kaylasficrecs

[kaylasficrecs]

I Never Knew (Well now you do)

You might let Clark get away with too much because you know he needs a break. But a woman can only handle so much when she didn’t even want to date Superman in the first place.

Yeah I lowkey needed a cry but instead raw dogged this random angst shot of David’s Supes (because I’m fucking obssessed)

Warnings: uhh like one reference to suicidal thoughts, reader is super emotionally confused, Clark is sweet but super super dense, hurt no comfort, reader dumps supes but in a really too nice way even though she’s been through the ringer, Clark CANNOT process this and really the man is too shocked to speak, reader is way too nice even though Clark ditched her on her 30th birthday

Let me know if I should make a pt 2 because I’d probably be interested in doing so.

————————————————————————

There was something you could never admit to yourself even if you really wanted to.

You deserved better.

Way better than a beautiful meal that slowly turned cold because of the man who just couldn’t pull himself away from the world.

Especially today.

Honestly you couldn’t even be mad at Clark because he was out there saving people. Plural.

Stopping wars, holding buildings together so they wouldn’t play dominos after a villains tantrum- and probably kissing babies and kittens afterwards.

But damn it you were only human and you hadn’t wanted to date Superman.

You had fallen head over heels for Clark.

And now…..

You were sitting pretty for yourself-

because you knew he wouldn’t be home until sunrise at this point. You could still see explosions of light beaming infrequently on the city line.

Who knew that desperately chasing the tall clumsy loser of the Daily Planet would land you with a mandatory side of savior complex.

Clark was all you had ever wanted and Superman wasn’t even in the credits.

But you unknowingly signed up for big blue, who just so happened to have a terrible habit of making an appearance when he got too excited. (Clark accidentally floated the two of you about 5 feet in the air during your first kiss.)

You still tease him about it just to see his ears flush crimson.

Crimson like the dress you wore tonight. His favorite color.

So silly. Because it was YOUR birthday. You should’ve worn your favorite color. But you wanted to look nice for the man you fell for,

even if a small part of you had whispered when you bought it that he might miss out on seeing you in it.

Which was why the tags were still on it.

You’d take it back first thing in the morning.

Then buy yourself a damn espresso machine instead to make up for the emotional damage.

After slipping the dress off and leaving it in a pile on his bedroom floor, with an uncanny likeness to what you think your relationship looked like-

you decided you wanted to spend the night passion writing at your desk.

And there was no where better than the Daily Planet for that kind of outlet.

Plus it was only 10:45, you needed a walk so you wouldn’t do something impulsive.

Like wiping every trace of yourself from his apartment Men in Black style and then disappearing so you wouldn’t have to actually ever talk to him about this.

But you knew that you would be cleaner and smoother about it than that. You were an adult and you could break off a relationship like an adult. Plus…you still loved him, and he deserved better than that.

You do grab the last pint of Clark’s favorite ice cream from the freezer on your way out though.

It wasn’t every day you turned 30.

You were allowed to be a little petty.

————————————————————————

Having taken a detour of the whole fucking city on your way to work, you didn’t end up getting there until midnight (ish).

The stars were surprisingly visible and the fresh air was addicting. Add on stolen ice cream, a cool rock you found in the park, and a never ending stream of tears you’ve been suppressing for the better half of 6 months and you’d call it a pretty damn good night of womanhood.

By the time you actually walk into the surreally quiet Daily Planet- you had lost any and all motivation to write.

Your heart was a sad pile of mush and your brain wasn’t faring much better.

Instead you shuffled back into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

The city was stunning.

The breeze was calm.

And you didn’t mean to be morbid, but you thought it might be a nice place to die.

Or really- more like mourn a part of you that had died.

That was a safer way to put it. Because in a way it was true.

Tonight was sobering. Tonight you were grieving the more naive version of yourself who thought she could hold Clark Kent closer by holding on tighter. (And pretending like his every absence and bloodstain didn’t affect you)

That’s what you had been doing for almost a year and you were so tired of it.

Everything you had ever loved and let go of had claw marks. You were known to hold on until you couldn’t anymore.

And Clark was too sweet for you to scar up in that way. He had enough of that from his side gig of being Earth’s #1

Sure he couldn’t scar physically but emotionally….

He was a graveyard of all the people he couldn’t get to in time.

No. You had to let him go.

For both of your sakes.

You were a grown woman and you knew now the timing of beginnings

And endings.

You were sick of causing yourself immeasurable amounts of pain by pretending everything was always fine.

Like you said-Every absence. Every stain of blood in your apartment. Every late night of no shows and valid excuses.

You knew it couldn’t carry on. You felt a little sick, and maybe it was the ice cream, but in reality you knew.

You had to dump the love of your life.

And of course it had to be you because- well Clark would never.

Just as you allowed yourself to sit gently on the roof edge to sit quietly with that-

You heard it.

The gentle whip of wind that you had memorized for 12 months 8 weeks and 2 days

Part adoration, part trauma response.

It came with the territory if you didn’t want to have a heart attack everytime your boyfriend forgets your ears are dull and he shouldnt just spawn out of nowhere behind you.

But this time you knew HE knew you were aware of him.

Which was good. It’s meant he knew you needed to have the space to speak first.

“Hey Superman,”

It was more gentle than you had intended, but he let of a shaky breath like you had screamed it.

“Sweetheart.”

You didn’t turn around. The city lights were grounding.

“You seen my boyfriend around?”

You knew that struck something more tender when in a blink he was hovering in front of you. You both knew you hadn’t wanted to turn around to look him in the eyes.

He was so unfair.

And beautiful.

“He might be hiding,” he rasped. Even his hair looked deflated. “Seeing as he’s the worst boyfriend on Earth.”

You smiled at the ice cream pint that was perspiring onto your scrappy sweatpants.

Then the warmth of another round of tears followed behind.

Clark shed all pretense and scrambled towards you.

“Oh honey- oh gosh- baby I can’t” he choked

“I’m so sorry sweetheart- there’s no excuse I’m horrible-”

Your sharp bark of laughter interrupts him.

He froze. His hands not being able to decide if he deserved to comfort you or not.

You all the sudden couldn’t stop the laughter.

Or the tears.

You looked crazy, likely,

seeing as Clark was looking at you like

a.) he had been punched in the gut

b.) you were possibly broken

c.) there’s a chance he might have to stop you from throwing yourself off the building

“Oh Clark god you really just-“ another snort of laughter.

“You just really don’t get it do you?”

At that he looked like you had definitely just gut-punched him.

“I-I don’t understand sweetheart- I mean yes I know what I did and it’s terrible really- I’ll never forgive myself but- but I don’t really know why you’re laughing unless well you’re about to strangle me” he pauses “which I’d completely respect and I’ll let you try your hardest if you want but just-“ this time he looks at you in a spooked way.

“Let’s just- uh let’s talk about this away from the edge maybe?”

“Or even like inside the building would be nice.”

You let out a hum.

“Clark.”

He looks startled. Like he expected violence instead of you.

He murmurs your name in reply.

You stand and set down the empty pint then retreat to a safe distance away from the edge.

You see his shoulders fall a little. From relief maybe, or perhaps he now realizes something devastating is about to happen.

“I’m laughing like an insane asylum patient because of how unfair this all is.”

He shudders like he’s in pain.

“Gosh I know- I know and I’m so sorry I-“

“No Clark.”

He stops as you sigh. Then comes the frustration you were surprised hadn’t come sooner.

“You don’t - ughhh- it’s unfair because you’re NOT terrible!”

You lose any remaining composure as the pacing starts.

His feet touch the ground gently and he walks towards you hands out like he’s approaching a scared animal

“NO no you- don’t- just stay there okay because I need you to listen.”

He immediately halts and then just waits. Like a dog

An adorable 6,4 250 pound dog that’s being yelled at for possibly tearing up a couch or something.

You just start then. And the flood comes rushing.

“I can’t even be mad at you Clark because youre so much bigger than this- I can’t be upset and I haven’t let myself be upset for a year over anything like this because I refuse to be some self absorbed twig who thinks her birthday is more important than probably thousands of lives being saved.”

You breathe roughly.

“I’m human and I- well I just I have a breaking point you know and I can’t keep doing this thing where I pretend I don’t care about things like you not coming to dates, or- or coming home in shreds, or not texting me for days when you go to fucking Antarctica, or stranding me in the Air BnB YOU booked because you thought I wanted a vacation with you WHICH I DID but didn’t realize you FLYING us there would mean you’d up and leave me to get home myself while you got kicked around like a hacky sack in Metropolis!!”

Now most of your words were sobs.

Clark looked like he was dying. And honestly you felt like you were too.

“I love you Clark and I’m so sorry because you’re the best thing to ever happen to this earth- to ever happen to ME- but I can’t do this!”

“You’re amazing and I’m really not mad at you but I fell in love with Clark Kent not with Kal-El.”

And that.

That you really hadn’t meant to say.

But Clark, sweet as sugar and nicer than his Ma’s pie, just looks at you like you lost your whole family.

Devasted. But not for himself.

“I-“ his voice cracks.

He looks down but you can see the tears on his own cheeks.

“I didn’t know” he says so quietly.

“I didn’t want you to.” You hesitate.

“I’m sorry Clark. I didn’t- I wanted to support you, I didn’t want to burden or nag you but this-” you wave your hands around, “tonight was just- too much and I can’t do it.”

He looks up, all wet blue eyes and heartbreak.

But his gaze sharpens as your words land.

“You could never burden me.” He says your name to emphasize it.

“You’re my everything.”

Your anger, sadness, and whatever else mixed in just….floats away. All that’s left is a pit of emptiness at what comes next.

“I know Clark.” “So were you.”

The past tense isn’t lost on him. It causes him to crack a little bit.

The great composed glacier that is Superman, just crumbles.

But for your sake he does it quietly. Because he now knows you’ve been doing it for much longer.

Falling apart so silently that even his super senses could never pick up on it.

You finally chance closing the distance because it’s the last time you’ll have to be brave enough to do so.

You stand so close that you become entwined with his shadow. Then you gently reach up and kiss his cheek shakily.

“Stay in one piece Kent,” you say weakly.

An old inside joke from when he fell over his desk after asking you out.

It feels a little hallowed out now.

You know you don’t need to add the next part because he knows you’ve rather die than give him up but still

“I’ll never tell.”

You turn then before he says another word and keeps you wrapped up in all things Clark.

You tell yourself the faster you get out the less time it has to sink in and tear you apart.

————————————————————————

Despite being nearly invincible- Clark feels like the two hours of him just standing on the roof of the Daily Planet in pure shock and disbelief is some kind of psychological warfare created by Lex to kill him.

Because there’s no way in actual heck that he just lost you like that.

He stiffly reaches up to his chest to see if he still has a heartbeat- which is stupid- but necessary because he doesn’t feel ALIVE

And he’s so tired. Tired from the fight, from the panic of not finding you at home where he guiltily knew you’d be waiting, from calmly (freaking Taf out) flying over the whole city to locate your heartbeat, and then this.

You dropped a kryptonite bomb on him and then ran.

And before he could even process the loss, you’re gone.

Taking his heart with you.

Funny enough you were right about his not making it home until sunrise- but that’s only because he sits and disassociates on the roof of his day job until the sun reminds him he has to work in two hours.

Where he will have to see you sitting across the room, pretending he doesn’t exist.

Clark has never been into theology like most people were in Smallville.

But he knows now that hell is real.

Because he’s living it.

Ugh it’s trash but whatever it’s midnight and I’m sad so we ball. Tell me how or if I should continue<3

[kaylasficrecs]

how to: fall in love again

summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?

word count: 10.8k...yeah <3

a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3

If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know. 

It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day. 

You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least. 

It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!

Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview. 

But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.

Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you. 

Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door. 

“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”

He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better. 

While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.

Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent. 

He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.

Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter. 

Deadlines will do that to you.

You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office. 

“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.

“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.

“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.

“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering. 

“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan. 

This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more. 

It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.

You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?

As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.

It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced. 

He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside. 

It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.

“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.” 

He matches your smile and shrugs. 

“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.

On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too. 

Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.

“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”

“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”

You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.

“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.

The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away. 

“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk. 

The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.

When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way. 

Just like Clark, you think.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.

Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic. 

That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.

It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different. 

The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same. 

There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.

“Heading out?” 

The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.

Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more. 

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them. 

“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.

He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably. 

“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”

“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”

“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”

You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.

“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”

Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.

“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.

“Great. Great, okay.”

Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny. 

You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice. 

“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner. 

The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.

“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser. 

“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”

You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)

“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”

There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip. 

The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming. 

You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.

“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back. 

“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such. 

Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door. 

A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.

Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off. 

Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.

You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him. 

“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.

You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head. 

Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.

He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor. 

Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs. 

“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.

“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.

“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.

You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly. 

“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?

Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.

It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.  

You think you might be falling in love with him.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.

You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago. 

The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.

You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home. 

You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.

He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance. 

Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”

And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree. 

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.” 

You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you. 

“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you. 

“It’s a date!” 

His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight. 

You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside. 

You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?

The usual.

In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all. 

You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.

A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.

You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.

Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.

Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly. 

“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”

Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you. 

A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.

“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms. 

“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”

You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.

“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.

You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.  

You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table. 

It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.

“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor. 

“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”

He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.

Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though. 

He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.

You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in. 

“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”

Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears. 

“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you. 

Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you. 

Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.

Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like. 

“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.

“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass. 

He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows. 

The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet. 

He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep. 

You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.

All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.

You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face. 

“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around. 

You think you might be sick. 

“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”

She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow. 

“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing. 

Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.

“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”

“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out. 

It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger. 

You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.

“Hey, you okay?” 

You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”

Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.

“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence. 

“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again. 

He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees. 

“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.

“Oh! Water’s fine.”

He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you. 

You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in. 

You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room. 

“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown. 

“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.

You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight. 

“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”

“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.

Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.

With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back. 

Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice. 

There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate. 

You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.

His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.

“Sorry-”

“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”

The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick. 

You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.

The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place. 

You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark. 

A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.

“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”

You turn the water off. 

“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”

You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.

“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again. 

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.

“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”

You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water. 

He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”

“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad. 

“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding. 

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it. 

“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek. 

“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.

Slow is perfect.

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The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.

He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window. 

Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of.. 

“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says. 

“Yeah?” 

“And she’d…like to meet you.” 

The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing. 

“Oh!”

Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.

“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”

Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it. 

“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”

On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner. 

You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.

Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.

“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”

“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.

He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.

“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off. 

“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart. 

“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”

You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”

It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming. 

You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley.  When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water. 

“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”

“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.

“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”

You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table. 

“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy. 

When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular. 

Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends. 

It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones. 

In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head. 

You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over. 

It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down. 

Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.

At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in. 

“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.

“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand. 

“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.” 

Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”

He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest. 

It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.

Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.

You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand. 

“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”

You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried. 

“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.

“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”

Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours. 

A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.

“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.

“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?” 

“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”

Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.

“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck.  “Been a while since I’ve had that.”

Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word. 

Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.

His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.

You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully. 

You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.

But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline. 

You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.

You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.

Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand. 

He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not. 

He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.

But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.

A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things. 

There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart. 

“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”

You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.

“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor. 

“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry. 

“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”

He sounds hurt more than anything. 

“Did I do something? What happened?” 

You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”

“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”

“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”

“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow. 

“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”

“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”

“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”

Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”

Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.

“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?” 

“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.

And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”

You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”

It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running. 

“You do? Even still?”

Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”

“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”

“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.” 

The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.  

Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug. 

It feels like coming home.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez

[kaylasficrecs]

i’m all yours, i’ve got no control (part 2)

gif not mine

part 1 here!

summary: after a mission leaves peter shaken and unstable, (y/n)’s told to keep her distance for his safety and hers. but when he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, trembling and barely holding on, it becomes clear: this is more than just recovery. whatever’s happening to him, it’s changing everything. and he only wants one thing to feel whole again — her.

pairing: peter parker x fem! reader

genre: SMUT, little bit of angst and soft post-chaos fluff

word count: 4.2k

warnings: sex pollen, explicit smut, soft!dom peter, praise kink, overstimulation, (mild) feral behavior, public(ish) elevator sex, avengers cameos lol, mentions of broken furniture (rip stark tower)

a/n: i'm sorry this part took so long. uni’s been hectic, but we’re finally on break YAYY. i really hope this chapter was worth the wait. thank u so much for all the love on part 1. feedback is welcome, and i love hearing from you guys. enjoy the chaos, the smut, and the soft moments. luv y’all <33

MINORS DNI

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(Y/N) had always considered herself fairly resilient.

She’d once broken her wrist during a Krav Maga sparring match and didn’t even cry. She’d stared down a HYDRA drone at age sixteen. She’d even taken a punch from Flash Thompson in tenth grade and had the satisfaction of watching Peter make him regret it thirty seconds later.

But this?

This was worse than all of that combined.

Because (Y/N) — twenty, deeply in love, and sore in places she didn’t know could be sore; was now sitting in a wheelchair. Wrapped in one of Peter’s too-large MIT hoodies. Looking like she’d been hit by a truck. Or, more accurately, Spider-Man on sex pollen.

And worst of all?

The Avengers were here.

Steve Rogers stood frozen near the doorway, blinking slowly like he’d walked in on something unseeable. Clint was choking on his own laughter in the corner. Bruce had turned pink and immediately started scribbling on a clipboard, eyes anywhere but on her. And Tony — oh, Tony — was pacing in front of her like a dad trying not to explode after catching his teenage kid sneaking in after curfew.

(Y/N)’s face was in her hands.

Peter, for his part, stood behind her chair. His hands gripping the handles like she might try to escape which was hilarious, considering she couldn’t feel her legs. He looked suspiciously proud for someone who was technically in trouble.

Tony finally turned to him.

“Kid. The hell.”

Peter cleared his throat. “So uh… Funny story.”

“No,” Tony said immediately. “No stories. I don’t want the details. I can see the details. They’re written all over her face and, Jesus, is that a bite mark on her neck?!”

(Y/N) groaned. “Please kill me.”

“You broke containment,” Tony continued, glaring now. “You ignored protocol, FRIDAY’s lockdown measures, and about five separate international-level agreements about containment of extraterrestrial biological influence-”

“I was fine Mr. Stark,” Peter insisted. “FRIDAY ran the scans. The compound was harmless once uh… once the effects were…” He paused, glancing down at (Y/N), and his voice dropped into something almost sheepish. “…resolved.”

“I hate that you used that word,” Clint muttered.

Steve sighed deeply. “How many rounds?”

(Y/N) made a sound of pure horror.

Peter blinked. “…I lost count after four.”

Bruce made a tiny squeak. Tony pointed at the ceiling.

“FRIDAY, disable his access to the main lab for a week. And get this boy a goddamn chastity belt.”

“I hate all of you,” (Y/N) mumbled into her hoodie.

“You’re still glowing, by the way,” Clint added helpfully. “And is that bed frame broken? Did you — oh man.”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “It was an accident.”

“I’m never looking either of you in the eye again,” Bruce muttered as he fled the room.

A heavy pause followed. Then—

“So,” came Thor’s booming voice from the hallway, “is this what Midgardian mating rituals typically entail? Because I must say, I am very impressed.”

(Y/N) groaned louder. “Oh my God.”

The God of Thunder stepped into view, completely unbothered, munching on a Pop-Tart like he hadn’t just wandered into post-coital ground zero. “Truly,” he added, nodding solemnly, “a bed shattered by pure passion is the mark of a warrior. I applaud you both.”

“Thor, stop,” Peter hissed, mortified.

“Don’t encourage them,” Tony snapped, spinning toward the Asgardian. “This was your idea, by the way. ‘Let’s bring the sex pollen infested kid back to the lab, Stark! He’s perfectly harmless!’”

Thor looked affronted. “I said it was harmless in theory,” Thor repeated indignantly, waving his half-eaten Pop-Tart. “How was I to know Midgardians lacked the willpower to resist such effects?”

Tony stared at him. “They just turned 20, Thor. Barely adults, still act like teenagers. Their willpower barely exists on a good day.”

“I am standing right here,” Peter muttered, red-faced.

(Y/N) buried her face further into her hoodie. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Nat leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, smirking. “I’m just surprised Peter’s still standing. You looked like you’d been folded in half, (Y/N).”

“I was,” Y/N muttered, drawing the hoodie tighter around herself like it could erase her from existence. “Multiple times.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, now holding a hand over his eyes. “I’ve seen war. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Oh, we’re never letting this go,” Tony declared, already pulling up the holographic footage of the compound logs. “I’m naming this Incident Spider-Bang. Don’t test me.”

Peter groaned. “Please don’t name it.”

“Too late,” Tony said smugly.

“I’m going to die,” (Y/N) muttered. “Right here in this wheelchair.”

Thor clapped Peter on the shoulder so hard he stumbled. “Well done, son of Parker. You have honored your lady most gloriously. Truly, this day shall be sung about for ages.”

“No one is singing about this,” Peter said, face red as his suit.

“Oh, I am absolutely writing a ballad,” Clint said, taking out his phone. “Do you rhyme anything with ‘broken pelvis’? Because I feel like that’s important context.”

Steve let out a long, long breath and rubbed his temples. “I miss the days when the biggest scandal was someone stealing Cap’s shield to impress a girl.”

FRIDAY chimed in politely, “Would you like me to initiate a search for suitable chastity belt models, Mr. Stark?”

Tony blinked. “You know what? Yeah. Go nuts.”

Peter muttered something unintelligible and slumped further behind (Y/N)’s chair. She reached up to squeeze his hand. Both of them humiliated, exhausted, and deeply aware that this would never be forgotten.

The moment was silent for a beat.

Then Clint snorted. “So, what you’re saying is… sex pollen actually works?”

Tony turned to him slowly. “Get. Out.”

And just like that, chaos resumed.

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Once the room was cleared — save for Peter, who looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or kiss her forehead again — (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“I can’t believe I let you touch me.”

He leaned down, brushing her hair back gently. “You did more than let me, baby.”

“Shut up.”

“You came so hard you saw stars.”

“Peter Benjamin Parker-”

“You said I could break you and worship you,” he whispered, lips near her ear. “And I did both, didn’t I?”

Her body betrayed her with a shiver.

Peter’s expression softened, guilt flickering in his eyes.

“But seriously… are you okay?”

She nodded, more or less. “Sore. Emotionally scarred. But fine.”

He knelt beside the chair, resting his head on her thigh. “I’m sorry I scared you. And for everything else… the mission, disappearing, the tower locking you out. I wanted you near me so bad it felt like I was dying.”

“I know,” she said softly. “You didn’t choose what happened to you. But you still asked for consent. Even when your body was screaming for it.”

