re suggesting we experiment in some of the most illegal branches of magic!”

Replacing flying memos with the Instant Inboxes? Harmless. Accidentally turning photographs sentient after putting them through a magical copier? A bit more worrisome, but fixable. 

But modifying a weapon has no other use besides war. Anything you create isn’t going to be used in an office, or to make someone’s life easier at home. It’s going to be used to kill.

“We’re not being asked to go out and kill enemies ourselves. Just…to level the playing field, is all.”

“Is that all?” you snip back, crossing your arms and looking away. You both know better. Just leveling the playing field is the first domino in a long line of consequences. Tip it over and who knows what will happen.

“This is why I hired you.”

The quiet admission makes you look back at your boss, eyes wide. “What?”

“Why I hired you. Why I gave you your security clearance. We always have to be on the lookout for new blood when facing situations like this.” His gaze is direct, unflinching. “You weren’t afraid to push boundaries and said you were willing to face challenges.”

“Challenges aren’t the same as war crimes, sir.”

“In this environment, we can’t always afford to split hairs. If it helps us beat Makarov and protect both the Muggle world and ours, would it be worth it?”

Would it? You think of what he described—poor Muggle soldiers torn to pieces after being ambushed with superior weaponry they couldn’t hope to match on their own. A world in the shadow of a new Dark Lord.

But you think, too, of the little man in the picture. Help us. The unintended consequences of innovation and experimentation. That had been a photo. These new projects would be weapons. Who could say where this path would lead?

Thorne looks at you expectantly, head tilted to the side as he waits for an answer. 

This is why I hired you.

Taking a moment to exhale in through your nose, you let the breath out after holding it for a few seconds. “Alright. Fine.” 

Thorne looks pleased, but you have to resist the urge to bury your face in your hands. “Where do we even start?”

“The beginning is usually the best place,” he says pleasantly, pulling a file out of thin air. He prepared for this, you realize, a bit sour. He knew you would say yes.

The file is slid across your desk, and you open it with no small amount of trepidation. The paperwork that greets you is vastly underwhelming—it’s barely a few pages, most of it redacted.

“Am I supposed to do something with this?”

“They’re a Muggle task force so classified that most of their own government doesn’t even know about them. Get used to the secrecy.” 

Thorne leans in and flips through the pages until he reaches the one he wants, an agreement to the testing of magically-enhanced weapons with four signatures at the bottom. “This is what matters to us. They’ve agreed to be the first soldiers to test whatever we put out for them. We’ll be working with them directly to find what their needs are.”

“And when this is all finished?” You squint at the signatures, trying to make out a name among the loopy scrawls. You see two Johns, and maybe a Kyle. The final name is unrecognizable. “What’s to stop them from using them against us?”

“Can you use magic or not?” Thorne smirks. “You figure it out.”

author notes: got the random idea of Ghost tinkering with a sentient rifle and this was born. It will be updated every Sunday morning. Some parts may be standalone, others may not, and all will likely be less than 1K words.

thanks for reading!

[jellychannie]

love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight

a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe

Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.

A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.

"You're late, Kent."

"Sorry, sorry."

There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.

You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."

Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.

His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.

"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."

Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.

Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.

The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.

Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.

Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.

“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.

You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”

Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.

“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.

“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”

A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.

You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.

He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…

Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.

First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.

He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.

He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.

You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.

And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.

Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.

That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.

He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.

That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.

And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.

It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.

A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!

Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.

Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.

Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.

Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.

Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.

No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.

Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.

You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.

1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.

These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.

Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.

As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.

Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.

You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.

Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.

That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.

Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.

“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.

The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.

You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.

The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.

The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.

You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.

Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.

If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.

Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.

Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.

An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.

You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.

Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?

Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.

Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.

“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.

She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”

“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.

The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.

Something has taken flight.

Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.

It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.

And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.

The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.

“Shit.” you say astutely.

There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.

You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.

“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.

This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.

You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.

Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.

“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.

“Move! Everybody move!”

Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.

You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.

Your gaze catches.

A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.

Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.

Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.

You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.

“Hello.” He says politely.

“Hi.” you breathe.

He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.

Superman looks down, smiling kindly, “You’re safe now.”

He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”

“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”

When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.

Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.

“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”

His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.

“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”

And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.

The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.

It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.

Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.

Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.

The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.

“Is he coming back?”

You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.

“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”

“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.

“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”

Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.

Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.

It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.

“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”

Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.

“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.

“Right here.”

You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.

“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.

He smiles. “Great.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.

“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”

Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”

So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.

“I had help today,” he says.

Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.

Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.

You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.

He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.

“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.

You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.

“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”

Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.

In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.

That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.

“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.

Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.

The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.

For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.

If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.

Admiration? Maybe.

Something else twinges in there, unbidden.