He looked up at her, eyes wide. “Of course I did. (Y/N), I would never touch you without-”

She kissed him, shutting him up. “I know. That’s why I trusted you.”

His cheeks flushed.

Then, after a beat: “Does this mean I’m not in trouble?”

“No. You’re in so much trouble,” she said sweetly. “But we’ll circle back once I can walk again.”

He groaned and kissed her knee.

Two hours later, MJ and Ned showed up.

(Y/N) was still in the wheelchair, now in a different hoodie (Peter’s, of course), with a pillow wedged under her thighs, sipping tea like her dignity hadn’t just been shattered. Peter sat beside her, one hand gripping hers like he was afraid she might float away.

Ned entered first. Cheery and oblivious, and then immediately stopped.

MJ followed. Looked between them. And smirked.

“Oh my god,” Ned whispered.

Peter cleared his throat. “Hi.”

“You broke her pelvis,” MJ said flatly, one eyebrow raised.

“I did not-” Peter started, scandalized.

“I literally had to be wheeled in,” (Y/N) muttered into her tea.

Ned choked on his own spit. “What the hell did you do to her, dude?!”

Peter turned bright red. “Okay — look, it’s a long story, but-”

“You went full freak mode, didn’t you,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes. “The spider-senses. The pheromones. I knew this would happen.”

“Actually, it was due to a sex poll-” (Y/N) started, only for MJ to wave a hand.

“Save it. Honestly, I’m not even mad. I’m just surprised the tower is still standing.”

Peter buried his face in (Y/N) shoulder. “I’m never living this down.”

MJ smirked. “Correct.”

Later that night, after MJ and Ned had left with entirely too much ammunition, Peter helped (Y/N) into bed.

His eyes were softer now. No hunger. Just devotion.

“You okay?”

“Still can’t walk. But you’ve asked me that six times.”

“I’m just making sure,” he said quietly. “Because part of me is still terrified that I lost control.”

She touched his cheek. “You didn’t. You were you, Peter. Even when you were wrecked.”

“I didn’t mean to break the bed.”

She laughed, even as her hips protested the movement. “We’ll bill Mr. Stark.”

He smiled faintly, then lay beside her, arms wrapping gently around her waist. His hand found hers under the covers.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I said it a hundred times last night, but… I’ll say it again. I love you.”

She turned to him, heart full.

“I love you too, Peter. Even when you’re feral.”

He kissed her shoulder.

And despite the soreness, the exhaustion, the lingering embarrassment — she felt safe.

Like maybe, in all the chaos, they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

By the third day, (Y/N) was walking again.

Not well. Not fast. But upright.

She shuffled down the Stark Tower hallway in her softest sweats, hair piled in a bun, and a slight wobble in her step in which Peter noticed instantly.

He nearly dropped his breakfast burrito.

“Are you — wait, are you walking?”

“I’m limping,” she corrected, gripping the wall as she moved toward the kitchen. “There’s a difference.”

Peter was at her side in two seconds, one hand on her lower back, the other hovering like he wanted to catch her if she so much as sneezed wrong. “You should’ve called me. You didn’t have to walk all the way here.”

“You were across the hall, not on Mars.”

“You limped across the hall,” he murmured, voice low, soft. “Because of me.”

She turned to him slowly. “Yeah. Because of what you did to me.”

He froze.

Her voice was different this morning. Still soft, still teasing. But there was an edge to it. A heat beneath the words. And Peter, hypersensitive still from the leftover side effects of that damn alien pollen, felt it.

Felt her.

Her scent, warm and familiar like home, wrapped around him like a noose. Not the choking kind, but the kind that tugged him closer, coaxing him to lean in and never pull away. It was her, entirely her, and it hit him like gravity, pulling him down. Every nerve in his body lit up. The air between them thinned. 

(Y/N) smirked. “You’re thinking about it again, aren’t you?”

Peter swallowed. “I — uh… maybe-”

She stepped closer. Her fingers danced along the hem of his MIT hoodie — her hoodie, technically, but it had always smelled like him. “You broke the bed, Parker. Left me walking funny for two days.”

“I know, and I’m sor-”

“I didn’t say I minded.”

Peter blinked. “…what?”

She pressed up onto her toes, whispering into his ear, “I liked the way you begged. I liked when you asked for permission to wreck me. Like you couldn’t breathe until I said yes.”

His knees nearly gave out.

“Baby,” he whispered, jaw tight. “Please. You can’t do this right now.”

“Why not?”

“Because Steve is in the other room. And if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna throw you on the nearest surface and-”

She leaned in closer, lips brushing his jaw. “You think I’d mind?”

Peter whimpered.

They didn’t even make it out of the hallway.

(Y/N) shoved him into the elevator with trembling hands and fire in her eyes. She pressed all the buttons in a hurry. The doors slid shut, sealing them inside that small, mirrored box; and she didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed his hoodie, fisting the fabric, and kissed him like she’d been holding her breath since the last time their bodies collided. Peter responded instantly, lips crashing against hers with a bruising, aching need. His hands flying to her hips, gripping like she might vanish.

Her hands were everywhere — on his jaw, in his hair, under his hoodie. She tugged it up, fingers skating along his stomach, memorizing the planes of muscle like she’d been starved of him. And maybe she had. Three days of tension, of silence, of his gentle hands and guilty eyes, had burned between them like a fuse. It was snapping now. Loud. Violent. Beautiful.

“You’re so mean,” he gasped between kisses. “You know what you do to me. You know.”

“You’ve been babying me for days,” she whispered, licking into his mouth. “I needed to remind you I can make you fall apart too.”

He shuddered.

“You’ve been so sweet,” she continued, brushing her lips along his ear. “So careful. Like I’m glass.”

“I’m trying to behave,” he panted, forehead falling against hers. “I told myself I’d let you rest, give you time, be good-”

“But you’re not good, are you?” she said sweetly, grinding her hips into his. “You’re so close to snapping.”

Her hips rolled against his, deliberately slow, deliberately cruel. The friction was just enough to make him whimper. 

“I needed to remind you,” she said, eyes locked on his. “That I can take it. That I want all of you.”

She ground against him again, slower this time, letting the drag of her body against his show him exactly what she meant. His breath hitched.

Peter’s whole body shuddered. “I’m gonna fucking cry.”

“You’re holding back,” she whispered. “But I don’t want you to.”

He dropped to his knees. Not out of dominance. Not even out of lust. It was reverence. He looked up at her like she hung the stars, hands settling on her hips like they were meant to be there.

“Wait, Peter — what are you —”

“I’ve missed this,” he whispered as his hands wrapped around her thighs, pushing her up against the wall as he nuzzled against her center through her sweats. “I’ve been aching for this. Let me make you come. Please. Right here. Just one. Just let me taste-”

“Peter,” she gasped and stared at him, shocked by the sheer desperation in his voice, the way he trembled under the weight of wanting her.

“Say yes,” he begged, looking up at her. “Say yes and I’ll be gentle. I’ll be sweet. I’ll lick you until you forget where we are.”

Her breath caught.

“Say no,” he whispered, “and I’ll stop. I swear. But please don’t say no.”

Her fingers threaded into his curls. “Yes,” she said, voice barely more than a breath. “Yes, Peter.”

That was all he needed.

Her sweats were gone in one swift pull, her underwear with them, and he didn’t waste a second. His mouth was on her, hot and soft and relentless. She gasped, knees buckling slightly as his tongue parted her, licking slow and deep. He moaned like her taste was everything he’d ever wanted, like it had been haunting him since the moment he walked out of that bedroom.

The elevator kept rising, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t even think. Peter’s tongue was hot and wet and sinful against her, licking and sucking like he was worshipping, and she felt herself coming undone fast — faster than she expected.

His grip tightened on her thighs as she rocked against his face, her fingers buried in his hair, anchoring herself to something real while the world spun. 

Her hips bucked. He held her down.

“You taste so good,” he groaned, licking deeper. “You always do. I’ll never get enough.”

“Peter — someone might —“ she whimpered, voice cracking.

“I don’t care,” he said, voice raw. “Let them see. Let them see how good I make you feel,” he murmured between strokes, his lips slick and reverent. “I could die right here and not regret a thing.”

She was already close. Too close. It was overwhelming; his tongue, his praise, the look in his eyes every time he glanced up at her. And when he moaned again, dragging the flat of his tongue against her with long, desperate strokes, she snapped.

Her back hit the mirror. Her hips jerked. She cried out, clutching his curls and Peter just held her there, groaning against her as if her pleasure was enough to undo him completely.

She came with a sharp cry as her orgasm hit like a tidal wave, legs trembling, and Peter moaned against her. Seeing her become undone fed something inside him.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were swollen, cheeks flushed, and breathing ragged. 

And he was so hard it looked painful.

“(Y/N),” he panted, standing slowly, hands finding her waist again like he was afraid to let go. “Please.”

“What do you need?”

“You. All of you. Right now, please.”

“Then take me.”

They didn’t make it to a bed this time.

He spun her gently, pressing her against the mirrored wall. She could see their reflection now. Her flushed cheeks, his blown pupils, the way his hands trembled slightly as they gripped her hips.

He pulled his sweats low enough, lined himself up, and pushed inside with one slow, careful thrust. They both gasped — not from pain, but from relief. From finally giving in.

Peter stilled, forehead resting on her shoulder. His hands held her hips like glass. “Tell me if I go too far.”

“You won’t,” she moaned, backing into him. “I want all of it.”

He moved slowly at first, savoring the drag of her around him, the sounds she made, the way her breath hitched every time he bottomed out.

But (Y/N) pushed back harder. “More.”

He gripped her hips tighter.

“Say it again.”

“Harder, Peter. I can take it. I want it.”

That did it.

The pace shifted; deeper, rougher, desperate. Each thrust came with a groan, a whispered confession, a kiss to her shoulder. His grip was bruising, but careful. His mouth trailed along her neck as he moved, panting her name like it was the only word he remembered.

“You feel so good,” he panted. “So perfect. You were made for me.”

“You’re ruining me in an elevator,” she gasped. “What would the Avengers think?”

“That I’m the luckiest man alive,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her neck. “And that you’re everything.”

She clenched around him — tight, pulsing — and he lost all rhythm.

“I’m close,” he gasped, voice breaking. “I love you. I love you so much, I — ”

He came with a cry, buried deep inside her, his whole body trembling as he wrapped his arms around her from behind like she was the only thing holding him up.

The elevator dinged.

Peter caught her before she could collapse, holding her against his chest, breathing her in.

“I didn’t mean for it to be like that,” he whispered. “I’m sorry if-”

She silenced him with a kiss. “You don’t ever have to apologize for loving me like that.”

His eyes were glassy. “I just wanted to be good.”

“You are, Peter,” she promised, and smiled. Her hands went to cup his jaw. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

For once, Stark Tower was quiet.

Peter sat in Tony’s office, fidgeting with a stress cube that clicked with every twitch of his fingers. Across from him, Tony stared silently, sipping scotch at ten in the morning like it was coffee.

“You done wrecking my furniture?” he finally asked.

Peter coughed. “Yeah… For now.”

Tony’s brow raised. “So you’re saying you’re open to a payment plan.”

“I can… fix the frame?” Peter offered. “And the wall. And the door. And probably part of the ceiling.”

“You dented the ceiling?”

Peter turned red. “I had enhanced strength and a biological mating drive, Mr. Stark. What do you want from me?”

“Control,” Tony said, setting the glass down. “Which you miraculously still had, apparently. You could’ve hurt her.”

“I’d rather die.”

Tony didn’t smile. But his expression softened just slightly.

“Look. I’m not gonna give you the sex talk. God knows your girlfriend already limped through the aftermath, but if you’re gonna keep getting tangled up in Avengers-level bullshit, you need to be prepared for what happens when biology, stress, and superpowers mix.”

Peter nodded.

“Does she know what she signed up for?” Tony asked.

Peter thought of (Y/N)’s hands. Her voice. Her eyes when she told him yes, every single time.

“She knows,” Peter said. “She always knows.”

Tony grunted. “Good. Then stop breaking my elevators.”

Meanwhile, MJ had cornered (Y/N) in the media room with a chai latte and a face that screamed we’re gonna talk about it whether you like it or not.

“So,” she said, sitting cross-legged beside her. “You okay?”

(Y/N) blinked. “You mean emotionally? Or like… still wobbly from getting my soul rearranged?”

“Both.”

“I’m okay,” (Y/N) said softly. “Tired. Sore. And a little stunned that Tony didn’t have me escorted out by force.”

MJ smirked. “He likes you. Hates to admit it, but you ground Peter. He gets… weird without you.”

“Yeah,” (Y/N) whispered. “I noticed.”

MJ nudged her shoulder. “Was it weird weird? Or like, ‘you’d do it again if no one was watching’ weird?”

“MJ!” (Y/N)’s hands flew to her face as it flushed bright red.

“What? I was just asking.” MJ grinned unapologetically. “You’re glowing, babe. I had to check in.”

(Y/N) gave her a look but then her expression softened. A shy, faraway smile tugged at her lips.

“It wasn’t even about the sex,” she murmured. “I mean yeah, it was insane, but it was how he looked at me. Like I was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.”

MJ’s smirk faded into something gentler.

“He begged for my consent like it was air,” (Y/N) continued. “Even when he could barely think straight. He could’ve snapped, but he didn’t. He held on for me.”

“That’s love, babe,” MJ said quietly. “The real kind.”

(Y/N) nodded. “It really is.”

MJ handed her the chai. “You deserve it.”

(Y/N) smiled. “So do you.”

MJ leaned her head on her shoulder. “Okay, well now I’m gonna cry. And you still look like you’ve been thoroughly railed, so let’s call it even.”

They both burst out laughing.

That night, (Y/N) found Peter on the rooftop, hoodie pulled up over his curls, the wind ruffling the hem as the lights of New York buzzed quietly below them. He stood near the edge, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

She stepped beside him, the cool air catching strands of her hair.

“You’re brooding,” she said gently.

“I’m recovering from being the Tower menace.”

She smiled. “You’re not. Well… maybe a little.”

He glanced at her, his expression serious. “I keep thinking about what could’ve happened. If I’d lost control.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

She reached up, cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed along the edge of his cheekbone.

“You gave me the choice. Every time. You never took.”

Peter’s eyes searched hers, shimmering in the rooftop glow.

“I wanted to make love to you,” he whispered. “Even when I was losing it. Especially then. It was never just about the heat. It was you. It’s always been you.”

“You did,” she whispered back. “You made me feel safe. Wanted. Like I was yours… in the softest way.”

A long silence fell between them, full but comforting.

Then she tilted her head. “Come to bed?”

Peter took her hand, kissing the back of it. “Yeah. Okay.”

This time, there was no frenzy. No tearing of clothes. No desperation.

Just quiet hands. Warm skin. Deep breaths in the dark.

They laid tangled in the sheets, their limbs wrapped around each other like vines. Peter pulled her close, bare chests pressed together, and kissed her temple.

“You’re my home,” he whispered.

(Y/N) smiled sleepily, resting her head against his chest.

“Then you’d better get used to me being around,” she mumbled. “Because I’m never leaving.”

He didn’t say anything. Just held her tighter.

Outside, the city kept buzzing; neon lights flickering, taxis flying past, voices echoing through the streets.

But inside, in the quiet of her arms, the world slowed down.

It was warm, gentle, and safe.

She was curled into him like she belonged there, like she’d always known where to fit — and Peter didn’t need spider-sense to feel it. He just knew.

Her fingers rested over his heart. His breathing matched hers.

And for the first time in a long, long while, he wasn’t thinking about saving the world.

He was thinking about her laugh. Her skin. The way she looked at him like he was worth loving, even when he didn’t believe it himself.

And just like that, with her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, her presence filling every quiet corner of him — Peter finally, finally felt like he wasn’t falling.

He was home.

[kaylasficrecs]

i'm all yours, i've got no control

part 2 here!

summary: after a mission leaves peter shaken and unstable, (y/n)’s told to keep her distance for his safety and hers. but when he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, trembling and barely holding on, it becomes clear: this is more than just recovery. whatever’s happening to him, it’s changing everything. and he only wants one thing to feel whole again — her.

pairing: peter parker x fem! reader

genre: SMUT, little bit of angst and fluff

word count: 2.5k

warnings: sex pollen, explicit smut, soft!dom peter, praise kink, overstimulation, (mild) feral behavior, begging, avengers cameos lol

a/n: ok so the timeline? not accurate. we're pretending tony is alive & well for the sake of this one-shot thank u. also yes, this is my take on the classic "sex pollen" trope. i've read it like twice and couldn't resist doing my own version lol. and because it's 1D's 15th anniv... u already know i had to do it, hence the title wink wink

MINORS DNI

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

The first time (Y/N) saw Peter Parker hurt, she was fourteen and sitting on the edge of his hospital bed in Queens after a run-in with muggers had gone sideways. His arm was in a cast, his ribs were taped, and yet somehow, he still looked at her like she was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Now, six years later, she couldn’t even see him through the damn glass.

“Why won’t anyone tell me what the hell is going on?” (Y/N)'s voice echoed off the sleek, too-sterile walls of the floor Tony Stark used for emergencies. She wasn’t stupid — she knew something was wrong, something bad — but all anyone would tell her was that Peter was “stable,” and that “this is for his safety and yours.”

Which was bullshit.

“Please sit down,” FRIDAY’s voice said gently, for the fourth time. “Mr. Stark has asked that you remain calm.”

“I'll sit when I see him.” (Y/N)’s jaw clenched as she approached the locked observation room, her boots striking the polished floor. Through the small circular window of the reinforced door, she could just barely make out the figure pacing behind the frosted glass. Peter. She would know that silhouette anywhere; tense shoulders, hands clenching and unclenching, restlessness radiating off of him in waves.

They hadn’t seen each other in three days. Three excruciating days since the mission on Kepler-49X, where the avengers encountered a flora-based species with some bizarre biological effects. Thor had cracked jokes about “pollen and mating seasons.” Tony had gone completely silent, and Peter… Peter hadn’t come back the same.

(Y/N) is his girlfriend. His mate, as Thor annoyingly called it. She had every right to know what was happening to the boy who had been her everything since junior year.

The intercom clicked.

“(Y/N)?”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Peter?”

His voice was strained. It was low, gravel-edged in a way she’d never heard before. “You need to go. I'm not safe right now.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Not safe? What the hell are you talking about? What happened to you?”

Silence. Then a slow, ragged inhale.

“They hit us with something,” he said, voice tight. “Some kind of compound. It's like a sex pollen, or a hormone trigger, or I — I don’t know. Dr. Banner and Mr. Stark are trying to figure it out, but it’s designed to bond people. Or make them m-mate. I — fuck, (Y/N), it’s so much worse than it sounds.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Mating? Peter, are you in pain?”

“Yes,” he breathed, and it wasn’t just pain she heard. There was a need behind it — something primal. “Not the kind you can stitch up. It's in my head. My blood. It's like every nerve is begging for you. Every second I'm not touching you, I feel like I'm burning alive.”

(Y/N)'s heart twisted, torn between panic and something far darker, deeper; a sharp sting of want. “Peter…”

He groaned. A sound that was entirely too feral for the boy she knew. “You can’t be here. I'm barely holding on. Every time I even hear your voice, it gets worse. My senses are locked on you. I can smell you through the glass. I need you.”

Her thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Peter-”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “God, (Y/N), I’m so sorry. If I touch you like this, I don't know if I'll be able to stop.”

The door opened behind her.

“Jesus, kid,” Tony muttered, walking in with Steve close behind. “What did we just say about using the intercom?”

(Y/N) turned on them, fury igniting in her chest. “What the hell is happening to him?!”

Steve gave Tony a look, and Tony sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“He’s been dosed with an alien compound that heightens mating instincts. We think it’s temporary, but it’s… aggressive. The last thing we need is him losing control and accidentally hurting someone.”

“You mean me.” Her voice trembled.

“I mean anyone,” Tony replied flatly. “But yes, given your history, we’re trying to keep you safe.”

(Y/N) stepped forward. “He would never hurt me.”

“We’re not taking that chance,” Steve said, softer but firm.

“Maybe she’d help,” Thor’s booming voice came from behind them. He was eating grapes, leaning against the doorframe. “The boy is clearly bonded. His instincts are driving him to his mate. Let them be.”

Tony threw him a sharp glare. “This isn’t Asgard.”

“No, it’s Earth. Where you lot still think locking a love-drunk spiderboy in a room is gonna fix a chemical problem with his balls.”

“Thor,” Steve warned, pinching the bridge of his nose. But (Y/N) was frozen.

Mate.

Was that what Peter had been trying to say? That this wasn’t just about sex? That some part of his body, his DNA, knew her as his? It was crazy. And yet not.

They’d been each other’s firsts. Each other’s constants. They'd grown up tangled in each other’s lives, so tightly wound it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

If what they were saying was true — if this was physical and emotional and biological — then how the hell was she supposed to walk away?

That night, Tony agreed to let her stay, but not on Peter's floor.

“If you so much as breathe near his containment room again, I'll have you escorted off the premises.”

“But-“

“Look, I’m sorry, I mean that. But this is for both your safety. Understood?”

She agreed. Begrudgingly.

(Y/N) was staying in one of the guest rooms four levels below, tucked beneath layers of biometric locks. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t sleep, and she could barely think. Her skin buzzed with anticipation and dread; and under it all, longing.

Because as wrong as it was, some dark part of her wanted him — needed him.

It happened just after 3AM.

A crash echoed through her room, followed by a loud thump. (Y/N) shot up in bed, heart pounding and frozen.

He was there.

Peter, still in his Spider-Man suit. Torn, unzipped halfway to his navel, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His curls were damp with sweat, eyes blown wide with black-dilated pupils. And he was on his knees at the foot of her bed.

“(Y/N),” he rasped.

“What—Peter—How did you—”

“I couldn't stay away.” His voice broke, and there was raw desperation in it. “I tried. I fought it. But my body, every cell in me, wants you… I need you. I need to touch you. I'm begging you.”

Her breath hitched.

“Did you break out?”

He nodded, almost ashamed. “I didn't mean to. I think — I think FRIDAY let me out. She scanned my vitals and said something about a fail-safe.”

“You can’t be here,” she whispered, though her thighs were already pressing together, heat pooling low in her belly.

“I know,” he said. “And if you tell me to leave, I will. I swear. But I can’t take this anymore.”

He looked up at her, eyes glassy, face flushed.

“Say the word, (Y/N). Just say no, and I'll crawl right back to the cell and lock myself in.”

There was nothing in his posture but reverence. Nothing but worship.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry with shock and confusion. Then she whispered:

“Come here.”

Peter didn’t move at first.

Even when (Y/N) said the words “Come here,” his body trembled, as though the permission alone had set him on fire.

She sat upright on the bed, hair a little messy from sleep, tank top clinging to her skin. Her lips were parted, unsure. But she didn’t pull away when he crawled toward her, every movement careful, reverent, like he was approaching something divine.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, hovering just above her, his voice shredded with restraint. “If you even hesitate, I’ll back off. I’ll crawl back to that cell and-”

“Peter,” she whispered, touching his cheek. Her thumb grazed the high arch of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw. “You said you needed me. So take me. Please.”

That was all it took.

Peter crashed his mouth into hers like he was starving — and in truth, he was. Not just for her body, but for her presence, her voice, her soul. His tongue swept into her mouth with desperation, tasting her, mapping her. His hands were already under her shirt, calloused palms dragging across her skin like he was trying to memorize every inch.

He groaned, deep and low, as he pressed her back into the mattress. “You don’t understand what you’re doing to me,” he gasped against her neck. “I’ve been losing my mind, (Y/N). I can smell you. Hear you. I dream about you and wake up hard and aching.”

Her breath hitched. “Peter-”

“I need you to say yes.” His voice cracked, his lips trembling against her collarbone. “Say it again. Please.”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes. Always.”

He shuddered, letting out a relieved sob, and then his mouth was everywhere. Kissing her neck, sucking gently, nipping just enough to leave heat in his wake. He dragged her tank top up and over her head, tossing it aside. Her nipples pebbled instantly in the cool air, and Peter moaned as he bent down, taking one into his mouth.

“Fuck—Pete—”

He groaned in response, flicking his tongue over her nipple, then gently sucking before switching to the other. “You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

She arched into him, fingers threading through his curls.

Peter’s suit had come half-undone in his escape, and now (Y/N) reached to peel the rest of it off, revealing the lithe, trembling power of his body beneath. His skin was flushed pink, damp with sweat, muscles twitching like he was barely holding himself together. She grazed her fingers down his stomach and he whimpered.

“You’re sensitive.”

“You have no idea,” he groaned, leaning into her touch. “My senses are in overdrive. Every time you touch me it’s like, I don’t even know how to describe it.”

He was rock-hard against his thigh, cock flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

She wrapped her fingers around him, gently, and he cried out — dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

“(Y/N)—fuck—baby—please be careful—if you keep doing that I’m gonna come just from your hand,”

She smiled. “You’re really this desperate?”

His hips bucked, and he nodded against her skin. “You don’t get it. I can feel the air on me and it makes me wanna explode. But it’s not just that. It’s you. You. The way you smell, the way you feel near me — I’m going crazy.”

She guided him back to her lips. “Then go ahead, Peter. Show me.”

Something snapped in him.

He pulled her panties down in one frantic motion, exposing her soaked core. When he saw how wet she was, he groaned like it physically hurt him.

“Is this for me?” he asked, voice ragged. “Did I do this to you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “It’s always been you.”

He didn’t hesitate.

Peter dropped to his stomach and buried his face between her thighs.

“Peter — oh my god — ”

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up her slit before he sucked her clit into his mouth, groaning like she was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. She bucked beneath him, hands gripping the sheets as his tongue worked her in steady, firm laps, his fingers gripping her thighs like anchors.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured, dragging his tongue in lazy circles. “Could live here. Would live here.”

(Y/N) moaned, thrashing under him as the coil in her belly began to tighten. “Pete — I’m gonna — I can’t”

He flattened his tongue against her, flicked, then sucked hard — and she came with a loud, shaking cry, thighs clamping around his head.

He didn’t stop.

Peter kept licking her through it, slower now but persistent, tongue gentle as she trembled. And when she started to squirm, overstimulated, he held her down.

“Just one more,” he begged. “Please. One more. I’ve been dreaming about this. About making you fall apart over and over until you forget your own name.”

(Y/N) gasped, teetering on the edge again. “I can’t — I don’t — Pete —oh fuck— ”

He slipped one long finger into her, crooking just right and that was it. She came again, louder this time, body arching off the bed as he worshipped her like something sacred.

When he finally pulled back, his chin was glistening, pupils blown. His voice was low and reverent.

“Let me fuck you, baby. Let me show you how much I love you.”

She nodded, dazed, chest heaving.

Peter lined himself up, pushing the tip in slowly. He was thick, and the stretch made her gasp. But he moved gently, watching her face with trembling control.

“You’re so tight, love. Fuck. You feel like heaven.”

“Go slow,” she whispered.

“I’ll go as slow as you want. Just don’t ask me to stop.”

He slid in deeper, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside her. They both gasped; the connection blinding. Peter dropped his forehead to hers, eyes clenched shut.

“Don’t move,” he begged. “Just — just let me breathe in this for a second. Being inside you is the only thing that’s made me feel sane in days.”

She cupped his cheek. “Then take what you need.”

He moved.

Slow at first, hips rolling in a steady rhythm that made her toes curl. But it didn’t take long for the need to rise again — the sex pollen in his system twisting pleasure into something ravenous.

Soon he was pounding into her, moaning her name, gasping things like “so good”, and “you were made for me.” He begged her to come again, to scream for him, to let him give her everything.

When she clenched around him, nails raking down his back, Peter lost it. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering as he spilled inside her, groaning her name like it was a prayer.

But he didn’t stop. Not even after.

He kissed her feverishly, still hard, and pulled back just enough to look in her eyes.

“Again,” he whispered. “I can’t stop. I need more.”

And she let him.

They went three more rounds. Each more intense, more desperate, more consuming than the last.

By the time they collapsed into each other, the sun was rising, Peter was trembling with aftershocks, and (Y/N) couldn’t walk.

Literally.

When she tried to stand, her legs gave out.

Peter caught her mid-stumble, arms wrapping around her like instinct. He was utterly wrecked, drenched in sweat, but still strong enough to lift her effortlessly. “I got you. FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Wheelchair. Please.”

(Y/N) groaned, hiding her face in his shoulder, her voice muffled. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, kissing her temple as he cradled her tighter. “You love me.”

“…I do,” she mumbled.

His smile turned boyish and warm. The kind that always made her stomach flip. And he kissed her again, slower this time, and whispered, “And I love you. So fucking much.”

And with her nestled in his arms, the morning light pouring over them, it was impossible to tell where the heat ended and the love began.

a/n: ik this is a one-shot, but should i do a part 2 or what?

[kaylasficrecs]

safety net

pairing: johnny storm x female reader

synopsis: the fire burned out, and she wonders if she’s just what’s left.

The box shows up because Sue is on a cleaning tear.

She texts the group chat a photo of a mountain of labeled cardboard stacked in a Baxter Building corridor—REED’S LAB JUNK, BEN’S WORKOUT TAPES, JOHNNY’S “DO NOT OPEN.” Ten minutes later, a courier knocks at your apartment door with one of those boxes and a note in Sue’s tidy handwriting: You live with him, therefore you own half this hazard. Love, your sister-in-law.

Johnny is in the shower singing off-key to a playlist you made him months ago. The kitchen smells like the coffee he forgot on the counter and the cinnamon candle you lit to bully the place into feeling like morning. You tell yourself you’re just going to move the box out of the hallway before he slips on it and breaks something you cannot pronounce. You tell yourself you’re not nosy; you’re helpful.

The tape peels back with a papery sigh. Inside, there’s the comfortable chaos of his twenties: charred racing gloves, a pair of novelty sunglasses with flames cut across the lenses, a wrinkled congratulatory letter from the New York Fire Department (“Please stop dropping by unannounced; we have procedures”), a Monaco Grand Prix badge on a lanyard stiff with salt. Beneath—because of course—there’s a shoebox that rattles like seashells.

You hesitate. The shower turns off. If you set this down and walk away, today can be ordinary.

You don’t set it down. The lid slides off. Polaroids look up in overexposed summers.

He’s younger in them by edges, not years—shoulders golden, jaw rough with sleep deprivation and bravado, grin loose, eyes that color you know better than your own hands lit like a dare. And her. The ex you’ve never met but have met everywhere: in half stories Ben starts and stops with a laugh, in the way Reed says “back when we were all idiots,” in Sue’s soft warnings that carry the lightest weather alert.

In one photo she’s half on his lap at a rooftop party, hair lifted by a July wind, a plastic cup sweating against his thigh. In another she’s on his shoulders in a crowd, his hands cuffed at her calves, his mouth open in a yell you can hear. In the last one in that handful, he isn’t looking at the camera but at her, and the look is reckless devotion, unedited.

Your stomach drops an elevator floor and does not stop at the next one.

He loved her, you think, and the word arrives like a splinter under the nail.

Water stops. You slide the Polaroids back with the careful fingers of someone repacking an injury, fold the tape over the seams, push the shoebox deeper into the shipping box until it is swallowed by cardboard. When Johnny pads out of the bathroom with a towel low on his hips and the steam still clinging to his hair, he smells like your shampoo because he ran out of his and you buy yours in bulk anyway.

“You open the Sue Bomb?” he asks. His smile is damp and ridiculous. He kisses your cheek from behind and fog breathes over your ear. “I swear if there’s another pair of those flame shades, I’m starting a museum.”

“Didn’t touch it,” you say, and your voice sounds like it has gone through customs.

He doesn’t notice. He’s counting a new cluster of freckles on your shoulder, fingertip pressed to each tiny sun, murmuring the numbers like a spell. He asks about pasta night, about that volcano documentary you added to the queue because he once said the word lava like it was a love letter. He holds up the colander like a trophy, and when he turns the stove on he does it carefully—the way he learned to after the first time you flinched from a pilot flame.

Every good love story is about fire and what it learned to do with its hands.

You have pasta. You fall asleep with your face tucked into his T-shirt while a narrator explains magma and time. You wake in the shadow hour with a knot in your chest that feels like a fist learning to close.

In the morning, Sue apologizes for the box while you stir cream into your coffee at the lab kitchen island. She’s in athleisure and stern competence. “I should’ve filtered,” she says, one elbow braced, watching you with a sister’s tenderness and a scientist’s precision. “He was a whirlwind. We all were. If anything in there makes you uncomfortable—”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m an adult.”

She hums. “Adults have feelings too.”

The question escapes before you mean it to. “Did he love her more?”

Sue’s expression softens in that way of hers that is both honesty and mercy. “He loved her loudly,” she answers. “He was twenty-two and allergic to silence. Loud can look like more.” She pauses. “Sometimes it’s just louder.”

You nod like she has handed you something before you figured out where to put it.

Franklin, five and solemn in a cape and one sock, barrels in with a drawing that is eighty percent orange scribbles. “Auntie, this is Uncle Johnny doing big fire,” he declares. Then he leans his head against your leg. “Are you sad?”

“I’m okay,” you say, because that is an answer children understand. “I’m just thinking.”

He considers, then removes his cape and ties it around your waist with a ritual air. “Now you have powers,” he says, satisfied, and runs out again, hollering about cereal.

You carry that line—loud can look like more—around all day, a coal in your hand you forget is there until it glows through the skin.

At night you doomscroll. You know better. You do it anyway. A fan account has stitched together a timeline of Johnny’s great romances like an unsolicited press kit. Monaco, Miami, a kiss in the rain outside a club that burned down a year later. The comments are miniature dioramas of certainty: They were endgame. Look at the way he touched her face. He’ll never love like that again. He used to be a myth.

You stare at the photo of his hand on her face, and it is a hand you know at the molecule. The gentle, practiced way he unclasps your necklace when you’ve fallen asleep in it. The steady pressure between your shoulders when you can’t quiet your breath. The way he threads your fingers with his when cameras blur your edges and you need the truth of skin. You set the phone down as if it might bruise the table and go brush your teeth until the gumline flares.

When you slide into bed, he’s sprawled on his stomach, hair a riot, mouth open on a sleep-breath. People think chaos is who he is because they see the flare; you know the warm, ridiculous center. He says your name in his sleep like he’s counting himself home.

It doesn’t matter, that sensible voice says. It doesn’t matter that he sleeps like you are a prayer if daylight once taught him other liturgies.

Days rearrange themselves around the doubt. You begin moving in careful arcs, like there are bruises in the room you don’t want to bump. Johnny notices in the way of someone who has learned to watch for smoke. He asks what’s wrong without saying those exact words, because the last time he tried you cried over a burnt garlic bread and laughed for ten minutes because grief sometimes picks the silliest costume.

“What if we get out of the city this weekend?” he offers. “The Cape? We can steal Ben’s convertible and pretend we’re eighty.”

“Maybe,” you say.

“I miss you,” he says, plain, unperformative, and the honesty throws your blood off-balance.

“I’m right here,” you answer, and you are—physically there in the kitchen, sleeve pulled over your hand, a pale dusting of flour across your wrist from rolling out pie dough for Sue because she claims baking is your love language and she is greedy—but part of you is still bent over a shoebox inside your chest, counting ghosts.

Ben finds you in the gym trying to outrun feelings. He hands you water and says, “Everybody talks about Johnny like he’s a bonfire. Newsflash, bonfires go out if you feed ’em only wind.”

You blink sweat into your hairline. “Was that…for me?”

He sighs. “He used to be all flash. Didn’t know what to do with stillness. Then he met you and now he goes home. Saves fuel. It ain’t less. It’s more on purpose.”

Something inside you twists. “Ben,” you say, quiet, “have you seen the photos?”

“Kid,” he says, and his voice drops the gravel for a second, goes soft. “I was there for a lot of ‘em. You know what those nights had that yours don’t?” He gestures vaguely. “Police lights. The next morning we did damage control. Johnny thinks you like your mornings unmarred.”

He walks away, leaving you with an ache and a bouquet of new questions.

On Tuesday, there’s a mission that isn’t a mission so much as a tantruming energy grid near the river. Routine until it isn’t. Johnny misjudges a leap in a chemical gust and drops, not far, not deadly, just enough to make your heart punch your ribs like a fist. He pops up grinning, easy, sheepish. “I’m okay,” he says, and Reed hums calculations while Sue’s forcefield flickers like a held breath.

You want to yell. You want to hold his face and say, Do you know the cliff edge I live near? Instead, you dust soot from his cheek and say, “Careful,” and your voice breaks on the hinge of the word.

Later in the car, he’s quiet. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie.

He stares out the window. “I used to scare people for sport,” he says, odd and rueful. “Made me feel immortal. It’s stupid. It’s not who I want to be anymore.”

“Who do you want to be?” you ask, and it is a sincerity and a plea.

“The guy you don’t have to worry about,” he says immediately, then winces. “I mean—not ever, I know who I am—but the guy who comes home.” He glances over. “The guy who deserves you.”

Your hands, ordinary and startling, rest useless in your lap. They look like they could hold a box and not open it.

You don’t fight that night. You don’t speak. That’s the problem.

On Friday, the team hosts a small donor gala, which is to say Reed practices smiling at a mirror, Sue weaponizes a pair of heels, and Ben threatens to install a dress code for “tech billionaires with ugly shoes.” You wear black and quiet confidence and a lipstick shade that short-circuits Johnny’s brain.

“Marry me,” he says absently, the way he always does when you get out of the car. Then he grins to take the edge off because it’s a joke and a plan and the future and the present, and you smile like you always do while something raw and private rubs thin beneath the humor.

Inside, someone you don’t know asks if you met Johnny before or after the Monaco phase. The question is a chandelier—pretty, brittle, likely to fall. You excuse yourself for water and find a hallway where the building hums like a seashell. There’s a framed photo from five years ago catching the light: Johnny laughing on a balcony, a champagne flute tilting in his hand, his ex in white that’s not a wedding dress but reads like a promise anyway. The past looks lit. You want to pull the frame down. You want to be reasonable. You want to stop wanting anything.

“Hey.” His voice, behind you, careful.

You jump. Johnny leans in the doorway, tie askew, a bruise like a thumbprint along his jaw from the grid tantrum. He reads weather, always has. “Walk with me?”

You climb to the roof, where the city lies open like a living map. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, the thing he does when he doesn’t trust them. He looks at the sky like he is asking it to keep a secret.

“You’ve been gone,” he says, not accusing, only aching. “And you haven’t gone anywhere.”

“We’ve been busy,” you deflect.

“Try again,” he says gently, and unfairly, the gentleness is what makes you tremble.

You fold your arms. The wind tugs a strand across your mouth. “I found the photos,” you say, because to bleed is sometimes the only way not to drown. “In the box. And the internet helps if you want to hurt yourself for free.”

He blinks. “Photos?”

“I saw the way you looked at her,” you continue, and the words scrape like gravel. “Reckless. Loud. Like the world was ending and good, let it. And I—” breath catches, “—I feel like I get what’s left. The after. I get the quiet because someone else got the fire.”

He flinches like your hand slipped and cut him under the ribs. “That’s not—”

“I know you’re not cheating. I’m not accusing you of wanting her. It’s not that. It’s that I looked at those pictures and thought, if I hadn’t met you—if I’d chosen someone else—I wouldn’t know what it’s like to measure myself against a ghost. I think I’d be happier.”

The wind takes the words and smears them over the skyline. He goes very still. For a beat something in his face totally empties, like a building’s lights flickering out in a grid collapse.

“Someone else,” he repeats, not like a question but like he is testing the edge of a blade. “You could’ve loved anyone else.”

You weren’t trying to hurt him. You did anyway. “Johnny—”

“No, wait.” He laughs, but it breaks in the middle. He’s always been the flame who thought he could control the air. Right now he looks like what happens when you realize the air can leave. “I have lived so sure it was me. That it was…inevitable. You and me. Like gravity. But it wasn’t. It was a choice. Your choice.”

“It was,” you whisper, because you won’t lie to make this easier.

“And I…God.” He drags a hand through his hair; the wind frays it and he doesn’t care. His voice dulls into honesty. “I’ve been arrogant. I moved through us like love was a thing I deserved because I wanted it enough—because I’d already paid for it in stupid, public currency. I forgot you had options that didn’t include me. That you could have taken your mornings and your laugh and your patience and handed them to anyone who hadn’t already burned himself out.”

It is a strange, devastating relief to see your pain reflected back at you from his face. He looks knocked out of orbit. “I don’t love you less,” he says, each word deliberately placed. “I love you quieter because I finally learned how not to set everything on fire. I save my fuel for you. For years. For boring afternoons. For you. And I was so sure you could feel it that I didn’t say it. That’s on me.”

You swallow hard. “It looked different.”

“It does,” he admits. “With her, it was theater. With you, it’s home. With her, I wanted an audience. With you, I want to live a very long time and forget to look up at the balcony because I’m busy fixing the leaky sink with you.” He takes a breath that shakes. “I know the photos look like more. They’re louder. Loud isn’t more.”

“I don’t want to be the safe option,” you say, and the words are smaller than what you mean.

“You���re not safe,” he says fiercely, stepping closer. “You’re the risk I wake up and take every day. You’re the choice that scares me because losing you would be…absolute. It could’ve been anyone else, and it wasn’t, and I am so terrified you’ll wake up and decide to fix that mistake.”

“Johnny.”

“Tell me what to do,” he says. There’s no bravado left, just a man with his hands open. “If you need public, I’ll be public. If you need story, I’ll tell it. If you need me to drag that hallway photo down with my teeth, I will. If you need me to say I was a fool, I’ll write it across the sky until Reed complains about light pollution.”

You want to laugh, and it hurts too much, and you laugh anyway, one sound that is mostly a sob. “I don’t want theater.”

“What do you want?”

“To stop feeling like I arrived after the party and everyone already ate.”

He exhales on something like a prayer. “The party ended because I got tired of never going home. Then I met you and the best room in the world was a kitchen with a light left on for me. Stay,” he says, and he very rarely begs. He begs now. “Stay and let me prove it in ways that never go viral.”

You move first, because staying still hurts. You step into him and he meets you without a check to make sure the air permits it. His hands come around you, not caging, holding. He puts his mouth to your hairline and says, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” like he is learning your language and wants to be fluent.

Belief feels like standing barefoot on ice that doesn’t crack. It hurts. You stand anyway.

He walks you down with his hand hooked in your back pocket. In the hall he stops at the framed photo and looks at it as if it were an artifact from a country he doesn’t visit. He doesn’t touch it until you nod. “Take it down,” you say, not vindictive, just necessary.

He lifts it off its nail. Reed appears with a step stool like a helpful ghost. “I’ll put this in storage,” he says in a tone one reserves for radioactive isotopes and sentimental objects. You love him fiercely for the unremarkable verb.

The gala continues. Johnny isn’t louder but he is deliberate. He introduces you three times as “my person.” Each time, something in your chest unclenches a millimeter. He doesn’t tell old stories. He tells new ones that are stupid and specific: how you once convinced him to try a farmer’s market tomato and he wrote a sonnet about it in the Notes app; how you read every plaque at museums and he has learned patience in small type; how you always get sad in the last ten minutes of a movie because endings feel like practice grief.

On the way home he drives, and at a red light he brings your hand to his mouth. “I’m going to mess up,” he says into your knuckles, honest like the wind. “Hopefully less. Quieter.”

“Do you still have that folder?” you ask, surprising yourself. “The one with the pictures of me sleeping.”

He blushes. It’s absurd that a man who can become a star still burns under your gaze. He hands you his phone. There you are, asleep at thirty angles. In one your mouth pouts like it’s dreaming of sugar. In another your hand fists in the sheet as if bracing against a fall. The dates skip seasons. He didn’t start loving you last week. He didn’t fall by accident.

At home he sets Sue’s box on the table and opens it up. He doesn’t hide the shoebox. He lays the Polaroids out like a curator providing context, then one by one he puts them back in and writes across the lid, in thick marker: ARCHIVE. His handwriting is ridiculous and careful.

Then he opens a second box. This one is new, glossy, too much for cardboard. Inside are your artifacts. Ticket stubs. A napkin from a diner where the waitress called you “honey” and he pretended to be jealous for an hour. The place card with your name from Sue and Reed’s anniversary dinner with the micro-jokes he penciled on the back. A printout of the first email you sent when you stayed over, subject line Here’s my Wi-Fi password because he forgot to ask before leaving, followed by your silly password that includes a fruit and a curse word. A grocery list in your hand with strawberries underlined twice and in his below: don’t forget the good kind.

“This one’s ongoing,” he says, as if you couldn’t see that.

“Why didn’t you show me?”

“I was saving it for some perfect day,” he admits, sheepish, a boy who has learned the dangerous chemistry of keeping. “Didn’t realize the days in between were starving.”

You put your palm over the box. You have an impulse to apologize to the girl in the Polaroids for taking the rest of the story. It’s stupid. You don’t.