You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.

Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.

You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.

Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.

“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.

The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.

You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.

The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.

But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.

That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.

Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.

Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?

You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.

Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.

Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.

There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.

This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.

Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.

Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.

Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.

And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.

Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.

Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.

After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!

It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.

But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.

For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.

It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that

And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.

Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.

For a change, Clark isn't late today.

Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.

The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.

It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.

He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.

To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.

"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.

"Celebrate?"

Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.

"It's only second page." You downplay.

Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.

"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."

If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.

"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.

Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."

After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.

"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"

You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.

Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.

You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.

"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."

Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.

"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"

Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.

"To celebrate." He tacks on.

One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.

"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.

And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"

You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.

He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."

You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.

He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.

Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.

You're nearly undone with it.

This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.

It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.

It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.

The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.

"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."

Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.

It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.

You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.

"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.

Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.

"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”

He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!

You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"

No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.

You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.

You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.

The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.

He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.

You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.

Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.

Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.

You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.

Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.

“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”

It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.

“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”

Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”

He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.

With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.

“A long time, huh?”

Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.

“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”

You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.

But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.

Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.

Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.

He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.

“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”

You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.

“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.

His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.

“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”

Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.

“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”

That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.

He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.

“Shut up.” you say weakly.

Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”

“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”

To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.

The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.

He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.

It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.

“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"

He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.

"Improper?"

Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.

"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"

In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.

He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.

Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.

Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.

Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.

And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.

Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?

It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.

It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.

You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.

"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.

Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."

You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.

Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.

Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.

Clark Kent can fly!

Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)

Clark Kent is... not human?

Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.

"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.

"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.

Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.

The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.

Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!

"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.

That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.

"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.

You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."

Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.

Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.

Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"

You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"

Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.

"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."

His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.

His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.

"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.

Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."

The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.

Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.

"So,” You breathe. “What now?"

"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"

He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.

"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."

"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"

He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.

"No take backsies."

“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.

An unexplained question piques your mind.

“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”

Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”

He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.

“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”

Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”

If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.

“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.

Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.

“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."

"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."

Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.

"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes

[jellychannie]

Ghost who whenever hes on leave at his apartment, hes constantly tortured by the delicious meals his neighbor cooks.

Nearly every night at six, the delicate smell of tomatoes, cheese, spices, meats. It all fills his apartment, a subtle smell that still has ghosts mouth watering. He tries to guess what ur cooking each night, stomach growling in interest.

What he doesnt know is that you also can smell his dinners. Every damn night, some sort of instant Ramen. The occasional frozen pizza before he dissappears for a time, youve noticed. It drives you crazy, because you occasionally see ghost just as hes leaving his apartment or coming back. And he looked tired in the way u know from experience happens when you eat like shit.

So, you take matters into ur own hands.

The next night, ghost hovers around his kitchen, morose to eat more Ramen when delicious food is so close yet so far away. It smells amazing tonight. Like it always does. Just as ghost fills the cup with water, a knock sounds at his door. Tentative but sure.

"Hey," you stand in front of him, an apron pinched around your waist. Ghost reminds himself its rude to eye up a stranger "we've never officially met. Im your neighbor, 23-B. I uhm- i had some plans with friends, but they canceled and ive made way too much food."

The practiced story flows easily from your mouth, and you note how ghost seems to perk up at the mention of ur food. "Usually id just have leftovers, but its alfredo and the sauce is best served fresh. Do you uh- wanna have some?"

Ghost doesnt say anything, but he nods.

Inside your apartment is smells even better. Garlic, parmesean, seasonings he cant quite identify. Its heaven on earth, has his eyes fluttering at just the taste in the air. He watches you finish up the sauce, admires how confident you are in each movement.

Its the best damn food ghost has ever had. You serve him, dont question when he turns around to eat. He does tell you what he thinks though "best fuckin' meal ive had, love."

He insists on doing dishes, "a small thanks. Let me, go sit down." Ghost practically bats you away when you at least try to dry the dishes. When he steps out that night, stomach full and satisfied for once, you bite the bullet.

"I've got some extra steak that needs to be cooked this week. Will you be hear tomorrow?"

Ghost nods, mutters a thanks and ducks back into his apartment. Silently, he wonders if you'd be willing to entertain a date.

[jellychannie]

"The sound you gave me" D.M || PT2

Draco x Deaf! Reader

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Summary: Part 2 of "The Signs of you". Here is PT 1 if you haven't seen it

Draco Malfoy never expected to fall for someone who couldn’t even hear his insults. When he learns that the reader is deaf, his usual bravado falters — replaced by unexpected curiosity. After being paired for a class project, he’s drawn in by her expressive signing and the vivid way she shows emotion without a single word. As feelings grow, Draco secretly learns sign language and surprises her with a heartfelt birthday gift: magical hearing aids and a shaky, sincere recording of himself singing her favorite song — giving back the music she once loved.