He cleans the kitchen when he’s anxious, so when you come back from the shower your counters are gleaming, three mugs lined in a row like little soldiers. He wraps you from behind and sways you in silence, no music, just the percussion of the building. He murmurs “marry me” into the back of your neck like the joke it started as and the plan it wants to be, and you don’t answer. You turn and kiss him long and steady, not a cinematic thing but a kitchen thing that tastes like toothpaste and mercy.

In bed he offers his hand and the soft, stubborn fact of himself. Before he switches off the lamp, he glances at the wall to look at the shadow your bodies throw. He shifts almost imperceptibly, adjusting you like you’re art.

“What are you doing?” you ask, despite yourself.

“Improving composition,” he says, serious. “Want us to look like a knot.”

You roll your eyes and feel a laugh that wants to be a cry and let it be neither. You sleep with your ear over his heart. When you dream, it isn’t in Polaroid colors. It’s the warm square of a kitchen light left on. It’s a child’s cape tied around your waist like a secret superpower. It’s a roof wind and a man who learned winter’s discipline for his summer.

In the morning Franklin stands on the mattress wearing both socks and the cape again. “Uncle Johnny says pancakes,” he announces, then peers at you. “You’re not sad now.”

“I’m not sad now,” you say, and it feels earned and fragile, like a glass you will have to learn how to carry.

Breakfast is a circus. Ben pretends to complain about sticky counters while letting Franklin captain his shoulder like a pirate. Reed appears to fix a thing that doesn’t need fixing because peace makes him itchy. Sue moves through the room like gravity. Johnny flips pancakes with wrist flourishes and only sets one on fire, which everyone agrees is progress.

At some middle of it, you catch Johnny watching you—not the sitcom of happiness, not the performative ease, just you, with that shoreline look. He mouths I love you and you mouth it back, and it costs nothing and everything and is, for the first time in days, simple.

Later, he nudges you into the hallway. The blank space where the old frame hung is filled with a new photo: your apartment window at dusk, your silhouette in profile laughing at something off camera, the little plant you forgot to water doing fine anyway. He took it without telling you. You would’ve protested then. Now you press your palm to the glass. You don’t ask when he took it. You can tell by looking.

“It’s not a movie moment,” he says carefully. “It’s just…us.”

“Good,” you say. “I’m tired.”

He kisses your temple like a yes.

Time doesn’t turn into a montage. Some days you still catch your eyes on a shiny past like a magpie. Some days his fear shows at the edges, a man who learned that choice cuts both ways. But there’s a new thing in the house, a shared, steady declarative. He starts saying the quiet parts out loud. You start believing him before the quiet has to yell.

On a Tuesday, the energy grid behaves and the afternoon is yours. You take the terrible convertible to the Cape and he keeps both hands on the wheel like a man protecting cargo. On a Wednesday, Reed asks an intrusive question about long-term plans and Johnny says, cheerfully, “Kids, plural,” then blushes and recovers and squeezes your knee under the table until it becomes a promise shaped like pressure. On a Thursday, a gossip site posts a throwback of him and the ex and the comments light up with mythology, and you watch them for too long before you put your phone face down. He sees. He doesn’t lecture. He brings you tea exactly the way you like it and sits beside you and watches nothing with you until your nervous system comes back.

When it rains, he is tender with the pilot light. When you’re sick, he is precise with your tea. He keeps a folder marked Insurances and one marked Us and updates both with the same reverence. He texts you a picture of a ring he hates and then a ring he hates less and then a ring he likes and then, “Ignore me; I want to get it right,” and you reply with a photo of a tomato because you are mean and he writes a poem about it in his Notes app like punishment.

It comes back around to a roof because that’s where you break each other and where you fix. There’s nothing formal about the evening, just a quiet sky, Ben and Sue arguing gently about where to put a planter, Reed checking the weather for fun, Franklin marching in circles with a cardboard sign that says SAVE THE BEES because he has a new passion every week.

Johnny leans into you and steals some of your body heat like a thief caught red-handed. He looks different than the man in the Polaroids without looking less. He looks like somebody who learned how to keep the flame and a family simultaneously.

“I keep thinking about it,” he says softly. “What you said. That it could’ve been anyone else.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

“Because it has to stay true for me to love you right,” he says, and that startles you with its wisdom. “If I forget you chose me, I start treating your love like weather instead of a gift. I start thinking I can go quiet, and you’ll just know. I don’t ever want to go quiet again.”

“I’ll get insecure sometimes,” you say, because honesty has to be two-way or it curdles. “There will always be photos I haven’t seen yet and stories Ben forgot to tell me and fan edits that make pain look like cinema.”

“I’ll get scared sometimes,” he answers, matching you. “Of losing you to someone who never had to unlearn what I had to unlearn. We’ll say it when it happens. Out loud. Deal?”

“Deal.”

He rests his forehead against yours until the rest of the roof fades. “I love you like the slow part of a song,” he says, a little embarrassed. “Like the part that’s not on the radio. The part you only hear if you stay.”

“I’m staying,” you say. It doesn’t feel like surrender or an audition. It feels like a decision you can live inside. It feels like the difference between louder and more.

He breathes out and it sounds like relief and a prayer and the end of a long run. “It could’ve been anyone else,” he whispers, as if saying it wrong might make it true. “But it wasn’t.”

“No,” you say, and it is the cleanest word you’ve used in months. “It was you.”

Somewhere behind you Franklin yells about bees and Ben yells about honey and Sue shouts “Do not encourage him,” at both of them, which, given the evidence, is not effective. Reed announces rain in thirty-two minutes. You believe him. You believe yourself. You believe Johnny.

When it finally comes, the rain is the good kind, a rinsing. You and Johnny stand there as it beads on his eyelashes and dots the shoulders of your jacket and makes the city smell like a promise kept late. You put your hand out and the drops pool in your palm, this small, quiet proof that the world is not a past tense.

He takes your hand and kisses the water from it like an oath. “I’m glad you didn’t pick anyone else,” he says, not theatrical, not for the record, just for you.

You smile the kind of smile that belongs to nobody’s camera. “Me too.”

taglist:@starsanarchy@iliketoeatpaint@cpnsteverogers@spideywebss@inkedeye2345

[kaylasficrecs]

I would love a Johnny storm x fem reader, maybe reader is reed assistant, and she becomes family to the fantastic 4 and Johnny has a huge crush on her, and tries to ask her out but chickens out at the last minute, but maybe an explosion happens in the lab or maybe the fantastic 4 are fighting and reader gets in the cross fire, Johnny rushes to her and brings her to hospital, and he doesn't leave her side until she wakes up and confesses his feelings

Keep the Johnny fics COMING!! I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting 🫶🏻

The assistant

At first, Johnny mocked Reed for hiring an assistant. The smartest man in the world couldn't figure out how to work independently. Johnny teased and mocked Reed for a week straight when he found out.

The doorbell went off and Johnny jumped off the couch to answer it. "Must be assistant time! Let's see how old this one is." Johnny laughed as he opened the door.

But there wasn't an old man in a white coat on the other side. Instead, it was a young girl. She had a white coat, filled with pens, goggles, and other scientific things, he assumed. She was gorgeous and Johnny felt himself freeze.

"Hi! I'm Y/N, the new assistant. Is Reed around?"

Johnny melted at the sound of her voice. He was still in awe of how beautiful she was, silently. She blinked a few times while waiting for him to speak but he never did. He stepped aside, letting her walk in. He tried to shake off his nerves and open his mouth to say something.

"H-"

"There she is! I'm Reed," Reed said as he appeared out of nowhere. Johnny glared as Reed shook her hand and the two disappeared to the lab.

"Did you just freeze in front of a girl?" Sue giggled as she held Franklin.

Johnny turned to her and laughed it off. "What? Of course not." He quickly ran off, leaving Sue behind as she smiled knowingly.

~~~

That was the first time they met, now almost a year later Johnny still hadn't made the move. Y/N got close with the family, easily fitting in as she assisted Reed daily.

She even started joining them for family dinners. Ben always cooked the best food. Johnny claimed he helped, but she never arrived early enough for dinner to find out. She loved the team, they were like family. Except for the hot, blue-eyed, and golden-haired Johnny. She had a massive crush on him and she feared it was obvious.

Which it was, to everyone but Johnny. Reed picked up on it the second she walked in for the first time. She met Reed, and her first question wasn't about science, it was about Johnny.

Sue knew her little brother and she always knew when he had a crush. She found it funny that no matter how old he was, he never hid his crush well. She was surprised by how difficult this crush was though. She had never seen Johnny struggle to talk to a woman before. He was always smooth and charming about it. But with Y/N? He couldn't seem to be confident enough to do his usual Johnny moves. Sue adored that Johnny got nervous around a girl, it made her think this girl might be the real deal.

She talked to Ben like they had known each other for years. She helped Franklin as if she were a nanny. She and Sue talked about whatever girls talk about. She was glued to Reed's side, so Johnny could excuse that since it was work-related. She fit right in. She fit so perfectly that Johnny liked to imagine she was his wife. Even though she didn't live at the house...or was even dating Johnny. But it was a pretty picture he liked to paint.

Reed, Sue, Ben and probably even Franklin could see the spark between the two, and it wasn't from Johnny's powers. They all knew it was a matter of time before someone made the move. They were just curious who and when.

~~~

"Dinner is done," Johnny winked as he presented himself in the lab. Reed and Y/N looked up from their notes. Johnny smiled as he took in how beautiful she looked. Her safety goggles on, black gloves, her white coat, everything was gorgeous to Johnny.

"Ah, and did you help with it?" Y/N teased as she took off her gloves. Reed raised his eyebrows as Johnny giggled. He smiled to himself as he watched the two. Y/N tried not to eye Johnny up and down as she took him in. His pants were a light tan and he matched them with a blue sweater that really brought out his eyes.

Johnny walked over, ignoring Reed as he slipped between the two. His back to Reed and his attention on her. "Who do you think keeps the food hot?" He smirked. Reed mouthed wow to himself as he turned around. He took off his coat and gloves.

Y/N smiled at his answer. God, everything he did was hot. "You know, I have a question about your power," she stated.

Johnny was intrigued, loving that she was thinking about him. Even if it was for science.

"Yeah? What's that, sweetheart?"

"Can you heat somebody up without harm? You know, like if someone was cold," she asked. Her tone was flirtatious as she stepped closer. Johnny almost choked on his spit as she softly pressed her body against him.

At this point, Reed felt uncomfortable and quickly left the room. Johnny lightly moaned as she softly ran her hands on his arm. She was so close and smelled so good. His brain kept yelling to kiss her but he didn't have the courage.

"Yeah, I can," he said smugly, "but for you? I don't think I need my powers to make you warm," he whispered.

"DINNER!" Ben called as he let himself into the lab. The two jumped apart as his voice boomed off the walls. Y/N coughed embarrassed, feeling as if she was caught. She quickly stepped away and took off her safety gear.

"Yes, dinner! Sorry Ben," she said as she hurriedly went off to the kitchen.

Johnny turned to him with a look of murder. "You fucking giant! I was finally going to ask her out!"

"I don't believe you," Ben laughed as he walked away.

~~~

Another time Johnny wanted to ask her out, he chickened out. He was feeling confident, and he had a speech prepared. There were no interruptions. But when he opened his mouth to ask, no words came out. He kept trying but failed to speak.

"You okay?" She asked.

"Yeah!" Johnny said before he vanished in a flash.

~

Johnny was practicing his speech again in the mirror. He refused to give up. He wanted her so fucking bad. He needed to get a pair and ask her out. He risked his life like it was nothing. Yet, asking her out was terrifying.

He was in his room for around an hour when he walked out and headed towards the lab. He kept repeating the words to himself as he walked. He was nearly down the hall when a big blast came from the room. He ran straight in, panic in his eyes as Reed stood over Y/N.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!" Johnny screamed as he ran over. The explosion wasn't nearly as bad as it sounded. But she was close enough for it to knock her backwards and smack her head.

"A small explosion. She smacked her head, there's no blood so that's slightly good. Let's get her up and to the hospital." Reed said as he went to pick her up.

"I got her," Johnny said. He scooped her up in his arms like nothing and walked them out of the room. Once he made it outside, he launched himself into the air. He was terrified as he screamed for nurses and doctors. He didn't settle when they brought her back. He walked the halls up and down until they finally gave him news and allowed him into her room.

He was going insane. What if she didn't wake up? All that time he had with her and he never made anything about it. He had so many regrets and he wanted the chance for her to know he liked her. The chance to make her feel special.

~

Y/N groaned as she felt pounding in her heart. She could hear the sound of a machine beeping at a steady pace. She cracked open her eyes, adjusting to the bright white room. She went to move her hands to cover her eyes, but her hand was weighted down.

Her movement snapped Johnny awake. He was on his feet instantly and moved close to her face. "Hey, are you okay? Need water or anything?"

"Water," she said, he moved fast as he heard how dry her throat was. He placed it up to her mouth and held it as she sipped it. "Thank you."

"You scared the shit out of me," Johnny laughed. "I mean, I'm on my way to talk to you, and I hear this big blast. And you're on the floor! So I immediately yelled at Reed because you're too smart to mess up."

"Yeah...I told him that would happen," Y/N softly laughed. She groaned as she sat up. "Did you want to get home? I don't want you to feel like you have to stay."

"No, no I'm good right here. I'm not leaving you alone," he said. She smiled and nodded. She was excited to have his company.

"Well, what did you want to talk to me about?" She asked. He looked at her confused so she quickly clarified, "I mean before the blast. You were coming to talk to me."

Johnny scratched the back of his head as he felt the familiar nerves creeping in. This time, he didn't chicken out.

"Yeah, I actually wanted to ask you out. Like on a date," he confessed. She looked at him in shock. She knew they flirted but she figured it wouldn't mean anything to him. He probably gets flirted with all the time. She was a little assistant, nothing special. "I've been wanting to ask for a while but you make me nervous."

"Me?" She gasped. "I make you nervous? But you're Johnny Storm!" She calmed down from her excitement. "Wow, I mean I didn't expect that. But if you ever want to ask, I'll say yes."

Johnny smiled as he turned his head. "Yeah? You'll say yes?"

"Absolutely," she said softly. She reached over and softly placed her hand on his. He turned his hand around to hold hers.

"The second you are released, I'm taking you on the best date you've ever been on," he said as he kissed her hand.

"I count on it, Mr. Storm."

[kaylasficrecs]

bend an ear

pairing: peter parker x fem reader

summary: your boyfriend doesn't listen to you. good thing your friendly neighborhood spider-man does.

a/n: there's just something about him idk. andrew garfield spidey bc of course! look at him! this came from me playing the spider-man game after it went on sale and yearning for peter parker (will prob have to rewatch the movies bc of this) anyways hope you like it

wc: 3.6k

warning(s): reader's bf is shitty -- they argue for a while and he lowkey slut shames her. but this is basically all fluff otherwise bc childhood best friends to lovers babby!!! real yearning loverboy hours!!!

Peter just wants to go home. 

It’s been… a day. He got his ass kicked by an English test (he doesn’t have time to do the readings when he’s fighting crime), got his ass kicked by Flash Thompson (it’s not like he can fight back with his super strength and pulverize his ribs), and has spent every second since his final class ended fighting petty crimes around the city. 

Stopping ATM thefts and minor muggings feels good, sure, but on days like these, it doesn’t really make up for failing intro literature classes and getting absolutely zero sleep. He’s just thankful May is still letting him live with her while he studies at ESU—if he had to do all of this in addition to trying to make his rent? He doesn’t really want to think about it. 

So he swung his way to the roof of some random building, and he’s taking a break. Sue him, but Peter thinks he deserves it. What’s the point of living in a city like New York if you can’t have a second to yourself every once in a while? 

He’ll go home soon. Grab a bodega sandwich, maybe stop another crime, and then get home for some much needed rest. But for now, he’s just going to sit on this rooftop and relax for a second. Even Spider-man needs some peace and— 

“Babe—” 

“Why are you following me?”

Peter winces as the door slams open, an argument following close after as a girl storms out onto the roof followed by a guy speeding to keep up with her. His first instinct is to swing away as soon as possible, but for some reason, he stays. 

“Because I want to talk!”

“God, do you even hear yourself?” 

“You keep talking over me, so I really—” 

“You don’t get to babe me right now!” 

As if his day hadn’t been bad enough, now he’s accidentally made himself privy to some couple’s dispute. He’s about to web himself out of this third wheeling nightmare when the girl turns around with a groan, revealing her face, and Peter realizes who it is. 

It’s you.

This is your apartment complex. Peter came here without even realizing it, but can he really be surprised? Your name is synonymous with peace in his brain. Comes with the territory of being friends for so long—it still calms him, even when you’re being the opposite of peaceful. 

“I don’t get why you’re acting like this!” the guy exclaims, frustration clear in his voice. 

Of course. Why wouldn’t your shitty boyfriend be here too? The only reason you live here is because you scored this place together; said he didn’t want you living on campus anymore. Ethan Frey might be the bane of Peter’s existence after two and a half years of him being your boyfriend. 

“Because you and your posse are acting like complete jags in front of all my friends!” you shout back. 

He laughs in disbelief. “I’m just being myself, babe. Besides, you’re the one who said I could invite them!” 

“Because you complained about it just being my friends,” you grind out. “You weren’t even supposed to be here, Ethan! You just can’t handle the thought of me being around guys that aren’t you!” 

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think, huh?” He gestures wildly. “You spend every second with that geek and I’m supposed to believe you’re not into him?” 

And now he’s eavesdropping on a conversation between you and your boyfriend about him. How could this get worse? 

“God, it isn’t like that at all!” you exclaim with a mirthless laugh. “Peter is my friend— my best friend since elementary school. You knew when we got together that wasn’t going to change.” 

“Yeah,” he says, nodding lazily, “but that was before I knew how obvious his hard-on for you was.” 

Peter feels his face heat beneath the mask, wants to wipe the sweat off his palms. That’s how it could get worse. 

Your nostrils flare as you turn away, your hands flexing while you shake your head. “Get out of here, Ethan.” 

“Oh, of course that’s where you draw the line,” Ethan mocks. “When I bring up fuckin’ Peter Parker.” He pauses then chuckles. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” 

Peter nearly intervenes right then and there, wanting to stop this mess before Ethan does anything to hurt you. But revealing himself sounds like the worst possible thing to do, so for once he listens to the rational part of his brain over the emotional. 

“He’s not even here!” you retort. “I live with you, not him. I’m dating you, not him. Why are you bringing him up?” 

“Because I’m not blind.” Ethan crosses his arms. “Y’know, I thought you’d get over this little thing after you let me take you out, but for some reason, it’s exactly the same. I swear you spend more time with him than me.”

Your hands clench into fists. “Get out of here.” 

He scoffs. “You want me to leave you up here?” 

“Yes,” you nod. 

“God, you’ve been acting crazy this whole night!” he complains. “You’ll freeze up here. Just get over it—we’ll go back down, I’ll get you a beer—” 

“I hate beer.” 

“Then I’ll get you a fucking apple juice,” he spits. “Just stop being so dramatic.” 

“You’re not listening to me!” you shout. “I want you to leave me alone!” 

This time he says your name, and you shake your head. 

“Go back to the apartment,” you interrupt. “Because if I have to spend another second with you, our relationship might not make it through the night.”

For once, Ethan is silent as he stares at you. You stare back with no sign of giving up. Eventually, he just huffs and shakes his head. 

“Whatever.” He starts walking towards the door. “You better cool off up here, because I’m not dealing with this shit when you come back down.” 

You stare at the door for a good twenty seconds once he closes the door—slams it, rather—before you angrily kick a stray soda can. Your childhood days of rec soccer must still be in you, because you get an arc on it. Just before it can go over the side of the building, Peter shoots a web to catch it wholly on instinct. 

Your eyes widen as you dart around, and Peter is finally spotted from his place on top of the roof door building thing. What is that even called? He doesn’t really have time to think about it. The aluminum can crunches as it flies into his hand, and you stare at him in complete shock. 

“Uh,” his mouth suddenly feels very dry, but he has to make some excuse for why he’s up here, “littering is bad.” 

Good one, Parker. 

“You’re Spider-man,” you say, eyes still wide. 

“The one and only,” he nods. 

“Oh my god,” you mumble, finally seeming to break out of your shock as you cover your mouth and turn away. “Oh my god, Spider-man just heard my relationship falling apart.” 

“I didn’t hear anything!” Peter exclaims. “I—”

You shoot him the withering look he loves so much, that was able to get his bullies to shrink on the spot in high school—it feels weird being on the receiving end of it. 

“I’m not stupid,” you say. 

“I kn—” He has to stop himself from saying I know, because realistically Spider-man has no idea who you are. “I’m sorry.” 

You huff and cross your arms. “Do your superhero duties include eavesdropping on failing couples?” 

“It was an accident,” Peter says. “I was up here before you were. So technically, you were eavesdropping on my actual superhero duties.” 

You laugh, and he smiles just at the sound of it. One benefit to wearing the mask, because it would expose him right on the spot. “Oh yeah? And what are those?” 

“Patrolling the streets,” he says. “I’ve got a very good vantage point from up here.” 

You hum, your mood turning a bit more morose as you glance away. “Well, I’m sorry you had to hear all that during your patrol.” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he says. “Your boyfriend sounds like an asshole.” 

You roll your eyes. “He’s fine, most of the time. Just had a little bit too much to drink.” 

Peter will never understand why you defend Ethan so much. You’ve been together since freshman year and he’s only gotten worse since then—maybe he hides how he is around you, because he hasn’t really shied away from showing Peter how much he hates him this past year.

“He looked pretty sober to me,” Peter says. “And trust me, I have plenty of experience fighting guys that have had too much to drink.” 

You huff. “What are you, a spider-therapist?” 

“I’m good at a lot of things,” he says. “And I’m always good for bending an ear.”

“Surely you have better things to do than listen to me complain.” 

Peter shakes his head. “My schedule’s pretty clear right now, actually.”

“Really?” you marvel. “There’s no crime in New York City at,” you check your watch, “11:37 pm?”

“Absolutely none,” he says. “I solved it all. At least for now.”

You laugh again at that and gesture with your head as you walk over to the edge of the roof. “Then I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Peter jumps down and follows you over. You hoist yourself on top of the wall, legs dangling over the edge, and he feels himself frown as he leans his back against the wall and looks up at you. 

“Isn’t that a little dangerous?” 

“You’ll catch me if I fall,” you say. 

“Obviously,” Peter says. “I’m supposed to encourage safe behavior in New Yorkers, though.” 

You laugh and tilt your head up towards the night sky. The moonlight reflects in your eyes and Peter knows he could get lost in them forever. “Just this once, then.” 

“I think I can let it slide.” 

“Good.” 

A comfortable beat of silence passes between the two of you, and Peter finds himself smiling. No wonder he ended up at your place out of instinct. There’s nothing else like your company. 

“I always think it’ll be different,” you murmur. Peter glances up at you, your expression shifted to something more melancholic. “We’ll have a good day, which’ll turn into a good week and a good month, but he always does something to mess it up. It’s like it’s in his DNA.” 

He stays silent as you think. Most of the time when you rant to Peter, you just want to be heard, not given advice. At this point, he’s an expert at listening to you. It’s not like he minds. 

“I want things to work out. I— I still love him. I mean, I think I do. But everything is a fucking struggle with him. If I don’t do things the exact way he wants, if I try to do something for me instead of him, if I can’t read his fucking mind, then he loses it and we argue. And I’m so fucking tired of arguing!” 

Your voice has risen by now, and you bite down hard on your cheek. Peter doesn’t realize he’s started reaching towards you to comfort you until you look back down at him, and he runs his hand over his head in an effort to cover it up. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh. “I promise, I’m a much nicer person than this. You just caught me at the worst time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I know.”

Your brows rise. “Spider-man knows I’m a nice person?”

“I can just tell,” he rushes, trying to save himself. He’s doing a real good job at not revealing his identity. “I’m good at reading people.”

You chuckle and shake your head, then adjust your position so your back is towards the open air. It makes Peter nervous, he can’t lie, but it’s not like he’s not a superhero. 

“So, spider-therapist,” you say. “Any advice?” 

So this is one of the rare times you do want answers. Peter wonders if you’ll leave your boyfriend if Spider-man tells you to. 

“He doesn’t sound great,” Peter says, inclining his head. “How many times have you argued this week?” 

“Four,” you say. “Five, if you include tonight.” 

He whistles. “And it’s only Wednesday.”

You tip your shoulder. “We’re efficient.” 

“And unhappy, it sounds like.” 

“We’re not unhappy,” you defend. “We’re just…” 

“You’re up here talking to me instead of down there with him,” Peter says wryly. “That doesn’t exactly scream ‘happy couple’.” 

You shake your head with another sigh. “It’s because he can’t get over Peter.” 

He tries to act as nonchalant as possible when you bring him up. Is this an invasion of privacy? Letting you talk to him about all this when you have no idea who Spider-man actually is? 

Instead of floundering over moral qualms, he just clears his throat. “And who’s he?” 

“My best friend,” you say. “The one person who’s been by my side since the second I moved to New York. He means everything to me.”

Peter feels his heart skip a beat. “Yeah?” 

“He’s like— like the opposite of Ethan, and it’s wonderful. I guess that’s why Pete irks him so much. Y’know,” you pull out your phone and start typing in your password, “maybe I should call him. He always knows what to say.” 

“No!” Peter exclaims with a bit too much force, causing you to give him a look. “No— I mean, it’s late. He’s probably asleep. And— and it’s a school night?” 

You tilt your head, and Peter exhales when it seems to work. “True. He’s probably studying for that biochem test.” You grimace. “I should be doing that too.” 

He watches you type out a few texts and send them, and Peter’s never been more thankful to have his phone on silent. What a way that would be to blow his cover. 

You shove your phone back in your pocket with another sigh. “I just hate that my boyfriend and my best friend don’t get along. I love them both—why can’t they like each other?” 

“I mean…” Peter trails off when you look at him, and he gestures with his head. “It seems pretty obvious why they don’t get along.” 

“Yeah,” you say dryly. “Because Ethan thinks Peter likes me, and he probably thinks I have some secret crush on him too. I swear, he’s always looking for a reason to fight.” 

God, could the universe be calling him out any more? It’s honestly ridiculous how this is going. 

“Do you?” Peter asks, because he can’t help himself. “Like him, I mean.” 

“I don’t know,” you murmur. “I love Pete, I do. It’s always been the two of us no matter what. But I…”

He holds his breath as he tries not to look at you, tries not to make it too obvious that he might have stumbled his way into his simultaneous dream and nightmare scenario. 

He’s had a crush on you for what feels like forever. Since you stood up for him against his bullies in elementary school, honestly, and it’s only grown over the years as the two of you have grown. From recesses spent together and bike rides through the city; spending the night in Peter’s apartment because it was easier for your sister to let it happen than try and drag you back home; endless nights with heads bent over textbooks trying to study for tests, over college applications trying to get into the same place, and now studying and researching near every damn weekend together because you’re both unfortunate enough to try for ESU STEM degrees. 

You were there when Ben died. He’s there on every anniversary of your parents’ accident. Without knowing it, you were there when he got bit and his whole life turned upside down. 

You and Peter have been there every step of the way for each other, and it’s why he’s content with just friendship—Peter wants you in his life no matter what. But he can’t lie and say he doesn’t hope. 

No, actually. He yearns. He’s doomed to be a yearner for the rest of his life because he’ll never stop loving you. How could he? 

“I’m not sure,” you finally say with a sigh. “All I know is that I’d rather be with Pete tonight than Ethan.”

Peter wonders if your chest compressions are still as good as they were in high school, because he feels like he’s about to have a heart attack. 

You’d rather be spending tonight with him than your boyfriend of two years and seven months, and Peter isn’t even supposed to know. 

You mistake his silent freakout for nonchalance, and you clear your throat as you jump back onto solid ground. 

“Well, I’ve spilled my soul to you,” you say wryly, crossing your arms. “Anything a superhero can spill in return?”

Peter thinks for a good, long second. His hands itch to take off his mask, to do what he’s wanted to do since he got bitten by that stupid spider and show you who he really is. 

How many times has he been a total asshole, canceling plans on you because he had to go stop some supervillain from wreaking havoc in Times Square? How many times has he been late to something important to you because he was caught up stopping dime a dozen muggings? He still remembers the look on your face when he showed up just in time to miss the entirety of Les Mis’s opening night with your first lead role. 

You were a better best friend to Peter than he was to you because of this stupid mask. If he took it off, it wouldn’t make every mistake fade away, but it would sure help explain some of it. 

But Peter has been doing this since high school, and he has seen far too many times what happens to the loved ones of heroes. They’re used as leverage, used for ransom, sometimes just straight up killed.

You’ve been friends with Peter since you and your sister moved into the apartment next to May’s thirteen years ago. It doesn’t matter if you never share Peter’s feelings. You’re one of the only constants in his life, and he’s not going to lose you because he’s too selfish to keep a secret. 

Losing you would be the last straw. He couldn’t take it. 

So Peter pushes all thoughts of secret identities revealed out of his mind and tries to chuckle convincingly. 

“I’m allergic to peppermint, believe it or not.” 

You stare at him, deadpan. “That’s nowhere close to all the shit I just gave you.” 

“It’s true!” he exclaims, holding up his hands. “Happened after I got bit by the spider. They’re repelled by peppermint oil, and I guess I am too.” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Spider-man is a coward.” 

“A superhero’s gotta have some secrets,” he says, and he taps the side of his head. “Otherwise this thing doesn’t do much good.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you say. “Whatever.” 

A chill suddenly goes up Peter’s spine and he whips around—he can hear a distant scream followed by a distant gunshot, and he mentally curses. 

“Duty calls?” you ask, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t be.” You smile, and it’s genuine. A nice change from the state Ethan effortlessly puts you in. “You went out of your way to cheer me up. Pretty super of you.” 

“I hope it makes up for the eavesdropping,” he says. 

“More than,” you nod. “Now get out of here. Your city needs you.” 

Peter nods too, and he backflips onto his original spot. “Have a good night. You’re real special to somebody.” 

He’s gone before you can say anything else, already zipping across the rooftops to get to the scene of the crime. Peter can only think of your face as he swings through the air—all the things he’s too scared to say to you. 

The crime, which turns out to be yet another petty theft, is resolved easily enough with some punches, kicks, and a snappy one-liner. Once he’s retrieved the woman’s purse and alerted the police, he’s back in the sky. 

Peter only stops once he’s swung a couple miles away, perching on the edge of some rooftop for some actual peace and quiet. He checks around once or twice to make sure he’s not somehow back at your place, and when he’s sure it’s all clear, he pulls his phone out. He swipes past all the notifications he’s racked up until he finds the one he’s looking for: the texts from you. 

hey pete, I know you’re prob asleep rn but you were right. I really need to study for that test lol

wanna meet me at the library tomorrow after QM? I’ll buy the coffee this time i promise <3 

as long as you use your roomie’s dining dollars to get me a croissant lol 

Peter can’t help but smile, larger than anything tonight. This is why he’s okay with being nothing but your friend for the rest of his life. 

Deal. Anything to get you an A 

lol

asshole 

Never 

Try to get some sleep. No good studying on a tired brain 

Three dots appear for a good long second, enough to constitute a decent paragraph—then they disappear. In its place: 

I’ll try just for you 

night boy genius

(How could he not love you?) 

Night, girl wonder

[kaylasficrecs]

Show, Don’t Tell

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader 

Word Count: 2,723

Johnny has trouble verbally conveying his feelings, but he finds other ways to communicate them with you.

A series of situations in which Johnny tries to show you how he feels.

A/N: Not proofread/edited. Hope you like it!

Warnings: none

Johnny Storm was a master of charm. It sometimes seemed that he could flirt his way out of any situation with a line and a wink. His very presence could cause cheering and shouts of adoration from the public.

And yet, even with that knowledge, Johnny seemed to have a difficult time talking to you.

Not generally, of course. If he hadn’t been able to speak to you at all, you never would have gotten to know each other. You never would have agreed to go out on that first date with him. You wouldn’t have agreed to many more dates after that. And you most definitely wouldn’t be lying on his bed as you flipped through a new book.

But he could admit- if only to himself- that he seemed to have trouble telling you how he really felt.

Johnny watched you from his chair, listening to one of his records play as he fiddled with his helmet. He admired the way your hair fell over your shoulder, and the way your brow furrowed with focus as you read through the last page.

You shut the book with a content sigh, tilting your head to smile at him. “Five stars,” you said, not acknowledging the fact that he had already been watching you when you looked over.

“That good?” Johnny asked, a smirk on his lips. 

“Amazing,” you confirmed, rolling over and staring at his ceiling. “Life-changing.”

Johnny laughed at your antics, rising from his seat and placing his helmet to the side before walking over to his bed. He flopped dramatically back beside you, moving to get comfortable as you laughed.

You turned your head to face him as he settled. “Hi,” you said softly, your smile still intact.

Johnny’s smirk softened into a smile, his eyes lighting up at the closeness of you. “Hey,” he said back.

“You have a good taste in books,” you said.

Johnny shrugged, not breaking eye contact. “It seemed like something you’d like.”

Your eyes softened. “I definitely approve. I’ll read it again next time I come over.”

At that, Johnny finally averted his gaze, looking up at the ceiling as though it suddenly held answers to all of the universe’s problems. “It’s yours,” he said. “I saw it, thought of you, and-” he waved a hand dismissively, “-now you can read it whenever you want.”

Your lips parted in surprise as you looked at him. “It’s mine?” You repeated incredulously. You sat up quickly and looked down at the book on your lap. “But it’s wonderful, Johnny, really. You should keep it, and read it, and I can come over and borrow it sometimes, and-”

“You don’t need to come borrow it,” Johnny insisted gently as he sat up beside you. “It’s yours. I want you to have it.”

You could practically feel your heart melting as you hugged the book to your chest. “I’ll treasure it forever,” you vowed.

Johnny smiled at your words, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I know you will.” He pulled back, tilting his head at you. “Will you read it to me?”

You almost squealed in excitement.

Johnny laughed, repositioning himself against the head of the bed as you climbed over to sit in between his legs. You relaxed into his chest as he wrapped his arms around you lightly and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Thank you,” you whispered as you opened the book.

Johnny pressed a kiss to your neck. “Anything for you.”

~~~~~~

There was never a better time to reveal your true feelings than before a mission. And yet, every time a mission came, Johnny left you with a kiss and a wink, promising to be back soon.

Today, though, was different. 

You had been on a rooftop date. It was the only way to spend time together without Johnny’s family or his fans finding him. 

Johnny had brought food, and you had supplied the drinks. He had held you tightly in his arms as he flew, before placing you down gently and laughing lightly at your wind tousled hair.

“Stop it,” you said with a grin as you attempted to comb it down with your fingers. “This is your fault.”

“I think you look beautiful,” Johnny teased as he began to set up your meal.

You’d settled down side by side, close enough to touch as you ate and talked about everything and nothing at all.

And then it happened.

Johnny’s head whipped to the side at the sound of screams, watching as his wristband lit up. An explosion sounded in the distance, and sirens wailed through the night. He didn’t even get to see who the latest villain was before he turned his attention back to you.

What he saw made his heart clench. 

You looked terrified. But not of what was happening down below. You were looking right at him. You were scared for him. 

He wasn’t sure what he had done to deserve such treatment.

“Johnny,” you started, before flinching and looking away at the sound of another explosion. 

He reached out, turning your face back to him. “Don’t worry about that, baby. Look at me, alright? I’m going to fly you down and then I have to meet with the others.”

Your gaze seemed to focus. You nodded, once, allowing him to sweep you off your feet and fly you back down to the pavement below. 

He placed you on your feet, positioning his body in front of yours as if to shield you from what was happening across the city. 

You reached out and gripped his hand tightly, watching him closely. “Be careful, Johnny, please,” you said desperately as his wristband lit up once more. 

He didn’t respond, his eyes searching your face as he squeezed your hand in his. “Stay safe,” he demanded. “Get inside, and don’t come out until I come get you, alright?”

You nodded, surging forward and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” you said, before releasing his hand and turning to find shelter.

You didn’t expect him to say it back. Not because he didn’t want to, and not because he didn’t mean it. You knew that he felt it, and that was enough for you.

You gasped when you felt arms wrap around your waist and spin you around. Suddenly, Johnny’s head was buried in your neck, and his arms were pulling you in. You returned the embrace immediately, throwing your arms around his neck and pressing closer.

“Stay safe,” Johnny murmured again against your hair. “Please. Be here when I get back.”

“I will,” you promised immediately. “I promise.”

He squeezed you once more before releasing you and spinning on his heel, taking to the sky as his flames engulfed him.

You watched him go.

But you didn’t see him turn his head back one last time to catch a glimpse of you. You couldn’t hear him promise to himself that he would see you when this whole mess was over. 

And you didn’t know that when the battle was done, the first thing he did was return to you.

~~~~~~

Nothing much scared the Human Torch. He was tough, and fast, and had a team standing beside him.

But lots of things scared Johnny Storm. He was afraid of his family being hurt. He was afraid that Galactus would return. He was afraid that he might make a mistake one day that cost lives. Mostly, he was afraid of losing you. 

And that was why, after one particularly devastating encounter with a villain, he raced off to find you before his feet even touched the ground.

He hadn’t been able to speak with you all day. You’d been working, and he’d been at press conferences. The two of you had made a plan to meet up after your shift was over. But then the villain struck. 

Normally, he’d trust that you had found a safe place and were waiting for the all clear. Today, though, your place of work had been destroyed before the battle had even begun. Attacked by a merciless enemy who hadn’t spared you or anyone else a second thought in his effort to reach the Fantastic Four. Johnny didn’t know if you had made it out in time. He didn’t know if you were safe.

He flew, fast and reckless, to the last place that he’d known you to be. 

He stopped abruptly, staring at the scene before him. Your workplace was in absolute shambles, and the fire department was doing the best they could to salvage anything left standing.

Johnny could feel his heart racing in his chest as he touched down and sprinted to the nearest civilian, begging for information as he gave your description. But nobody knew where you had gone.

He grew frantic, finally shooting back into the air and flying as fast as he could down the streets surrounding the wreckage. He called your name, over and over, his voice raw and desperate, before he was pulled to a stop at the sound of Sue calling his name.

He looked around, spotting her above him in the air as she drove their car. He shot up to meet her. “I can’t find her.” The words were torn from his throat as he ran a hand through his hair.

“She’s okay,” Sue said, her voice soft. “She went to the Baxter Building. She’s with Reed and Ben, she’s waiting for you.”

She hadn’t even finished her sentence before Johnny was off again, rushing to meet you as he silently thanked whoever was listening for keeping you alive.

Back at the Baxter Building, you thumbed through Johnny’s vinyls, humming to yourself as you waited for him to appear. 

You had barely gotten halfway through your search when the door burst open.

You barely had time to draw a breath before Johnny gathered you in his arms, holding you as though he were afraid you would vanish if he let go.

“Johnny,” you gasped with a small laugh. “Are you okay?”

“You’re alive,” Johnny responded, his voice ragged as he cradled your head in his hand. “You’re okay.”

You could feel yourself soften as you wound your arms around him. You ran your fingers through his hair with one hand and used your other to rub his back soothingly. “I’m here,” you said. “I was outside on my break when the building went down. I came here so you could find me. So I could see you when you came home.”

Johnny nodded, pulling back and cradling your face in his hands. “You’re not hurt?” He asked, eyes raking over your form. 

“I’m fine,” you said, your cheeks tinted pink with the sudden displays of affection. You looked down at him, his haggard appearance finally setting in. “Are you okay?” 

Johnny laughed then, pulling you closer and resting his forehead against yours. The tension seemed to drain from his body. “I’m okay,” he said. 

You smiled up at him. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

He pulled back a bit. “I wasn’t worried. You’re a smart woman, I knew you’d be okay.”

You grinned. “Reed said you were having a meltdown.”

“Reed? What does Reed know?”

You laughed, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him once more. You allowed yourself to relax as you heard his heartbeat against your ear.

Johnny rested his chin on your head, rubbing slow circles on your back. 

You hummed. “You weren’t worried about me at all?”

He was silent for a moment. “I always worry about you,” he finally said. “I want you to be safe. I want you to be here with me. I don’t like not knowing if you’re okay.”

You smiled gently against him. 

“Next time, if I’m not there, come straight here,” he continued. “I’ll find you, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured into his chest. “You always do.”

His heart warmed in his chest. “And I always will.”

It was the closest he’d ever gotten to a confession.

~~~~~~

Johnny was practically perfect at everything. At least, that was his claim. And you had yet to refute him.

But maybe you’d finally get the chance today.

You held out a hand to him, smiling from ear to ear. “Just one dance, Johnny,” you said.

He eyed you disapprovingly from his bed. “If I wanted to dance, I would’ve taken you out dancing.”

“We’ve never been out dancing.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“I’m asking now,” you said shamelessly. “Dance with me, Johnny Storm. There’s music, we’re alone, and nobody is in immediate danger.”

You could see the resolve behind his eyes fading away. “Please,” you added softly, keeping your arm extended.

You knew you had won when he rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Fine. One dance,” he said, holding his finger up in your direction.

“Just one,” you agreed, though you knew that you’d try to make it last.

He smiled as if he knew. And still, he stood and accepted your hand, pulling you against him and huffing out a laugh when you giggled.

He placed his free hand on your waist, and you placed yours on his shoulder. 

You looked up at him, eyes glittering with mischief. “Lead me, Johnny.”

“Whatever you say,” he said, trying and failing to keep his lips from curling into a grin. 

He started to sway, taking you with him as he turned in slow circles around his room.

“You look beautiful,” he said suddenly, looking down at you. His gaze was open and honest.

“So do you,” you replied. It wasn’t a joke.

He didn’t take it as one.

“We should stay like this,” Johnny said, his gaze not leaving yours. 

“We can,” you agreed.

“Even if they call me up to help?”

“I’ll still be here. I can wait.”

Johnny hummed in acknowledgment, though his gaze seemed to lose focus at your words. You continued to dance slowly until the end of the song before he finally spoke again.

“You don’t have to,” he said abruptly.

You looked up at him. “What?”

“I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to wait for me.”

“I’ll always wait for you,” you said earnestly. You didn’t know where any of this was coming from. He hadn’t hinted at any such thing before now.

Johnny had long since stopped swaying. His hands were still on you. “Why me?”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You blinked in confusion. “Why anyone else when there’s you?”

And you looked so gorgeous, your brow furrowed in confusion and your eyes fixated on him as though you were afraid he would fade away.

Johnny had never been quite sure what he had done to deserve you. And he wasn’t quite sure now. But he was damn sure that he wasn’t going to let you go.

You didn’t even get the chance to take another breath before he bent down, kissing you swiftly and pulling you flush against him.

You made a sound of surprise, but didn’t pull away. You closed your eyes, melting into his embrace and returning the kiss with as much passion as you were receiving. 

He didn’t pull away until you were nearly gasping for air.

Johnny looked down at you adoringly. “Sue was right. You’re definitely the one.”

You scoffed in mock offense. “Did that just occur to you now?

He shook his head without hesitation. “I’ve known since the beginning. It’s always been you and me, sweetheart.” He pulled you in to press another quick kiss to your lips. “You’re stuck with me now,” he added cheekily.