Warnings: Light emotional hurt/comfort, soft Draco, Fluff

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You and Draco had begun to sit together more often — not always talking, but always aware of each other. It wasn’t anything defined, but it was something. And Draco… he had never been the type to care about something quietly.

You and Draco weren’t exactly together, but the air between you felt different. Softer. Familiar. Like the silence you shared wasn’t empty anymore—it meant something.

You found him waiting near the library one afternoon, hands tucked in his pockets, chin lifted with that practiced aloofness. But his eyes—his eyes always gave him away.

You sat together, no books today. Just parchment, scribbled notes, and your fingers dancing with quiet words.

“You’re getting better at this,” you signed with a grin.

He smirked, fingers stumbling through the reply:

“I have a good teacher.”

He tapped his quill against the bench, clearly mulling something over.

Then, finally, he asked — slow, deliberate.

“Can I ask you something… personal?”

You blinked, surprised. Then nodded.

He met your eyes, and for once, there was no arrogance in his tone.

“When did you… y’know. Lose your hearing?”

You hesitated. Then, gently, you lifted your fingers.

“When I was eight.” “Fever. Rare curse complication. Nothing they could do.”

He stayed quiet, watching your hands. You continued.

“Before that… I loved music. All of it.” “I used to sing. Piano too. My parents thought I’d go to a music academy, not Hogwarts.”

A soft smile flickered across your face — sad but warm.

“Sometimes I still feel it. Vibrations. Rhythm. But I miss the rest.”

Draco’s eyes lingered on your expression. Something in his chest pulled tight.

“You really loved it, huh?”

You nodded.

Then your fingers slowed, more hesitant.

“I wanted to study magical soundscapes. Enchantments through music. But that dream kind of died.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just leaned back, lips pursed.

But you caught the look in his eyes — not pity. Thoughtfulness.

A spark of something.

A few days later, he approached your best friend during lunch.

“I need help,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to where you sat laughing across the courtyard.

Your friend arched a brow. “I'm sorry, What?”

“Her birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

The friend hesitated. “Yeah. Why?”

Draco hesitated—then confessed. He wanted it to be something personal. Something she’d remember. Something hers. And something she couldn’t get for herself.

That’s how he found it.

Through hours of research and a few quiet letters sent home for gold, he bought a pair of magical-enhancement ear pieces—discreet, custom-made to help certain deaf wizards perceive amplified vibrations and tones. Not perfect hearing, but… enough to feel the music again. The kind she said she missed.

They were expensive. He didn’t care.

Over the next few days, Draco seemed unusually focused. You didn’t think much of it until your birthday approached, and he showed up outside the library, holding a slim velvet box like it might explode.

He didn’t say anything.

Just handed it to you and shrugged.

“For you.”

Inside were magical enhancement ear pieces — delicate, rune-etched, tuned for witches and wizards with hearing loss. Not perfect sound, but enough to feel music again. Enough to catch voices. Laughter. Life.

You looked up at him, stunned.

Draco rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze.

“They’re… not cheap. I know. But I figured… maybe you shouldn’t have to miss the things you love just because the world’s too loud.”

You couldn’t speak—not because you couldn’t, but because you were stunned.

Then, you reached forward and signed slowly:

“Draco… I don’t know what to say.”

His voice was soft. “Try them.”

You did.

You closed your eyes.

And for the first time in years… you felt it. The quiet hum of birds, the faint wind against stone walls. A world you thought you’d lost was pressing softly against your skin.

And then—Draco pulled something from his coat.

A small enchanted device.

And pressed play.

It was his voice. Recorded magically. Tentative. A little off-key.

He was singing.

Your favorite song.

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, and then you laughed. Soundless but glowing.

Draco turned pink, then red; watching your reaction. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want.”

You tackled him in a hug.

Tight.

Your fingers signed against his back:

“You’re unbelievable.”

He smirked, arms wrapping around you gently.

“Yeah. But you kinda like that, don’t you?”

And maybe he was right.

Because that night, for the first time in years, you danced barefoot in your dorm with music pulsing in your chest — and Draco Malfoy’s voice humming in your ears.

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Here's my masterlist if you want to read more!!

You can request some stuff too!! HOPE U ENJOYED!! <333 Don't be scared just follow me <33

[jellychannie]

"The Signs of you" D.M || PT 1

Draco x Deaf! reader

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Summary: Draco Malfoy wasn’t used to being ignored — especially not by a Ravenclaw girl who didn’t react to his insults. When he learns she’s deaf, everything shifts. Assigned together for a school project, he begins to notice her more: her vivid expressions, her confidence, the way she makes silence feel alive. Slowly, Draco finds himself wanting to connect — enough to secretly learn sign language just to ask her out. And when he finally does, it’s awkward… but perfect.