You only smiled in response. You’d always been his. And he’d always been yours. At least now he knew it, too.

~~~~~~

Johnny seemed to have a difficult time talking to you. Not generally, of course, or you wouldn’t be here. But he seemed to have an issue telling you how he really felt.

But you never minded. You continued to hold his hand, and hug him close, and kiss him softly as though you somehow knew all of the words that he had yet to say.

He didn’t intend on making you wait long. It was your anniversary today, after all. There was no better time to tell you what he’d wanted to say for so long.

What could go wrong?

[kaylasficrecs]

— hardly discreet !!

clark kent x reader warnings: angst to fluff, clark using his superhearing to spy, jealous!clark, not proofread :0 word count: 3,000k

clark kent doesn’t do love. he tells himself he doesn’t have time for it. i mean, how could he, with the weight of an entire world on his shoulders? one more person to worry about would be a distraction, a weakness. at least, that’s what he used to believe. but then you came into his life. you waltzed into the daily planet with your perfect smile and beautiful features, and swept him off his feet—literally (lois still teases him about it). and everyone sees it, even if he thinks he’s good at hiding secrets. he hovers without hovering, the kind of man who will cross a crowded newsroom just to put your coffee down exactly where your hand is about to reach for it. he buys your lunch when you forget, pulls your chair out before you can, nearly trips over himself when you say thanks, clark, with a bright smile.

so when he walks into the bullpen that afternoon, balancing two coffees because he knows your usual order and wanted to surprise you, it feels like the floor drops out beneath him because his hearing snags on your voice. “…jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him.”

the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.

"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.

clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.

"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.

lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”

“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”

lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.

meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.

~

the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.

your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”

normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”

her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”

he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”

lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”

he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.

~

by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.

when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”

for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.

but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.

you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”

his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”

you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”

“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.

you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”

“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”

but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”

his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”

you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.

for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.

your lips part in confusion. “what?”

instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”

but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”

that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”

your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.

your lips part. “oh my god.”

he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”

“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.

“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”

back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”

his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”

“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.

he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”

you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”

the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”

your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.

his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”

you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”

that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.

but you noticed. of course you did.

you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”

his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”

“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”

he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”

but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”

his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”

“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.

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[kaylasficrecs]

whipped

pairing: johnny storm x female reader

synopsis: after a girls’ night out, johnny picks up a very drunk you who can’t stop calling him her “shiny husband.”

Johnny never really slept when you were out on girls’ nights. He’d tell you he would—“Go, have fun, I’ll see you in the morning”—but the truth was, he couldn’t relax until you were home. Not because he didn’t trust you—he trusted you more than anyone—but because he didn’t like the space in the bed when you weren’t in it. So he’d pace around, scroll through his phone, half-watch something on TV, until the hours crept later and later.

So when his phone buzzed that night and it wasn’t you but one of your friends asking if he could come get you, Johnny was already shrugging into his jacket before she finished explaining.

The bar was crowded, neon lights buzzing, music thumping. But he spotted you instantly—you were slouched in a booth, cheeks flushed, your laugh a little too loud. The second you caught sight of him, you lit up, scrambling to your feet with all the grace of a baby deer.

“Johnny!” you squealed, stumbling into him. He caught you easily, strong arms steadying your weight as you immediately started peppering his face with kisses—sloppy little smacks to his jaw, his nose, his cheeks. He couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of him.

“You came,” you said, kissing the corner of his mouth before grabbing his face in both hands. “You’re the best boyfriend ever. My husband. My shiny husband.”

And Johnny—Johnny Storm, cocky, arrogant, smug Johnny Storm—giggled. A giddy, boyish sound that he tried to hide by tucking his face into your neck, grinning like a fool. God, he loved when you said that. He couldn’t wait for the day it’d be true.

“Alright, baby,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Let’s get you home.”

You clung to him as he scooped you up bridal-style, ignoring your squeal of protest that you could totally walk. Your friends cheered you on as Johnny carried you straight out of the bar, shaking his head but smiling like you hung the stars.

What none of you realized was that paparazzi had been lurking outside, waiting for the perfect shot. And well—Johnny Storm carrying his very drunk, very giggly girlfriend in his arms? Yeah, they got plenty.

The car ride home was a blur of your rambling.

“Johnny, I love your nose.”

“My nose?” he asked, amused.

“Mmhm. And your eyeballs. They’re like a swimming pool. Can I swim in them? You’d get me floaties, right?”

He bit back laughter, squeezing your hand. “Of course, babe. I’ll get you the best floaties.”

You sighed dramatically, turning toward him with glassy eyes. “You’re sweeter than pancakes. And puppies. And fries. And you know how much I love fries.”

Johnny’s heart squeezed. He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, smiling softly. “That’s serious love.”

Back at the apartment, he eased you out of your shoes, coaxed a glass of water and Advil into your hands, and tucked you into bed. You tugged at his shirt until he slid in beside you, and then you were right back to peppering his face with kisses, giggling as you went.

“I love you the most,” you whispered, your words heavier now, sleep tugging at them. “You’re gonna be the best husband.”

Johnny laughed again, helpless and lovesick, pressing a kiss to your hair. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

You were already asleep before he got the answer. And he lay awake a while longer, smiling like an idiot, your words replaying in his head.

The next morning, you woke with a pounding head and the sun stabbing through the curtains. Johnny was already up, leaned against the headboard with his phone in hand, a glass of water and Advil waiting on the nightstand.

“Morning, Mrs. Storm,” he teased, setting his phone aside.

You groaned, flopping onto your back. “…Did I say that?”

“Oh, yeah. About twenty times. Called me your shiny husband.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Kill me.”

He chuckled, prying your hands away to kiss your knuckles. “Don’t worry, I liked it. Loved it, actually.”

You peeked up at him through your fingers. “…Really?”

“Really,” he said softly, brushing hair from your face. “You have no idea how much I loved it.”

You tried to smile, but he was already grinning, mischief sparking in his eyes. “Oh, and by the way? You told me you wanted to swim in my eyeballs.”

You smacked his chest. “No, I did not.”

“Exact words,” he said smugly. “Asked me if I’d get you floaties.”

You groaned, hiding in his chest. “I hate myself.”

He laughed, kissing your hair. “Don’t. It was adorable. Also—you told me I was sweeter than pancakes and puppies. And that you love me more than fries.”

You gasped softly. “Okay, wow. That’s… that’s big.”

“Biggest compliment of my life,” Johnny said, smirking. “I might frame it.”

You swatted him again, but your lips were tugging into a smile. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Always,” he murmured, tilting your chin to kiss you gently.

Later that afternoon, when you finally braved your phone, you realized why Johnny had been smirking at it all morning. Paparazzi shots of him carrying you out of the bar had exploded online—him holding you bridal-style, your arms looped around his neck, your face buried against his chest.

The internet had thoughts.

“find you someone who looks at you the way johnny storm looks at y/n 😭” “he’s literally HUSBAND material???” "heLLLOOOO???" “the way he carried her out like she was made of glass STOPP” “y/n calling him her husband drunk and then THIS happening… universe is trying to tell us something 👀” “JOHNNY STORM GIGGLING WHILE SHE KISSED HIS FACE this is why i believe in love”

#JohnnyStormHusbandMaterial trended within hours. Fans made edits of the paparazzi photos set to sappy songs, spliced with interview clips of Johnny talking about you. Someone even made a meme comparing him carrying you to a Disney prince, complete with sparkles.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. “We’re a meme.”

Johnny slid an arm around you, pulling you close with a smug grin. “Correction: we’re relationship goals.”

“You love this, don’t you?”

“Baby,” he said, kissing your temple. “I haven’t stopped giggling about it since last night.”

By the evening, it wasn’t just fans blowing up your phone. It was family.

Sue had texted first: “Johnny, explain why my morning coffee is being interrupted by you trending worldwide with the hashtag #HusbandMaterial.”

Then Reed, ever the scientist, had followed up with a dry: “Statistically, it appears you and Y/N are the internet’s favorite couple. Congratulations.”

But the real trouble came when Ben barged into the living room at the Baxter Building later that day, holding his tablet like it was evidence in court.

“Well, well, Mr. Husband Material,” Ben said, his gravelly voice booming with laughter. “Care to explain why I just saw you carrying Y/N outta a bar like you were straight outta The Notebook?”

Johnny groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Ben—”

“Oh no, don’t you ‘Ben’ me,” the Thing barked, practically wheezing with amusement. “Look at this one! Look at your face, you’re smilin’ like a lovesick teenager. And her callin’ you husband? Ohhh, I’m never lettin’ this one go.”

Sue leaned against the doorframe, smirking. “To be fair, you do look very prince charming in those pictures.”

“Shut up, Sue,” Johnny muttered, cheeks burning.

Reed peeked up from his work, ever the calm observer. “I believe the term is ‘whipped,’ Johnny.”

That earned a round of laughter from the entire room, and you, sitting on the couch, only made it worse by chiming in sweetly, “He is whipped. My shiny husband.”

Johnny’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide. “Babe—!”

But it was too late—Ben nearly doubled over with laughter, pounding the wall with his massive hand. “Shiny husband! Ohhh, this is rich. Kid, I’m gonna be callin’ you that for years.”

Johnny groaned again, hiding his face in his hands while you leaned against him, grinning like the devil.

Later that night, after the teasing had died down and the Baxter Building had gone quiet, you and Johnny curled up together in your shared room. He was unusually quiet, running his fingers up and down your arm as you lay against his chest.

“You know…” he murmured finally, voice soft, “I really wouldn’t mind if you kept calling me that.”

You tilted your head up at him. “What, shiny husband?”

He chuckled, that boyish giggle slipping out again. “Yeah. Just… husband.” His eyes flicked down to yours, suddenly earnest. “Because one day, I really want to be.”

Your heart squeezed, and you pressed your lips to his jaw, smiling against his skin. “Good. Because one day, I really want you to be.”

He exhaled, a little laugh of relief in his chest, before kissing you slow and sweet, like he was sealing a promise neither of you had to say out loud anymore.

And somewhere, still trending online, was #JohnnyStormHusbandMaterial—proof that maybe the world already knew what you both did.

[kaylasficrecs]

what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)

you've been on four dates with johnny storm. you don't think it's serious. he has a different idea in mind. (johnny storm x fem!reader)

AN: this fic is VERY LOOSELY based off that one lyric in guilty as sin that became the title. i usually don't write super shy or oblivious characters, but i am too obsessed with an opposites attract dynamic. so this is what came about. i hope u enjoy & lmk what u think!!!!! also not proofread again super sorry

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

“Briefing notes?”

“Check.”

“Final printed copy of the speech?”

“In a PDF format as well! Check.” 

“Lozenges?”

In honey lemon. “Check!”

“Triple shot flat white?”

You don’t vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. “Check.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

You fight a blush, waving off Lynne’s praise. 

It’s always daunting entering the Baxter Building (especially now more than usual), but you stick behind Lynne and follow her lead. The lift attendant ushers you both into the steel-lined elevator after you showed proper identification, and you’re off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But you’ve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. It’s only when you hear the ding do you look up, straightening out your work pants and making sure the coffee cup in your hand stays upright. 

At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually there’s Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you don’t understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne don’t question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything you’re holding on the counter. 

It’s only when you feel like you’re taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors. 

Sue Storm strides in, the pinnacle of elegance. She takes one moment to dust off a piece of lint from her red long-sleeve, made of a material that you’re sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, “Good morning.”

“Hardly,” says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynne’s friendship strung for many years that Lynne no longer bothers to give her an agreeable type of kindness that others seem to give at default for the Invisible Woman. “There’s a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.”

Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. “I almost forgot my coat.” She’s bounding down the hallway again, calling for Reed, but not before telling you both to get yourself comfortable and ushering you to the stools in front of the kitchen island. 

You don’t look at Lynne for approval before taking a seat, legs sore from the morning run your friend made you go on before work. You busy yourself by opening the manila folder that holds Sue’s UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, that’d be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne). 

You’re too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You don’t notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction. 

A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater. 

You jolt, not expecting the contact. 

You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he says flatly—a fact, yet there’s something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time you’d be making an appearance in his vicinity. 

His hand stays on your back. 

You open your mouth to reply, though with what you’re not sure, but his movements stop you. He reaches his other hand to your face, thumbs brushing in between your eyebrows and smoothing out the furrowed line. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice. 

When you look back, Johnny’s eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does. 

Your association with Johnny is… new. You’ve been on a few dates, four to be exact, and each time your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you returned home and he’s already calling to schedule a new one. You’re unsure if you’re part of a rotation of girls, or if you’re the only one he’s seeing. You don't think it's the latter. You’re too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that you’re certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because he’d been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he is—to the eyes of all—incredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no. 

You feel your face warm up at the intensity of his gaze, looking down briefly at your ballet flats to collect yourself. You look back up and manage a small smile, hoping it comes as casual and not the complete mess you feel inside. 

You’re quiet—a plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words don’t leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent. 

If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. “‘That the big speech?”

You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnny’s line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back. 

He pretends to scan the page. His eyes dot over the little notes on the margin, arrows pointing before and between words. His mouth crinkle upwards when he notices the tiny smiley face you’ve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. “So professional,” he says coolly. 

Sue finally comes back down the hallway, coat splaying on her arm. She notices you and Johnny and a knowing smile plays on her lips. “Time to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?”

“Not yet,” he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. It’s small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. “So—how about dinner tonight?”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. When you’re done with all this UN business.” His tone is light, but there’s a shift in his eyes like he’s unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers. 

You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynne’s attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. “I’ll see how late we’re there.”

“That’s not really the answer I was hopi—“

“Johnny,” Sue’s voice cuts through, demanding but light. “I’ll make sure she’s back in ample time if you can let us go.” She frowns at Lynne apologetically. “We’re already running late.”

They’re actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that. 

Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. “I’ll take it.” He pushes off the counter, standing tall with a kind of confidence only the Human Torch can carry. He leans in and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes scanning your nervous face. “Try not to frown too much until then.”

The weight of Sue and Lynne’s gazes on you is strong. 

You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car. 

—

The UN conference goes by smoothly (for the most part), you not really doing much except standing to the side with Lynne while Sue delivers her speech with natural poise. At one point, a reporter walked up to you—nervous, unassuming you—to see if they could get the scoop of something, anything, on Sue Storm. You stared blankly at the reporter, not being trained for anything like this, until Lynne yanked your arm and said unequivocally, “We won’t be taking any questions.” The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do. 

The interaction still haunts you as you toe off your flats upon entering your apartment, slinging your bag down on the floor as you make your way to the couch and flop. You wonder if the reporter approached you because maybe you looked too meek to deny anyone a question. You hate that feeling. You always thought a job like yours would be a great way to make an impact while still staying away from the spotlight and glamour of politics, but clearly you had been wrong. Especially if you’re affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.

You’re contemplating your life decisions when your chubby tabby, Kiwi, curls himself around your right leg. He sniffs lightly at your work pants before nuzzling his head softly on your shin. You smile, reaching down to pluck the docile animal from the floor and lay him carefully in your arms. 

“You don’t have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?” you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Well neither do I—anymore, at least. Let’s feed you.” 

You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwi’s food. Your nervous system calms down at the mundanity, continuing your late-afternoon routine of making sure the bowl of food and water is full. When you’re sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. 

You’re slipping off your blazer and blouse, eyes rummaging through your array of t-shirts in your drawer to see which one would be the comfiest to slip on. You pick a tattered college tee, the one where it slips off your shoulders to combat the light warmth with a pair of shorts to match. They have kiss marks printed in a straight pattern, something a friend got you for Valentine’s Day. It’s silk and feels nice on your skin. You slip off the remaining rings that adorn your fingers and hoop earrings, delicately placing them on a tray over your dresser. You breathe in relief, finally feeling normal again. 

This is how the rest of your night goes, rummaging through your pantry for a snack and coddling Kiwi on the couch as you sift through various channels on your television. You’re praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when there’s a knock on your door. 

Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door. 

You open your door curiously, a hint of nerves, only to be met with Johnny.

Your nerves suddenly make more sense.

Your eyes angle up to meet his expression, one showing a bit of alarm. 

“Who were you talking to?” he asks plainly, peering into your apartment. 

You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. There’s a bunch of scattered papers, copies of the latest speech, on your small dining table. Various blankets litter your couch and you have two bottles of polish (one a top coat) on your rug. One part of the string lights you hung around your living room dangles down from when a tack broke and you were too lazy to fix it. Kiwi nudged a few pieces of kibble from his bowl and onto the floor. 

It’s definitely not a sight to see for guests. 

The silence stretches as you don’t have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat? 

Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. “Sue said you were too tired for dinner.”

You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. It was a little embarrassing, a little scary, as you deny seeing Johnny to his sister. But still, she gave you a kind smile and said that she would tell him. 

“But that never usually stops Johnny,” she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynne’s side. 

You should’ve known he’d show up. 

“Sue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,” he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. “But you need to eat.”

It’s then that you look down and see the brown bag in his other hand, and the familiar waft of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls. 

He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up. 

“It’s from that place you talked about. Chiu’s Garden, remember?”

The shock in you passes like a splash of cold water. You do remember. You said it in passing, once, about the Chinese takeout you get when work gets too busy and the ache in your head gets hard to manage and you don’t want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isn’t what shocks you. It’s the fact that Johnny of all people remembers. 

There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce that’s on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?

If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesn’t comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. “Can I come in?” 

You realize you haven’t spoken yet. “Are you a vampire?”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, unsure if you meant it as a joke or if it just slipped out because it’s the first thing your mind went to. 

Johnny stifles a laugh. “A vampire?” 

Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. “Vampires need permission to be let into private areas.” There’s a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing. 

He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. “What have you been watching lately?”

You shrug. You don’t tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sue’s speech the night before. Or how you got fully immersed into it. Or how you talked to Kiwi about how thankful you are that you don’t have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment. 

“Well, I’m no vampire,” he says. 

There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you realize now that you might be in on a joke you created. Not wanting to disappoint him or bring the mood down because, hey, you’re not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. “Prove it.”

Johnny responds by taking a similar long step into your apartment, now standing right in front of you. Your chest nearly meets his as he looks down at you with a smirk. Your heart stutters, and you hope the lack of space between you two doesn’t mean that he can hear it. “See?” 

You manage a small nod, walking around him to shut your door. You think your stomach might start doing backflips if you stay that close to Johnny, mind unsure if it’s a rush of nervousness or excitement. 

He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that he’s allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though he’s never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen. 

Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment. 

Your eyes reply, I didn’t know he was coming! 

“I know I didn’t show it—“ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. “—but I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!”

You pad the small way to the kitchen, peering in to see him open a plastic container and dip his fingers in to snipe a piece of broccoli. 

“I had to look at each door to find your last name,” he says through a mouthful of broccoli. “Thank God you live on the second floor, right?” He turns to meet your eyes, giving you a close-lipped, goofy smile that has your mouth threatening to smile back. When he swallows, he motions to all the cupboards above him. “Do you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.”

“I—I just eat out the container,” you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed. 

“Perfect! Me too.” He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isn’t the first time he’s been here. He tiptoes past Kiwi’s kibble on the floor and barely manages to knock down a picture frame that sits at the edge of your coffee table. He mutters an apology before putting the food down and sitting on your couch. “So what are we watching—oh. Hello.” He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. “Is this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?” He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwi’s ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted “We’re going to have great conversations,” he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat. 

You find the sight awfully endearing. You don’t realize you’ve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. “You coming?”

You timidly make your way to the couch, now unsure of how to feel at place in your home when Johnny Storm is in it. Johnny Storm, who despite four dates, you’ve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, you’ve let him take you out continuously), but you’re still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when he’s across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you. 

Now—here—with him on your couch, you don’t think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other dates’ houses like this; their favorite takeout and a soft smile that can quiet any ache. You wonder how different the other girls he sees are from you; if they stumble on their words despite ample practice. 

You take a seat on the other end of the couch, Kiwi already taking up space in the middle. You angle yourself to face him, legs tucked under you with your arms still crossed. 

“You’re too far away,” he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. “But I have a feeling he’s not going to move anytime soon, is he?”

This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. “He’s the boss.”

Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. “I should’ve known. Guess I’m gonna have to share you tonight.”

The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiu’s Garden menu, as he was unsure of what to get you. He has a delightful expression as you express that you like all of them. He pumps a fist in the air and you laugh, leaning down from the couch to pick your food of choice from the coffee table. He makes sure to give you a review of everything he tries, and he’s deeply satisfied, muttering about how you two need to go back together next time. Something flutters in your stomach at the mention of a next time. 

Eventually, Kiwi grows bored of the Ted Gilbert Show and hops off the couch, lightly swaying as he makes his way into your bedroom for some peace and quiet. Johnny takes that as an opportunity to sit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and reaching his other to rest on your knee. He barely pays attention to the ministrations his thumb does on your knee, but it affects you greatly. You, again, wonder if he does this to other girls he’s with. You wonder if it’s stupid that you feel so special. 

“Hey.” 

You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking. 

“What did I say?” he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

—

When you’re not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, you’re taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. You’ve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, you’re a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and they’re more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can. 

The line isn’t long and you’re striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change. 

“And, Freddie—“ she says, her eyes down at her bag, “—he keeps crying. He’s getting old. ‘Vet said he might be going blind in his right eye.”

Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But he’s only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sutton,” you say honestly. “Maybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.”

She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. “Or remind him of what he no longer has.”

Well, that took a turn. 

You smile tensely at the older woman, taking the dollars and commit yourself to counting them instead of making the conversation worse. So much for comfort. She’s fifty cents off, but you don’t mention it. 

You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders you’ve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but it’s a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place you’re comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind. 

The bell over the door dings, alerting you of a new customer. You pass the finished drink to your coworker as she finishes heating a pastry. You dust off your hands and turn around. 

“Hello, welcome to—“

You’re met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look. 

Your mind goes blank. 

Johnny doesn’t wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, “You’ve been overworking yourself.”

“I—what?”

“You were with Sue all day Tuesday, you cancelled our date yesterday to take a shift here and had an emergency meetup with Lynne, and now you’re back today. You’re overworking yourself.”

You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you don’t say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. “Aren’t you—“ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. “Aren’t you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.” 

He shrugs off your answer like it’s nothing. 

Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps. 

You both turn your head to the sound. 

“You weren’t lying?” she says, mouth wide. “You’re friends with Johnny Storm?”

Johnny immediately looks offended. “Friends?”

“Viv,” you say, ignoring him, “can you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? We’re out up here.” 