Warnings: None, fluff

A/N: Literally kicking my feet while I was writing hehehe. Hope you enjoy <3

Here's PT 2 !!!

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Draco Malfoy prided himself on control.

Control of the room. The mood. The attention. So when he threw a biting remark at a Ravenclaw girl during Defense class — a classic Malfoy jab, sharp and humiliating — and she didn’t even flinch, he was confused.

Worse? She just walked away.

No huff. No glare. Not even a smug eye-roll.

What the hell?

It got under his skin. So, during break, he called after her. Loudly. “Oi! You deaf or just that bloody arrogant?”

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t even slow her steps.

“Merlin,” he muttered under his breath. “What’s wrong with her?”

And it was Blaise, of all people, who muttered, “She is deaf, you idiot.”

“What?” Draco gave a confused look.

That’s when Pansy leaned in, flicking her hair. “She is deaf, Draco. Thought everyone knew that.”

He blinked. “You’re joking.”

“She reads lips. Sometimes writes on parchment. Her best friend signs for her. Honestly, it’s kind of cool.” Pansy says.

Draco’s mouth opened — then closed. His insult shriveled on his tongue. He didn’t know what to do with that information.

He noticed you more after that.

Not in a creepy way — just… observed.

The way you and your friend used Sign Language during breaks. The way your expressions changed to match your hands, full of feeling and rhythm. The way you never missed a single instruction in class despite not hearing a thing.

It unnerved him.

Because suddenly, you unnerved him.

Then came the worst part.

You were already seated when Professor Snape announced the project pairs.

“Malfoy and Y/L/N.”

You looked up.

Draco let out an audible groan from across the room.

Of course.

Later, in the library, you slid him a piece of parchment after several moments of silence.

“You can talk freely. I can read lips :)”

He stared at the note. Then at you. Then nodded, stiffly. “Right.”

Things went… okay, at first. He did most of the muttering, you did most of the writing. Until halfway through a frustrating paragraph, he hissed something under his breath — entirely to himself.

You paused, raised an eyebrow and wrote “I can’t hear you if you mumble, y’know.”

He flushed. “Right.”

It didn’t come out sarcastic. More like… embarrassed. Maybe even a little apologetic.

You smiled and went back to your notes.

The project ended, but something lingered.

In the corridors, he started noticing you more. The way you carried yourself. How you signed quickly to your friends in between classes. The way your smile crept in quietly when you caught him staring.

Draco never thought he’d find someone’s expressions so… captivating. But with her, every emotion played out across her face like a perfectly written script. When she was amused, her nose scrunched and her eyes lit up. When confused, her brows furrowed with full dramatic flair. And when she smiled—really smiled—her whole body joined in, as if happiness couldn’t stay trapped inside.

It fascinated him.

Without a single word, she said more than most people ever did. And he found himself watching, just to see what she'd say or “do” next—without speaking at all.

He wasn’t sure when he started waiting for that smile each morning. He just knew it made his day start a little differently.

One weekend, he stayed in the common room instead of going to Hogsmeade with his friends.

To learn.

To practice.

The motions were clunky at first. He kept flipping his notes upside down. Pansy walked in once and nearly hexed him out of confusion.

But by the following week, he had something close to a sentence memorized.

You were walking alone near the courtyard when he found you.

Draco stepped up, nervous as hell, hands clenched at his sides. You turned, curious.

Then, stiffly, awkwardly — but with clear intent — he signed:

“Hi. Y/n. I. Am. Draco.”, you lit up.

You laughed — a soundless expression, but genuine.

You corrected his fingers, gently turning his hand.

And he felt something shift.

“Wanna. Go. Hogsmeade. Together?”

You blinked.

Slow smile.

Then signed back:

“You learned this?”

He shrugged, a bit pink. “Was bored.”

“Liar,” you mouthed, grinning.

He grinned back. “Maybe.”

You nodded, then pointed toward the path down the hill.

And just like that, without fanfare, without noise, you walked beside Draco Malfoy — who had decided, against all odds, that silence wasn’t so bad after all.

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Here's my masterlist if you want to read more!!

You can request some stuff too!! Hope you enjoyed!!!

[jellychannie]

i read this instead of listening in class-- worth it.

: ̗̀➛ Guilt of the quiet one

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Luthor!Reader

synopsis : Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

cw : smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers, slight morally grey reader, depressed and suicidal thoughts, implied voyeurism from superhearing, unprotected p in v, mentions of torture, mentions of human trafficking. luthor and chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 22.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

Boredom.