Viv looks at you as if to say, you’re kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isn’t right here? 

You manage a harsher look, and she’s off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesn’t. Johnny visits your place of work and the first thing that happens is your coworker ambushes him. And know he knows that you talk about him.

“I’m sorry about her, I’ll tell her to put her camera away,” you say. 

Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. “I don’t care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesn’t Kiwi miss you?”

“… I did a face mask last night,” you say dumbly. You leave out the part where you were on the phone with an airline company until 2AM because you stupidly booked the wrong time for Sue and Reed’s flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed. 

The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. “When do you get off here?”

You don’t really have set shifts, you’ve been here since 10AM and helping out any way you can. Hal had you making croissants with him for two hours until Viv asked for your help at the front. Now, it’s 5PM and the sun is getting ready to set—and you hate that Johnny is right, because you feel wrung out. Your body suddenly becomes more alert of the ache on your temples, and the emptiness of your stomach. 

“I can technically leave whenever.” 

His eyes light up. “Perfect! You’re leaving now. Grab your coat.” 

“Johnny—“

“You can go,” a voice behind you says. 

You turn to see Hal and Viv standing together by the door to the back, eyes wide in wonder as they continue to stare at Johnny. It’s a look you recognize from the amount of times you’ve spent with him. It’s why Johnny takes you to restaurants and you get seated at the most private corner, or why he wears sunglasses and a cap in the dead of winter when you stroll through the park. You appreciate the efforts Johnny goes to be unnoticed—knowing you don’t like the attention. But you wonder if that’s just how he’s been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize it’s been awhile since you’ve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe he’s tired of the cameras. 

“Are you sure?” you ask Hal. 

He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. “Croissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dog—“

“Hey!”

“—we’ll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks. 

You’re too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnny’s face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnny’s side. He waits for you to slip on your coat before placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out the shop. 

You swear you hear a click from Viv’s camera. 

You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second you’re out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up. 

He’s silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, he’s already talking your ear off about his day, or something Ben has cooked since he knows your affinity with anything cooking or baking-related. You usually stay silent when he gets like that, listening intently and only giving your input when he manages to force it out of you (even after all this time, you’re still nervous). 

But there’s none of that today. Silence stretches even as you enter your apartment building, him holding the door open for you, and as you pat the snow from your boots onto the rug (normally, this is where Johnny says something stupid, like how you both look like ducks shaking water off by a pond). You walk up the stairs and open your apartment door, still silent. 

Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at you—for overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Viv’s peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing you’re just like any other person who brags about his existence. But it’s not like that! You wonder if you’ve ruined what you and he have—whether you know what you guys are or not. 

Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your door—

“I’m your friend?”

You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. “Hm?” 

“That’s how they talked about me,” he says, and you know he’s referring to Hal and Viv. “They said I’m your friend. Is that how you talk about me?”

He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. “Um… yeah?” 

Because you don’t know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when you’re tired, and shows up to work to make sure you haven’t been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons you’re a little unsure of why. Isn’t that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isn’t he seeing other people? 

Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. “That’s really what you think we are?”

Your lips part, but you don’t answer. He’s standing so close now that you can see the faint tint of pink on his nose from the cold. His breath fans down at you. You try to imagine what Johnny wants to hear, but still, you’re unsure. “You and I…” you say slowly, “We’re—what else would we be?” 

His jaw ticks. “Together.”

Together. As in, you and Johnny. You think about Johnny walking you to your door, eyes lingering at your lips but he moves to kiss your cheek and you’re convinced you’d just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones you’ve cooked, so you can compare (“I bet yours is better,” he says plainly, taking another bite. “Do you agree? Or are you too modest?”). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because they’re gonna get stuck like that. 

You blink at him, voice small. “Together?” 

Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. “Yeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?” 

Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. “I—I thought you were just being… you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.”

His head jerks back. “'The other girls'? Well first, nobody’s that nice. At least, not like I have been. I’ve only ever been like this with you.” 

Your stomach turns at the admission. 

“Second, what other girls? You think I’ve been seeing other people?”

You’re too embarrassed to answer, because you know your answer would be yes. Instead, you huff a large sigh and press your palms to your eyes. “I don’t know what to think right now, Johnny.”

You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. “Hey, hey,” he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. You’re immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that you’re unsure how to name. “I’m sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.”

He envelopes you in a hug, warm and all-encompassing, the kind that makes you realize just how cold the outside has made you without noticing. His chin rests against the top of your head. 

Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnny’s words, you melt into him. The exhaustion from the conversation, from work, from everything presses down harder, and the steadiness of his heart against your head makes something inside you settle. 

Johnny thinks you too are together. 

You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing. 

“We’re together,” you say softly into his chest, breathing him in. 

“We are,” he says, a whisper.. “I’m sorry for not making it more… known. I thought you knew.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head and laughing a little. 

“I didn’t know. I’m too in my head about this, you know?” you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction you’ve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory. 

The two of you stay tangled in each other’s arms until a small meow interrupts your moment, Kiwi coming to curl around your feet. You untangle yourself from Johnny to pick up the cat, resting his body against your chest as you turn to the side so that Kiwi’s head is facing Johnny. 

“Kiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didn’t you?” There’s a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head. 

“He’s all-knowing,” he adds with a grin. He reaches out to caress your cheek, pulling you back in, Kiwi in the middle. He sighs happily. “You better reintroduce me to Hal and Viv,” he whispers softly into your hair. 

[kaylasficrecs]

go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo

Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!

WC: 7.7k

After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.

Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky? 

“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.

It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.

You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.

It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.

And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people. 

But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought. 

Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.

All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does. 

But you can’t think about that right now.

Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.

Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.

No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.

But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.

You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.

When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.

“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.

You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.

You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong. 

Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”

You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.

“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”

Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”

Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.

Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.

Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.

She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”

You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.

“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.

“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.

You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.

You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.

“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”

You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”

She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.

“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.

“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”

“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.

Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.

+++

Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.

One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.

You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.

You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.

“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”

Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.

“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”

Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.

You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.

You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.

When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.

“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.

“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.

You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”

“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”

You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”

“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”

And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.

“For what?” you whisper.

“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”

“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”

“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”

It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.

“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”

You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.

“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”

His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”

You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.

But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”

You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”

He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”

Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.

+++

Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.

Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.

Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.

The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.

You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.

Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.

“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”

He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”

“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”

“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”

“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”

“I think so too.”

“Did you two talk?”

You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”

“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”

You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”

He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.

Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.

Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.

“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”

“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”

He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”

“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”

“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”

It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.

You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.

Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.

“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”

“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”

“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.

“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”

“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”

“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”

You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”

“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.

“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”

It’s just that.

You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”

“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”

Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”

“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”

You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces. 

You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever. 

That’s Clark. 

That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent. 

And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”

His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”

“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”

He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.

+++

The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.

Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!

You don’t listen to them.

But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.

“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”

You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.

“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.

“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”

“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”

“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”

“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”

You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.

“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.

He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.

“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”

He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”

+++

You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.

Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.

You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?

No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.

When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.

It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.

But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.

“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. 

He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.

So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?

You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.

Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.

“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You believe her. It will be okay.

You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”

“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.

“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.

“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”

“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.

Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.

Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.

You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.

Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.

You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.

Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.

A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.

You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.

You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.

You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.

“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”

As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.

You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice. 

You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.

Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.

“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”

“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”

You can’t help it, you start giggling. 

“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”

“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”

You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”

Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”

“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”

He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.” 

“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”

“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”

“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”

“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”

Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”

“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”

“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”

“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”

“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”

“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”

“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”

“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”

“On flying quieter?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”

“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

“What?”

“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”

“Clark--”

“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”

“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”

You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.

“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?” 

He shrugs. “Of course he can.”

“Are you sure?” you ask again.

And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave. 

“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”

“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”

“Exactly!”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”

“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”

“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”

“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Your breath hitches.

“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”

“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.” 

“Oh, it’s a competition now?”

“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”

“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”

“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”

“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.

Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.

You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.

And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away. 

“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more. 

“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered. 

His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”

“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”

“No, she loved us.”

“Maybe you, she was your cow.”

He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”

“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.

[kaylasficrecs]

ೃ༄ LOVING IS EASY — clark kent

clark is so easy to love, and he’d like to say he tries to make you think the same of yourself. maybe his efforts have been futile, because you don’t feel any less motivated to break things off one random saturday; but he’s not willing to let you go that easily. 2.9k

tags: hurt/comfort (reader experiences a small injury), sort of anxious/depressed reader (slight anxiety attack?), hints of a sucky family/upbringing, reader is kind of mean to clark at the breakup but it’s just b/c she’s insecure, i promise she loves him too, reader thinks clark baby’s too good for her

˚୨୧⋆｡ navi masterlist latest work

You’d been sitting on the idea of breaking up with Clark for months now. Actually, it had been weighing on you for months now. It felt more like an obligation.

There was no reason not to be totally enamored by Clark. He was quick-witted, unfathomably sweet, and the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. He wasn’t selfish and motivated by his own needs and desires, much like other men you’d had prior unpleasant experiences with.

That seemed to be exactly the problem. He was too good to be true and you wanted to break free of whatever spell he had you under before it was too late. You knew you had to be the one to call it quits before Clark got irrevocably attached, too.

You felt you couldn’t allow yourself to get used to it. The just-because flowers, the unprecedented notes he left on your sun visor mirror, the dates whose planning he left entirely up to himself so that you needn’t so much as lift a finger or worry your pretty little head about a singular decision after a back-breaking day’s of work. He was just so uncannily thoughtful. Almost un-humanly.

So you finally mustered up the courage, some weeks before your four-month anniversary. Sucking in a breath of air sharply, you shoot him a text one night when you felt the thought had been pressing on you too heavily.

you: Hey, Clark. Can we talk, tomorrow at mine?

clarkattack 🦈: Sure thing, honey. I’ll bring some goodies! :)

You felt an overwhelm of guilt all of a sudden. Clark was so unsuspecting, so sweetly oblivious. No doubt he thought you were just wanting to have a calm date night in. You slumped in the plush of your bed, suddenly worried if this was the right thing to do.

To say the least, the romance that blossomed between you was completely unforseen. At least to you.

It came quietly, then loudly, all of a sudden. It was buying you coffee. Then dinner. Nights out. Then nights in, cuddled up in the crook of his neck, cozied up in the warm, incandescent comfort of your quaint apartment. Like it was built for just two. Built for you. It happened faster than you could process, and in those four months, that blurred haste of time, you could never seem to process why he chose you.

Plain, average, ordinary you. He was Clark. Selfless Clark who towered over you, a pure gentle giant. Clark who knew you like a unit of his broad body, Clark who was something of a fairy tale prince. If anything, you thought he’d be a better match for his equivalently attractive, snarky-but sweet counterpart Lois Lane. You pushed back the notion of their chemistry one too many times.

You let yourself fall asleep with that all-but-pleasant idea the last thing on your mind. It would all be over tomorrow anyways.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You were unsure how to go about it. Before you knew it, before you could mentally prepare yourself for what felt like a disaster to come, a blaring ring sounded at your front door.

“Hey, Clark,” you’re opening the door with quivering hands, still feeling uneasy about it all. To make matters worse, he’s greeting you with the sweetest smile, a dimpled one on that gorgeous canvas of a face that has no sneaking suspicions of what’s to come.

“Hey honey, I brought your favorites,” he’s holding up a paper grocery bag and with the widest grin.

“Clark, you really didn’t have to do that,” you mutter embarrassingly.

“It’s really no trouble at all. You know I’d do it whether you asked or not.”

You can only nod along, any semblance of words failing you. And when you’ve made your way to the couch, he’s already made it has mission to make the couch as comfortable a place to nestle into as possible, setting up the blankets just the way you like before fluffing and perching the pillows up—he seems to have already forgotten why you invited him over in the first place. You’re clearing your throat when he flips on the TV, surfing through for something to watch already.

“So what’d you want to talk about, honey?” He says absentmindedly, scrolling through various films and TV series.

“Oh, right, um. About the TV, Clark, I really don’t think it’s a good idea that we—,”

“Oh look, honey! They’ve got The Princess Bride! Our favorite! Let me go grab the popcorn,” he exclaims, and with that, he’s making a dash for the grocery bag like a mad man. You sigh to yourself. Maybe it can wait.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You’re halfway into the movie and sitting an unusual distance from Clark. Every sideways glance makes you feel sorry for both him and yourself. A few times you ponder to yourself why you’re even doing this, why you seem to have to pull the plug on any good thing that comes to you.

But a deeper sense within you seems to know it’s too much for you, too good of a thing. That you’re sure to corrupt Clark’s goodness at some point. That at any point he could unknowingly switch up on you and shut all the goodness off.

He scoots closer to you, giving you a small peck on the forehead, then a peck on the cheek. You scoot further away and clear your throat. “I like this part,” you murmur with your eyes trained on the flatscreen. “This will all soon be but a happy memory,” Westley says after he extinguishes the fire at the hem of Buttercup’s gown.

Clark would never push you, and he has a perfected mastery at reading your body language. He stares and you for a moment after bearing in mind the way you pull away where you otherwise would have deepened into—sunk into—his kisses and gentle advances.

“You alright, honey?” He asks like he doesn’t have half a mind to know you’re not. He just wants to hear it from you. You hum a simple yes.

“I’m going to go finish up on those dishes I was washing before you came,” you inform him flatly.

You’re looking down into the empty chasm of the sink, hands on either side of it. Wondering about your verbiage when you actually go through with the freaking arrangement that you invited him over for. You’ve been through breakups before. You hated how all of them sounded when it ended.

Were you just going to be another cliché? You thought of a string of everything you could possibly say and which sad excuse you’d go through with. This just isn’t working out. We’re too different. We don’t click. I feel like we can’t communicate thoroughly. I just can’t. It’s not you, it’s me. Most of them being total lies with the exception of the last one.

“I’m coming with, I can make more popcorn,” Clark hollers from the other room. He makes a brisk entrance with your half-empty popcorn bowl that only he touched. You make quick work of a random dish you swiped from the drying rack to look busy, turning on the sink to look as if you’re rinsing it. He notices your anguish and the pained look on your face when you suddenly start scrubbing at it with a sudsy sponge.

“Honey, are you sure you’re okay? You’re scrubbing at that plate like you’ve got a vendetta against its family. Did the bowls wrong you or something?” He chuckles to himself at his own joke.

“Fine, Clark,” you say shortly.

“You haven’t touched the snacks I bought you,” he points out. The look on his face is scrawled with concern.

“Not hungry.”

“You sure?”

“Really sure.”

“I’ll make us something later after the movie, how ‘bout that?”

“That’s alright. I had a big lunch so I’ll just go to bed after.”

“Already? ‘S only six right now, should be a little after seven when we’re done.”

“Just tired.”

“Honey,” he hesitates for a moment, breath hitched and careful about what his next words will be, whether he’ll strike a nerve or if he had already. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark,” you hissed coldly, taking him aback. He doesn’t flinch at your sudden harshness. He just stands there, the same expression of concern sturdy on his face.

“You know what I invited you over for? I want to break up,” you said simply, avoiding the look of hurt his cerulean eyes are suddenly overcome with.

“What, but why—,”

“It’s just…it’s not working out.” You’re unsure what more to say. You didn’t realize you’d get this far.

“Can we talk about this?” His voice cracks a little and you have to fight a little harder not to look at him. “What exactly isn’t working out? I’m sorry if I did something—,”

“I just can’t.” Now you’re trying to fight tears welling up in your eyes.

He says something more and you turn on the garbage disposal, digging for a fork you lost in the commotion. Against all better judgment telling you not to, you look at him, hand inching towards the depths of the sink, disposal forgotten when you suddenly graze the back of your hand by the blades of it. You shriek and curse at yourself, hand newly blooming with crimson on the back of it.

“Oh my gosh, sweetheart, let me help you,” Clark’s more worried about the blood than you, it seems, his own hands making haste to coming up to your quivering one only a second after.

“Just go, Clark,” you exclaim tersely at him.

“Hey,” he says softly in spite of the threatening cut of your own severe voice. “Please just let me help you so we don’t have to go the Emergency Room. Then I’ll go, okay? As you wish.” He thinks you won’t notice his Princess Bride reference at the end. But you do. And for some reason that’s what it takes to bring you to tears, the aching gash at the back of your hand be damned. They’re hot tears that caress you when they slowly stream down your face. Tears that are hard to fight with only a singular hand.

“Hey, hey,” he coos at you and drags you to the living room without waiting your approval, a clean rag in hand. He’s wiping away at your tears when you sit there lamely. “I know it hurts, I’ll make it better, I promise.” He rushes to the kitchen quickly, in a moment’s notice returning with your first aid kit under the sink.

You want to tell him it’s not really the cut that hurts. You’re practically numb already, which is also of concern to you. But it’s the stupid breakup that hurts more right now and the way he seems to care so deeply for you even in your malice, that his gentle advances are utterly unfaltering.

In another scenario like this one you’d praise him for knowing where everything in your apartment is so well. Like he had the blueprint of everything memorized in that super-mind of his, pocketing a detailed visual in there. But this is an odd-case scenario where you’re being treated by the aid of your now ex-boyfriend for an almost certain E.R-worthy injury after screaming at him to leave.

You’re watching him in silence, with the steadiest hands taking your gaping one into his without so much as a wince. You wish you weren’t so painfully human in times like these, that you could heal by the sun alone and wake up fresh in the morning the way he did. He is my sun, you thought to yourself sometimes. He grabs the hydrogen peroxide hastily, pouring a cap full of it.

“Grab onto my arm when I pour this onto you. Squeeze it as tight as you want. It’ll make it hurt less,” he reassures. You give him a nod before he pours onto it, and you’re grimacing through the motions while holding onto his strong bicep for dear life.

“Attagirl, attagirl. That’s good,” he whispers while petting your hair before pulling away quickly so as to not worsen your earlier frustrations. He mutters a short sorry. “I would blow on it but I don’t wanna spread any germs.”

He grabs the Neosporin after dabbing at the excess peroxide your hand with a clean cloth. “Look, Clark, about earlier…”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now, you’re hurt.”

“I need to.”

He gives you a meaningful look, nodding before squeezing at the ointment tube carefully.

“I just, I feel like you’re too good for me.” Before you can help it, the tears are making their way back to your eyes. You curse yourself and rub at your eyes with the back of your freehand. And Clark, in all his softness, is reaching up to wipe at them again with a large thumb, collecting them on the bed of his nail. You don’t stop him.

“I’m difficult, you know? It took me well over near two months for you to get anything out of me about my family, why I am the why I am. I feel like you give me everything sometimes. The whole world. And I can hardly give anything in return,” you know he wants to interrupt you because his mouth is slack. “God, Kent. Can you let me finish?” you laugh without looking at him, instead down at your severed hand.

“I’m just a lot. I feel like I’m either too much or not enough. You’re so much prettier than me,” you cradle his soft face in your hand and he smiles a sad smile. You know it’s hurting him to not be able to immediately shut down your crazy talk. You’re practically forcing him through your whole ordeal. “You’re funny, you’re dorky in the cutest way. You’re so smart and you have the biggest heart. I just feel like, how can I compare to you sometimes, you know? I feel like I’m holding you back from your fullest potential. I want you to be with someone as good as you and better than me. I’m messy, broken. I’m dark,” you finish, sobbing when you do. It’s getting harder to breathe and he’s taking you in the vastness of his arms. Cooing and shushing you, rocking you back and forth.