That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.

Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.

But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.

You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.

Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.

Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.

Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.

Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.

It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.

By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.

You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.

You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.

You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.

You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.

“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.

“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.

You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.

“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”

Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today. 

Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.

“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”

You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”

“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”

Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days. 

“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.

Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”

“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk. 

“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”

Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.

“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”

You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.

The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.

There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.

“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”

“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say. 

Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out." 

You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.

“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”

Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.

“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”

“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.

“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”

There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.

You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did. 

You weren’t even supposed to know.

You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.

So, you had started digging.

It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.

What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.

Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate,  metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.

It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.

Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.

This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”

You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.

Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.

For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.

Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.

Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.

You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.

Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.

Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal. 

You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.

Unknown number 

"Hello," you answered, hesitant.

“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.

You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.

“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.

A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.

You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.

“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”

You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.

Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?

“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?

“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”

You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.

“What do you want then?” you snapped.

There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”

You stilled. 

"Of the records." He added at your silence. 

Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack. 

But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore. 

Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.

You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.

“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”

Your voice hardened.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”

Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.

“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”

“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.

“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”

You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.

“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”

Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.

“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.

The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.

You were a coward. You knew it.

Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.

You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.

Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.

You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.

You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.

Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.

No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.

And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.

You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.

Just boredom. That’s all that was left.

Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.

“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.

Superman. Standing just a few meters away.

You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.

You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”

“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette.  “What, you checking rooftops now?”

“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.

You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.

Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.

Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.

The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.

You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.

Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.

“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”

He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”

“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.

“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing. 

You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?

“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.

“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”

He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?

“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”

And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.

You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.

“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.

Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.

But for one glorious second… it was freedom.

You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.

Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.

At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.

And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.

For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.

“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”

“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.

A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.

You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”

His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.

“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.

You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.

How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?

Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name. 

Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.

It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.

You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.

You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.

No one deserved to go through that for you.

Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.

And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.

Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.

In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.

It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.

You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.

Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.

“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.

But he heard it. Of course he did.

He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”

It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.

Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.

“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”

You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”

You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.

“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”

Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.

The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for. 

“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”

You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.

"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.

You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.

It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.

This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex. 

"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."

You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.

As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.

He looked almost human like this.

Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.

You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.

"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."

"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.

You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.

For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.

Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.

But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.

The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Lex.

He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.

You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.

You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.

"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.

"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.

"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.

Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.

"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."

You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.

“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction. 

You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”

Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”

Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.

“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.

He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”

You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.

“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”

You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.

“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”

He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.

“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”

His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.

He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.

His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”

He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”

He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.

He knew.

He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.

And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not. 

Your phone buzzed.  It was a message, from your brother.

Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.

Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.

And now he was a rat lab. All because of you. 

All because Clark Kent couldn't stop. 

That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming. 

It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails. 

Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.

Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.

“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.

And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier. 

The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet. 

And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.

But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

His grip was tight, almost desperate.

Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours. 

You had scared Superman.

You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.

Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.

His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.

And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.

He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.

As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.

But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.

Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.

Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.

And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.

You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.

Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.

For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence. 

He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.

So safe, you talked.

“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.

Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”

You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.

“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”

Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.

“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.

You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”

That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.

You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.

“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”

You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.

“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”

The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.

“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.

His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.

You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.

He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose. 

“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”

You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.

“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.

Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.

It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.

The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.

You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.

But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.

“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.

What the hell were you doing here?

In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.

You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.

Maybe it was something else.

So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.

For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.

He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.

Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.

Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.

Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin. 

Clark Kent. Superman.

By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.

After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home. 

But no, he had to snoop in.

"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.

He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”

You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”

You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”

You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”

The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.

Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.

Not quite you. Not quite not you either.

Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.

“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.

You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.

So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.

“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”

It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.

“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”

There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.

“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”

Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.

Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.

Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.

And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.

So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.

You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.

Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.

Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.

Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.

“Morning,” came a voice behind you.

You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.

Not even remotely tired.

"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.

"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.

You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.

“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.

“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”

He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”

"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.

Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.

The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.

Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.

At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.

Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.

Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.

“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”

A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”

His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.

You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.

You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.

He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.

You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.

Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.

It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.

Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.

A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.

He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.

But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.

It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?

He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”

A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.

Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.

You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.

You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.

He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.

It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.

And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.

They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.

“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”

He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.

“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”

His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.

“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”

Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?

Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?

The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.

The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.

You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.

You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.

You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.

Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping. 

Guilt was eating him alive.

He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.

All because he had made that call.

The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.

With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.

Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.

And he would set you free.

It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.

You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.

After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.

The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.

Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.

He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”

You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.

It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.

The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?

Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.

Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.

In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.

“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.

“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?

He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.

Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.

So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.

The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.

That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.

Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.

A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.

You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.

It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.

Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.

You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?

The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.

He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind. 

That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked. 

The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.

When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it. 

Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile. 

Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.

Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.

He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.

His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.  

Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.

The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.

“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.

“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.

And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.

Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.

The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…

Right?

And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright. 

Fuck. You were getting bothered again.

You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.

But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.

An old USB drive. That USB drive.

The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.

But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.

From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.

Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown. 

But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.

It was time to trust Clark Kent. 

For real.

“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.

The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.

Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”

And you had.. Especially now.

Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.

But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding. 

Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.

And the unknown future.

What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.

It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.

“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.

You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.

“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.

It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.

“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.

"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"

You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.

"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."

Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."

He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."

For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.

"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.

You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.

You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.

If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.

But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.

You were just appreciated.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.

By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.

You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.

But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.

There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.

He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.

“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”

“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”

You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him. 

What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.

Even in you.

And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.

Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.

And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.

Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.

Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.

And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.

A forever kind of goodbye.

The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.

Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.

But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.

"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."

God. The gentle soul he was.

He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.

You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.

It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.

Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.

Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.

You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week. 

And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.

Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.

Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.

A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.

His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.

Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”

Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.

With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.

You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.

It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.

Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.

Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.

After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.

Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.

Not after a few days.

Not after a week.

Not after a month.

There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.

Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth. 

Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.

Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.

You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”

“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.

You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.

His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.

Then you spotted the radio near the window.

Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.

You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.

Superman's cape.

You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.

Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.

Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.

Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.

Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.

Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.

Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes 

That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it. 

You were free. 

Home. Finally.

It felt strange to be back.

Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.

Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.

Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.

You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.

You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.

You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.

The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.

Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.

Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.

You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.

Superman. Clark.

And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.

You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.

Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.

It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.

You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.

But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”

That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.

His eyes.

God, those eyes.

An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.

You could see it so clearly now.

Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”

“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”

His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.

You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”

You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”

Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.

“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”

His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.

A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.

“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.

“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.

“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.

Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?

“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.

He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.

You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”

“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned. 

"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.

“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”

“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”

“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”

You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.

His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.

Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.

“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.

Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”

That shut him up.

The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.

“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.

He must have heard it too.

Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.

The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip. 

Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.

Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.

Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.

A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.

Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.

This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.

This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.

The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.

You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.

You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter. 

Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.

Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.

He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.

When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.

Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.

You didn’t want him to.

Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.

His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.

His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.

All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.

Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.

Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.

You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.

He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all. 

Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.

Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.

Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.

The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.

His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before. 

Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.

You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet. 

Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.

You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.

As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.

You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.

Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.

The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.

He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.

The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.

You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.

“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.

“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.

You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.

Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.

You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.

A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.

Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."

Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.

With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”

His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.

His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.

Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth. 

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.

When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears. 

He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.

His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts. 

Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need. 

You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.

The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.

“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.

You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.

His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.

Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.

“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.

Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.

A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.

Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.

“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.

Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.

It felt strange.

Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.

He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.

Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.

As long as he was with you.

©sillyswriting 2025

this took all my energy for days, but i think it was worth it !

[jellychannie]

simon doesn’t know the first thing about jewelry. doesn’t like it, doesn’t wear it, doesn’t trust it not to glint and give away position in the dark. but he finds himself here anyway— bent beneath fluorescent lighting that makes his scars itch, staring down at a velvet box like it’s a loaded gun.

he thinks of your hands, soft and small against the callused map of his. thinks of the way you tuck your fingers beneath his when you sleep, like you’re hiding there. thinks of the pink polish you wear in spring, the way it chips at the edges when you’re nervous, the way you doodled a tiny skull on your ring finger once, just to make him laugh.

(it did. it broke something open in him, that laugh.)

the jeweler says something—clarity, cut, carat, whatever—but it doesn’t register. simon’s lost in the thought of your hands wearing him. of something shining on your finger that says 'this one’s mine'. not in words, no. not in threats or bullets or bone-deep oaths. just in gold. au and awe.

he picks the one that reminds him of the curve of your smile. simple. clean. a little old-fashioned, like you still believe in fairy tales.

he cups it in his palm like it’s fragile. like it’s you.

for a long moment, the lieutenant doesn’t move. just stands there, big and out of place, a war machine in a room built for benevolence.

his thumb brushes over the band, slow, reverent.

he can almost feel your laugh ghosting over his shoulder. the one you give him when he’s being too serious, too still. the one that pulls him from the dark every damn time. simon wonders if you’ll cry.

wonders if your hands will shake when he slides it on, or if they’ll be steady, like they always are when you touch him.

steady enough to carry the weight of him—of this. of all he can’t say, and all he’s been too afraid to hope for.

[jellychannie]

HELLO??? i love this

pt2 of this 💕

a little faculty inquiry— asking prof mactavish 🕵️‍♂️

The group clusters nervously outside Professor Mactavish’s office like a bunch of freshmen trying to bluff their way into a senior seminar.

Anthropology and Conflict Studies, he was weirdly cool, the kind of man who genuinely enjoyed a good academic gossip.

He’s chill… mostly. But who knows what mode he’s in today? Could be laid-back seminar dad, could be field commander with a whiteboard. Total wildcard.

A brunette student, clearly the one they’d sacrificed for diplomacy, finally steps forward.

“Sir? Uh. Random question. Totally hypothetical. Hope this doesn’t sound weird?”

Professor MacTavish blinks at her over the rim of his coffee mug. “Aye?”

Another student jumps in, a guy this time. “Well, since you know Professor Riley best, uh… how likely is he to, you know… read Sylvia Plath?”

He squints. “...Huh? What?”

The group tries to look innocent. One girl’s eyes are darting around and someone coughs suspiciously.

He frowns. “I dinnae think that man reads much more than the back of cereal boxes, honestly.”

Another student jumps in, overly casual. “Just curious. Y’know. Like… academically.”

“Academically,” MacTavish repeats, raising one brow.

A third student jumps in, too eager. “Yeah! Like… his relationship with, um. Literature. You think he’d resonate with Plath’s existential themes? Maybe… romantic symbolism?”

This time he narrows his eyes, probably knowing what this was all about. “Are ye writing a thesis on the man or something?”

Terrible silence.

“No,” says one.

“...Not officially,” adds another.

“It’s more of a… character study?”

“Fieldwork,” someone whispers.

“Fieldwork,” He repeats, lips twitching. “Uh-huh. And are any of ye even in his class?”

“Well… not this term.”

“I was going to be. But the schedules changed.”

“I passed him in the hallway once?”

“I sat in on a lecture. Spiritually.”

“My cousin's in his class,” someone offers weakly. “She said he made a joke about Morrison once.”

He leans back, arms crossed, clearly entertained now.

"So what is this then, eh? You lot conductin a full psychological profile o' Riley or what?”

Dead silence. Again.

“...No comment,” one mutters.

The brunette student, desperate to steer things back on track, blurts out, “But seriously, like, would he read Plath?”

McTavish squints. “Only if she wrote about motorbikes, gun? knives? dunno regret..? Wait... did she write about regret?”

They all stare at him.

"...Aye, actually, yeah. So maybe.”

Then a different student, “Well, what if it’s, like… metaphorical? Like, he’s the type who says he doesn’t like poetry but secretly has a favorite line memorized from something tragic?”

Soap is watching now, clearly amused.

He snorts. “What, is this a love hypothesis?”

Half the group chokes and the redhead drops her notebook.

Another student from the back blurts, “OKAY WELL. Hypothetically. If Professor Riley and Professor y/n were, like… together… would that surprise you?”

Johnny lets out a full-body laugh like he’s been waiting for this.

“You’re only askin’ now? Thought it was obvious.”

The whole group explodes like someone dropped a gossip grenade.

“WHAT?”

“WAIT—WHAT DO YOU MEAN OBVIOUS???”

“Are you saying it’s TRUE?!”

Johnny raises both hands, mock-innocent. “I didn’t say that. But he calls her ‘darlin’’ sometimes.”

There’s a collective screech. Someone drops their pen.

“EXCUSE ME?” the redhead gasps.

He’s grinning now, leaning casually against the wall. “She called him a ‘bastard’ in the break room last week. And he said — I quote — ‘Only yours.’”

Pandemonium.

A girl clutches her chest like she’s been shot. One guy has his hands on his head. Someone in the back is whisper-screaming “SHUT UP SHUT UP”

“OH. MY. GOD.”

Professor MacTavish watches the implosion with the faintest smirk. He sips his coffee, shrugs. “...Or maybe I made all that up,” he says casually.

Then he winks.

And without missing a beat, claps his hands once loudly.

“Right then! Shoo, all of ye. Off you go. Go do some real work or bother Garrick or somethin’, I’ve got emails to ignore.”

He starts ushering them out with dramatic arm movements like he’s sweeping out barn animals.

“Go on now—out.”

And with that, he shuts the door behind them.

Group Chat : Please Do Not Spam.

johnny 🧼: told your fan club you called her darling when no one was looking.

also I might've thrown in a cheeky “only yours” for the drama.

Hope that’s alright 😘

simon 💀: you’re dead to me.

you 📚: did you at least deliver it with good pacing and dramatic tension?

johnny 🧼: babe I’m a trained orator.

they were eating out of my hand.

one of them gasped. like actual audible gasp.

simon 💀: was it the curly-haired one who always stares at you like you’re haunted?

i owe her a failing grade for last term. might finally give it.

you 📚: that’s misha. she’s writing her thesis on eco-criticism in indigenous literature

if you ruin her GPA over this i will sabotage your morning coffee again.

simon 💀: you added cough syrup last time. you are a demon.

johnny 🧼: “only yours” — simon riley, 2025

source: trust me bro

you 📚: make sure they spell my name right in the fanfiction.

and make me taller.

simon 💀: no. keep her short. keep it accurate.

johnny 🧼: GOD the two of you are insufferable.

just kiss in the middle of the quad already and end the war

you 📚: we’re academics. we don’t kiss. we repress.

simon 💀: speak for yourself.

johnny 🧼: OH. OH??? 👀👀👀

WAIT

WAIT

STOP

EXPLAIN THAT ONE

simon 💀 has left the chat.

y/n 📚 has left the chat.

johnny 🧼: cowards

well that took forever to come up with 😔 also I didn't know which of you all to tag so I'm so sorry if that comes of as an inconvenience 🙏💕

@blahox @acoopsahoy @sayurireidotcom @itmightbelara @scaleniusrm @dying-moons-blog @eobard-thawne @imtherain @chescakeplays @nettleandmilkweed @callsignpxnguin @exotic-iris13

[jellychannie]

i'd say my tuition was worth it if my professors were like this

professor!simon riley x professor f reader

Rumor has it that war veteran professor Riley from War Studies and the Literature professor are definitely sleeping together.

Or : where you and Simon are definitely NOT dating— but somehow, the entire student body is convinced you are. There's even a fan club for it. On Telegram.

Pt2 🐙

[anonstudent4ever]: guys i just walked past riley's office and guess WHO was in there again.

[bookedandbusy]: let me guess. the lit prof in her lil trench coat and smug aura???

[anonstudent4ever]: BINGO. door wasn't fully closed either. risky little freaks 🏃‍♂️

[chaoticneutral]: they are so obviously boning it's killing me. my tuition is paying for them to make heart eyes over WWII artillery maps 😫

[hotgirlwithacitation]: update: they sat next to each other at the faculty mixer. she laughed at something he said 😧☕

[jeremyonice]: They shared a coffee in the faculty lounge. We have EYES 🕵️‍♂️ Stay sharp, team

[tenurethirst]: what could Simon Riley possibly say that's funny. like what's he gonna do. war joke?? "haha remember the Geneva Conventions?"

[hotgirlwithacitation]: ok but she did laugh. she did the head tilt and the arm graze. she TOUCHED HIS ARM.

[proseb4hoes]: You think they trauma-bonded during committee meetings?

[bookedandbusy]: Absolutely. Probably over faculty budget cuts and unresolved PTSD.

[proseb4hoes]: God, I wish that were me😩

New Message from @tenurethirst: BREAKING: Someone in Professor Riley's Tuesday 9AM asked him what he thinks of literature 🫢

[hotgirlwithacitation]: WHAT DID HE SAY

[anonstudent4ever]: "I don't have the patience for fiction. I prefer the truth. But... some people make poetry worth tolerating." 🫢🫢🫢

[chaoticneutral]: HANG ON HANG ON BACK UP!!! BACK UP!!!!! SOME 👏 PEOPLE 👏 MAKE 👏 POETRY 👏 WORTH 👏 TOLERATING 👏

[bookedandbusy]: he meant her. HE MEANT HER. professor y/n, literature dept, first of her name 🗣️🗣️🗣️

[tenurethirst]: Do y'all think he's annotating her poetry like "p. 47 - is this about me?" i'm going to combust💔💔

[anonstudent4ever]: "p. 31 - unclear metaphor. ask her later. alone." 🙊

[hotgirlwithacitation]: i bet she writes vague lines like "a man who speaks in silence, who walks like guilt, who smells like ash" and riley's in his apartment like: fuck

[bookedandbusy]: they're literally literary soulmatesss 👏👏 she gives lectures about metaphors for grief and he is the metaphor for grief

[mutualdestruction]: that's why they work. she's the novel he never thought he'd read. he's the war she keeps writing poems about.

[spiteandprejudice]: Bro.. that was so poetic what the fuck 🥶

[whoiselena44]: do y'all think she calls him "Simon" when no one's around 🥺

[Jeremyonice]: Obviously dude 😵‍💫

[notyourvalentine]: no. she calls him "riley" like it's a challenge n he calls her "professor" like it's a sin 👀

[proseb4hoes]: imagine he says "say it again" and she's like "Simon" and he's like "no. 'sir.'" ok bye logging out now

[bookedandbusy]: y'all have FICS saved in your drafts don't you?!??

... actually based on my own fucking class 😭 anyway wtf