“Hey, hey.” He says sternly, loud over your scattered breaths and hiccuped sobs for you to hear. He kisses at the back of your freshly bandaged hand. “Breathe with me, breathe with me, please, honey.” You’re letting out a few more sobs before you’re nodding off at him, and he’s counting your deep inhales and exhales. Doing it with you. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. In, out. In. Out. You finally settle down, still hiccuping slightly and breathing shakily.

“You,” he says, giving a slow, deep kiss at your forehead, then again at your hands, “are not difficult in the slightest. Like most humans you have a fair sense of cynicism. It means more to me that you let me in no matter how long it took because the point is that you did. You let me be a part of your world. And I couldn’t be more grateful. Because I like it here. A lot,” you both laugh. “And I know I told you I would leave, but I don’t want to walk out of here not being a part of your world.”

“And I’m glad I know why you are the way you are now. You are not your experiences, though. And not all of them shaped you entirely. You didn’t let them. You came to shape your own beautiful little experiences and leave behind the pains of your past.” You liked the way that sounded. Beautiful little experiences. Clark was surely one of them.

“You are not messy, or broken, or dark,” he says firmly, as if to make sure it gets to your head. “You are my fullest potential. You’ve taught me what true goodness really means. And you’re perfect. You are smart. You are kind. You are the most beautiful person I know. In every way. You’re beauty personified,” This almost makes you want to break all over again. Clark just seems to have such a way with words.

“You are my sun.” He kisses your hand once, twice, three times. Then each of your fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You kiss the top of his hair while he’s still leaned down. “Can you let me be yours?”

You look at him for a moment. “I’m sorry if I ever am too much, okay? Can you just let me know if I ever am?”

“Not too much, so it’s never going to happen,” he says simply, now nuzzling your hand into his face.

You think about everything he’s said. He repeats it. Can you let me be your sun?

As you wish, you say. You win, farm boy. You lean in to kiss him. For once you feel satisfied. For once you don’t feel heavy with the weight of everything. More than sorely aware of the space you take. Right now you feel it’s just enough.

a/n: omg i hate doing these little pic layout things bc i feel like they never look good when i do them but the middle pic of david didn’t look right on its own…anyways please don’t let this flop i actually kind of liked it

⋆.˚ © eulogiez all rights reserved.

— comments and feedback are appreciated!

[kaylasficrecs]

clark kent x f!reader

synopsis: you'd like to hear clark curse.

"say fuck."

"no."

"say fuck, please?"

clark huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes before looking down at you. you return his gaze with wide blinking eyes, a symbol of feigned innocence and utter cuteness. it takes a lot of strength for clark to not crumble beneath that heavy load.

"why do you want me to say it so bad?" clark asks, curious and watches as you shrug.

"just want to hear how it sounds," you reply. "like i hear you say gosh and golly all the time. which is absolutely fine by me, i love the whole innocent farm boy thing you've got going on."

clark's ears turn a soft red as his cheeks bunch up with his amused smile.

"but i just want to hear it'd sound with your voice. and if it's going to be just as panty-dropping worthy as it is in my head."

clark's smile widens. "so you think about me?"

"slow your roll, smallville," you reply, smiling just as wide. "so what do you say? please say fuck. i'll give you $20."

"i literally can't be bribed," clark says, amused. "but if i was willing, i would require more than $20."

you eye him with playful suspicion. "what would your terms be?"

clark pretends to think about it, humming as he draws closer to you. he curls his arms around you, pulling a very willing you into his embrace. you steady yourself with your hands on his chest, peering up at him as you await his answer.

"a dozen kisses and three cuddles sessions," he says after a minute and you nod solemnly.

"plus the $20?" you ask and clark shakes his head, working you both into a gentle sway.

"it's never about the money. it's just about me spending time with my favourite gal and fulfilling her oddly specific desires."

"aw, aren't you the sweetest?" you coo, reaching up to cradle his dimpled cheeks. "okay, deal. a dozen kisses and three cuddles. now please say fuck."

"okay, sweetheart," clark agrees, clears his throat, and leans in until his lips are brushing against your slightly warm ear. your heart pounds loudly in your chest, anticipation rising as you await for the word to jump.

then clark says:

"ffffiddlesticks."

and cracks up to the point of tears as you push his bulk away with little success.

[kaylasficrecs]

Just Clark 𐙚 Clark Kent

clark kent x fem!reader

Summary: You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off

Warnings/Themes: mention of bad past relationship (nothing serious just like weaponized incompetence), bad communicator clark, bad communication in general, crying, awkward clark, clumsy cursed reader no mention of race, good at cooking/baking reader, no use of y/n, half proofread, if you notice fuck-ups no u didn't, wrote in like three days so messy concept but I needed it

Words: 8.2k

You’d just moved to Metropolis, still reeling from the messy implosion of your last relationship. Needing something new; and the day you moved into Apartment 4B, Clark Kent was there. Not as some official welcome wagon, just... there. You were wrestling a very heavy, probably over-packed, box of kitchenware up the cramped stairwell. The elevator had a handwritten 'under maintenance' sign— so you had to make the four story trip by foot, when a shadow fell over you.

"Need a hand with that?" he asked, his voice mild, almost timid. Sweat stinging your eyes as you looked up to see a glasses-clad man with dark hair falling perpetually over his brow, his tall figure absolutely towering you. 

You grunted, hoisting the box higher, and nodding frantically. "Please, God, yes."

He took it from you as if it weighed nothing, a small, polite smile on his face. He carried it the rest of the way, and then the next ten boxes, and then helped you assemble your rickety IKEA bedframe— "so you definitely have somewhere to sleep tonight.", all without asking for anything in return. He just seemed… happy to help. Told you his name, and where he was if you needed him again, then just... left like he hadn't even been there at all.

One sweltering afternoon, only one week after the first encounter, you were struggling to assemble a truly monstrous wardrobe (last time you try to get something nice for yourself, with how much work it was taking). You’d spent a fat three hours wrestling with indecipherable diagrams, and runaway screws, and the thing was still just a pile of glorified wood chips.

Sweat was plastering your hair to your forehead, and frustration was a hot knot in your stomach. You were about to admit defeat and call a professional when there was a gentle knock on your door.

It was Clark, holding a small casserole dish. "I had extra lasagna, thought you might like some after your move-in efforts," he said, already scanning your apartment, his gaze landing on the chaotic heap of wooden planks. "Oh, gosh. Looks like you're having some trouble there."

Clark set the lasagna down on your kitchen counter, the warm, savory smell instantly making your stomach rumble. “Trouble” was an understatement.

“It’s… a work in progress,” you mumbled, pushing a stray hair out of your eyes.

He gave a soft, understanding nod. “Looks like it. Mind if I…?” He gestured vaguely at the pile of wood, a polite question in his eyes.

You scoff, falling back onto your floor in frustration as you waves both hands dismissively, rolling your eyes. Heat creeping up your neck in frustration— not towards Clark. You just hated being seen as helpless, especially by a man, after your ex had always made you feel like you were.

“It’s fine,” you mumbled, though your tone clearly indicated the opposite. “I can… I’ll wrestle it eventually. Or something."

Clark didn't lecture, didn't patronize. He just offered a gentle, knowing smile. 

“Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can make all the difference, though. And a little extra muscle never hurts, does it?” He knelt beside the instruction manual, you watched, exhausted and feeling defeated, as his eyes quickly scanned the diagrams. He hummed quietly, a low, thoughtful sound. Then, without a word, he began to work.

He didn't seem to struggle, he didn't swear or grunt. And within what felt like minutes, not hours, the bones of the wardrobe began to emerge from the chaos. He worked with a quiet concentration, occasionally humming a low, tuneless melody to himself. You just sat dumbfounded on the floor, occasionally handing Clark a screw or reading an instruction out for him, feeling pretty useless.

Within a mere half-hour, the sinister pile of rubble that threatened to haunt you was standing tall and proud, a testament to... well, to Clark. He straightened up, wiping a smudge from his glasses. "There we go," he said, a faint, pleased flush on his cheeks. "Looks sturdy."

“Clark,” you breathed, staring at the finished product, then at him. He was wiping a little sawdust from his glasses, a faint flush on his cheeks. “How… how did you do that so fast?”

He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and shrugged humbly. “Oh, you know. Good instructions, and a little teamwork. You were a great help."

You knew he was being kind, incredibly kind, but you still felt goosebumps rise on your arm.

Before you can really thank him, or offer him some water, or to sit. He's picked up the empty box it came in, filling it with all the plastic packaging and packing material. “I’ll just take these down for you.” 

you can't even really protest, a weak, "Clark-" leaves with a sigh. But he was gone, leaving you with a perfectly built wardrobe and a warm, lasagna sat on your kitchen counter.

It became a quiet routine, an unspoken agreement that you had neither expected or requested— but wasn't unwelcome. You’d be struggling with an overflowing laundry basket down to the basement machines, and there he’d be, a polite cough and a gentle, “Need a hand with that?” before he’d somehow manage to carry it with one hand while holding the door open with the other. You’d find your groceries, especially those heavier bags of sugar or bulk-buy pasta, suddenly lighter as he’d appear by your side in the lobby, often with an “Oh, heading up? I’ll just grab that,” before you could even protest.

You’d settled into your new life, and Clark Kent was undeniably a part of that comfortable rhythm. He was the kind of neighbour everyone wanted but few ever had. He never asked for coffee, never lingered for small talk that felt forced. His kindness was earnest and unassuming. He worked at the Daily Planet— a journalist, you knew, you'd seen his article's and even read a few.

You started looking forward to seeing him, even. Like a warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. He was the antithesis of your ex, who had considered taking the garbage to the curb a Herculean task, and who expected a cookie, parade, medal, hoedown, just for helping, all while finding a way to subtly belittle your own efforts.

Clark just did. He folded your laundry one time when you’d left it in the communal dryer for too long, just leaving it neatly folded on your doormat. He once noticed your lightbulb flickering in the hallway fixture and, the next day, there was a new bulb and a note taped to it, “Fixed it for you! :) – CK.”

One evening, you were attempting to make dinner when a wallet draining gurgle erupted from your kitchen sink, followed by a torrent of brown, foul-smelling water backing up and spilling onto the wood floor. You stared at it in disgust, your half-chopped vegetables suddenly feeling a lot less appetizing. After a frantic, futile attempt with a plunger, and a quick, angry call to your landlord that went straight to voicemail, you slumped against the counter, defeated.

As you set your cell down angrily on the kitchen table, there's a faint knock at your door. Clark. He must have heard the gurgling, or maybe your frustrated groan.

“Everything alright in there?” He asked, his voice muffled through the wood.

You groaned, pushing yourself off the counter and trudging to the door. Pulling it open, you gesture back at the disaster zone that was your kitchen, a tired groan leaving your mouth. Murky water was still bubbling from the sink and pooling on the floor, the smell permeating the entire space.

“Clark! Oh my god, no. My sink just… exploded. And the landlord isn’t answering. I think I’m going to cry.” You admit, your eyes large and panicked as you let him in.

He looked at the scene, his brow furrowed with concern. His eyes moving from your distressed face to the overflowing sink, and then, without a word, he stepped inside.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. Taking the sleeves of his plaid shirt and rolling them to his elbows, revealing forearms that, surprisingly, had a lean strength to them, despite his general awkwardness.

“Let’s take a look.”

He walked towards the sink, not a hint of disgust on his face, even as he peered into the murky water. “Do you have a bucket? And maybe some old towels?”

You nodded, retrieving a bucket from under the sink and a stack of old t-shirts you used for rags. He worked with the same quiet efficiency as he had with the wardrobe. He listened to the pipes, tapped at them, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a large wrench and a snake. 

He didn’t make a mess, somehow managing to disconnect and clear a section of pipe without drenching himself or the floor in more filth, directing the flow into the bucket you held, which he’d insisted you only lightly support while he did the heavy lifting. The stench was still there, but diminishing as he cleared the blockage.

His brow was furrowed— just ever so slightly, a look of mild concentration, then there was a distinct whoosh as the water drained, gurgling and bubbling on its way down the pipe. He reconnected everything, wiped down the area with a towel, and then, completely unprompted, started cleaning up the spilled water on your floor. This was at least something you could help with, lowering your body as you assist in sopping up the liquid.

"Clark, you're always saving my day," you sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. "My ex couldn't even load the dishwasher without a hassle."

He gave a small, humble nod, a faint flush rising on his cheeks at the praise. He never quite knew what to do with compliments, often just offering a shy, modest smile in return. “Just glad I could help,” he murmured.

You looked at the shining sink (pipes intact), the clean floor, and then back at him. He was already halfway turned, stealthily on his way back to his own apartment, he'd fulfilled his neighbourly duty. But even though the immediate disaster was over, a different feeling settled over you. He’d helped you out of a literal mess, dealt with something truly disgusting, and hadn’t so much as batted an eye. He deserved more than just a thank you. 

“Clark, wait,” you protest, making a gentle move for him, a hand landing on his arm. 

“You can’t just go. You… you literally just cleaned up my putrid plumbing. And you were about to drain your wallet on dinner ingredients before all this happened.” 

You gestured vaguely at the chopping board where your half-prepped vegetables lay. “Would you… would you mind staying for dinner? It’s the least I can do. I was making… well, I was trying to make pasta primavera, but I can easily switch to something else, if you prefer.”

He froze immediately at your touch— gentle as it was, he turned. His eyes widening in surprise, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” he stammered, his voice a little higher than usual. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I, uh, I was just heading back myself. Got… got some… articles to write.” He gestured vaguely towards his apartment door.

“Clark, you just saved my kitchen from a brown, watery apocalypse. You’ve earned dinner. And honestly,” you added, a genuine smile forming,

“I’d actually enjoy the company. My apartment feels awfully quiet sometimes.”

The hand that had gone to his arm was still there, a gentle anchor. He swallowed, eyes darting from your face to the half-chopped vegetables, then to his own apartment door He seemed to grapple with some unseen internal debate, his usual humble demeanor warring with the simple human desire for company, or perhaps, just not wanting to appear rude by outright refusing your sincere invitation.

He hesitated for another moment, then a small, true smile touched his lips. “Pasta primavera… sounds lovely,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but with a new note of quiet acceptance. “Thank you. That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

"Oh great!" you breathed, turning back to the kitchen with renewed energy. “Make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you can’t eat? Any allergies?”

“Oh, no, I eat… everything,” he said quickly, you just nodded, already rummaging for a clean pot.

"Feel free to sit wherever you'd like." you tell him, gesturing out at all the furniture in the dining and living room. 

He nodded, still a little stiffly, and settled onto one of your kitchen chairs, perching on the edge as if ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Your attention back on your cutting board and dealing with the unchopped half of the veggies. It was a comfortable silence, surprisingly so for someone you only usually encountered in brief, helpful bursts.

The thud-thud-thud of your knife on the vegetables filled the silence. Clark stayed still on the edge of the kitchen chair, hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching you with a kind of intensity that would've been almost unnerving, if it wasn't so genuinely kind.

“You know, you don’t have to just sit there like a statue, Clark,” you teased gently, turning back to segment a bell pepper. 

“You’re welcome to relax, maybe grab a book— i can get you a drink, or put on some music, what do you like?”

He blinked, as if startled from a deep thought. 

“Oh! No, no, I’m fine,” he said, straightening a fraction. 

“It’s… captivating. Watching you cook.” His admits, earnest and sincere, remained fixed on your movements. “You’ve got a good… rhythm.”

Your knife paused for a second, a puzzled type of smile on your lips; your back is still turned to him, and your head cocks to the side subtly. What? Captivating? you gave an internal scoff, was he sure about that? his words had sounded so genuine, pure, full of a type of appreciation you had never been shown before.

you hummed, finishing the pepper off and moving on without turning to face him. "Most people find cooking to be pretty mundane." 

He flushed immediately, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks. 

"No, no, I mean it!" he insisted, his voice earnest.

It was truly endearing, the way he found a simple appreciation for all aspects of things. You sliced some zucchini, and began mincing garlic; when the cutting was complete, you started boiling water for the pasta, then sautéing the aromatics. The smell of olive oil heating in a pan began to waft through the kitchen, mingling with the fresh scent of bell peppers and herbs.

“Smells amazing,” breathed from behind you, his voice barely above a whisper. It was an involuntary reaction, almost like a sigh of contentment.

You glanced over your shoulder, a smile on your lips. Noticing he was still perched on the edge of the chair, but his posture seemed to have softened a fraction. His eyes, were still fixed on your movements with that curious, focused intensity.

"Do you need any help?" he offered immediately, eyes snapping up to yours. He shifts in his seat, like he wants to stand up.

You shook your head right away, you didn't want him doing anymore than he had, it felt unfair to a point. that this was the first time you're able to repay him for all the tasks he has either assisted with— or outright done for you. It would feel incredibly wrong to ask him to help with more, at this point.

You shook your head, turning back around and gesturing vaguely with your wooden spoon. 

"Oh no, you've helped so much tonight." You insist. "I'm just going to finish the vegetables, then set the table while the pasta cooks."

He seemed to perk up at though, when he heard an unfinished task on your hands.

“I can do that!” He declared, nodding happily. He left from his spot with surprising speed, a blur, almost, you just blinked and he was just… standing there. Making his way to the drawers and cupboards, like he already knows their contents, pulling out the dishes and placing them at the table neatly.

“All set,” he announced, turning back to you, hands clasped in front of him again, a picture of humble satisfaction.

“Perfect,” you said, looking at the pot. The water was at a rolling boil, and you carefully dropped the pasta in. 

“Just a few minutes for the pasta, then we’re good to go.”

He settled back into the chair, this time a little less stiffly, watching the pot intently as if his gaze alone could make the water boil faster. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner you're cooking. It was a homey scent, it had completely washed out the murky drain smell.

You drained the pasta, tossed it with the sauce, and then brought the steaming bowl to the table, along with a sprinkle of fresh parsley and a bowl of grated Parmesan. as you carried them to the table, Clark immediately jumped up to pull out your chair for you, like a true gentleman.

“Thank you, Clark,” you murmured, genuinely touched by the small gesture. It wasn't often someone took time to be so gentlemanly to you, never really in the comfort of your own home.

He mumbled a quick, “Of course,” as he settled into his own seat. Clark’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the colorful pasta. He picked up his fork, hesitated for a moment, then took a bite. His careful chewing gave way to an expression of bliss.

“This is… incredible,” he murmured after a moment, looking up to you in appreciation. “I really like it!”

You smiled at him brightly, he could see your eyes light up before you respond. 

“Thanks! It’s hard to mess up good ingredients.” You took a bite yourself, enjoying the fruits of your labor. He was right, it tasted delightful, especially after the disaster you had gone through just prior. The awkward silence from before had shifted into a comfortable quiet, accompanied by the clinking of forks and the occasional appreciative hum from Clark.

You watched him as he ate— not on purpose, you were just a little mesmerized. He consumed his food with a sort of reverence, not fast, but steadily, enjoying each mouthful. 

It occurred to you then, seeing him sitting at you kitchen table, eating with you, that this was the longest you’d ever really talked to Clark, or rather, existed in the same room with him without needing help with something, or an emergency happening. Usually, he was swooping in, fixing something, then politely excusing himself. This was different. This felt… normal. And nice.

He finished his first helping with quiet efficiency, then looked up at you, a hesitant question in his eyes. “This is really good. Is there… more?”

You nodded happily at him, chuckling. “Of course there’s more, Clark. Plenty for seconds, and probably lunch tomorrow. Help yourself.” you insist, nudging the serving bowl in his direction.

Clark’s face lit up, a sweet, boyish smile spreading across it. He reached for the bowl eagerly, spooning a generous second helping onto his plate.

"Thank you!" he says softly, digging into this portion with the same quiet enjoyment as the first.

You stood up while he finished eating, taking your dishes to your newly unclogged sink, leaning down into a cupboard to get a Tupperware to put the leftovers in. You heard the gentle clinking of his fork on the ceramic plate for a few more moments, then silence. 

When you straightened up with the container, you saw that Clark had completely scraped his plate clean, again. He looked up at you with a faint flush on his cheeks, as if he was caught in the act.

“That was… truly wonderful,” he said, his voice a little softer than usual, filled with genuine gratitude. He even patted his stomach discreetly. 

“Thank you, really.”

You can't help the giggle that escapes you, you couldn't really describe the type of happiness Clark made you feel with one word; not only did you just feel so safe and taken care of when he was around, but his boyish tendencies had a type of purity to it. an inherent goodness.

you brought the container over to the serving bowl, with at least enough for a couple more meals in it; and scooped it inside. setting it down to let the steam out before you close it. your hands come down for Clark's empty plate, bringing it to join yours in the sink.

"Glad you think so. It’s comforting food, I think.”

Clark’s eyes, still wide and earnest, followed all your movements. When you took his plate, he stood up. “Let me help with that!” he offered immediately, reaching for the remaining serving bowl and the Parmesan.

You chuckled again, shaking your head gently. “No, no, Clark. Please. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Consider this a, well, a thank you dinner,” you said, nudging the serving bowl subtly away from his reach with your hip as you turned to the sink. 

“You rescued my evening, quite literally. Let me take care of the rest.”

He stopped mid-action, his hand hovering for a moment, then hesitantly lowered it. 

“Oh. Okay,” he said, sounding the slightest bit resigned, but still understanding. He watched as you quickly rinsed the plates and stacked them in the sink, then sealed the Tupperware of leftovers.

"Here!" you eld the plastic container out to him, still slightly warm to the touch. You wanted him to take the leftovers, not only to repay the lasagna from when you'd first moved in; but to repay for everything, all his kind acts that he didn't really allow you to reward or praise.

"please take it, you loved it so much."

He looks like he wants to say no, his tall frame towered over you no matter how small or meek he was able to make himself appear, hesitant and nervous. his eyes flick up to the ceiling, his face concentrating on something before he sighs softly and nods.

He took the container from you with both hands, cradling it almost carefully. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, his soft gaze holds your eyes as he gives a smile and a nod to you. 

“You’re very thoughtful.”

that night broke down a barrier. the one between friendly neighbour, and good friend.

You found yourself making excuses to extend your conversations in the hallway, lingering at your door just a little longer, hoping to catch him coming or going.

He still did the little things, but now Clark finally stopped pulling Irish goodbyes after. Instead, when he helped bring your groceries in, he stays for coffee when you offer— opening up about his job and the people there. He’d sheepishly admit to Perry White’s booming presence making him nervous, or marvel at Lois’s uncanny ability to sniff out a story; and how he wishes he could be that good.

But you read his articles (all, not just some now) and he was good, so many times you tried to explain this to him; how his pieces weren’t just well-researched, but infused with a real sort of empathy and humanity that others often missed. How he didn’t just report on the tragedies like a struggling family, but found their hope, their beauty. That he didn’t just list statistics, but he made you feel the injustice, the triumph– whatever the story demanded.

He’d just blush, run a hand through his messy dark hair, mumbling something about "just doing his job," But you knew better. It wasn't solely his work ethic (although that was a force of itself); it was his heart.

You share your baking with him, brining a plate of cookies or brownies over on your way by. Every time he seemed slightly startled at the idea of being given things, before his face softened into a genuine smile. "For me? You're too good to me."

He’d say it with such earnestness, as if a simple plate of chocolate chip cookies was the greatest treasure.

Sometimes, when the evening light softened the city into shades of bruised purple and gold, he'd knock on your door, a carton of Chinese takeout in hand, mumbling something about "a long day" and "not wanting to eat alone." 

You’d clear a space on your small coffee table, and he’d settle in, shoulders visibly relaxing as he recounted the day's events at the Planet, or sometimes, surprisingly, mused about the quiet life in Smallville. You'd learned he was adopted, and how his Ma and Pa raised him to be so kind, how he does a lot of what he does because of them. 

One particularly rough week, after a project at work went sideways and you felt utterly deflated, he knocked. This time, there was no takeout, just a hesitant smile and a small, slightly squashed bouquet of daisies. 

"I, uh… I overheard you on the phone earlier," he mumbled, his cheeks tinged pink. "Sounded like you had a tough day. Ma always said flowers help."

Your ex had never bought you flowers, never even picked up a cool rock or a pretty weed for you. 'why would i?  flowers just wilt and die.'

You felt a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the chill of the AC. You took the flowers, heart aching in a good way. 

"Thanks, Clark," you managed, your voice a little thick.

you'd never in you life been met with such a sheer force of positivity. And not ever in a toxic way— Clark was just genuinely good. a driving force in his work, in the building, in your life. 

It wasn’t just the flowers. It was the way he remembered your favorite brand of coffee when he went to the store, just in case you were low. it was the way he’d offer to take out your overflowing recycling bin, when his own was barely full. It was the way his whole face lit up when you laughed at one of his slightly corny jokes, a sound that seemed to chase away any shadows in the room.

You started to notice the subtle changes in yourself. You used to think so cynically, in your day-to-day life, at work, when any inconvenience befell you. But that shield began to soften. You found yourself smiling more, genuinely. The thought of Clark, of his unwavering kindness, was like a quiet hum of reassurance in the background of your days. He wasn't just doing things for you; he was showing you, through his simple existence, that genuine goodness wasn't a myth. It was real, and it lived just down the hall.

Today had been a long day, and you were looking forward to a relaxing evening with Clark. You’d invited him over for dinner, hoping to unwind with someone who was always easy to be around. things were even easier when you ran into him in the lobby of the building, groceries for the meal in hand. You saw Clark's face light up as he sees you, waving immediately and walking towards you, already relieving you of your bags and offering to head up together.

It WAS a nice walk up, but your face immediately fell as you step into your apartment with him. a grimace replacing the giggle that had just been on your lips as you immediately notice the eyesore of dishes, piled up in the sink from the past few nights of meals.

"Oh—jesus, sorry about this," you said, gesturing towards the mess. "Let me just get rid of it right now real quick—."

But Clark, being Clark, just smiled, setting the groceries down on the counter. "Don't worry about it. I'll just wash them up real quick."

You started to protest, but he was already filling the sink with soapy water. You watched as he carefully scrubbed each dish, his movements precise and efficient. It was like watching a dance, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way he moved.

As he rinsed off the last dish, you found yourself blurting out, "You're like a superhero, you know that?"

He froze, the dish in his hand dripping water onto the counter. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his gaze. But then it was gone, replaced by the same gentle smile you'd come to know so well.

you must've said something wrong, but what?

"Oh," he mumbled, his voice a little lower, a little less steady than usual. "

No, no, just... just a regular guy. You know. Farmers are... resourceful." He gave a nervous chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well, uh, I should, uh, get back. Got a... a thing. To do. Paperwork."

You're absolutely perplexed, he was leaving, because of something you'd said. You want to protest, your mouth opens to say something, but you're too clueless as to what could possibly be wrong, and he's already moving— fast.

He puts the plate down, and makes his way past you, towards the door; not quite bumping into the frame, but moving with a hurried, almost clumsy urgency that felt more like an escape than a polite exit. He vanished down the hall, leaving your door ajar, the familiar click of his own apartment door a moment later.

Clark let his apartment slam shut behind him, rushing inside in pure panic. He hurried to his couch, sitting down with a thud, his mind racing through the evening’s events. His thoughts tangled together like a mess of unraveled string. his chest feels tight, he feels hot and flustered— he definitely lost his cool back there, if you hadn't been hinting at something with your comment, you must be suspicious of something now.

It must've been that time he set the table, moving too fast, or when he had caught five apples falling from the top of your grocery bag without so much as stumbling, that must've tipped you off, and the comment was your way of letting him know you knew.

or, he was being silly. it was just a lighthearted joke, and you had no idea before he had rushed away from you with his tail between his legs.

He hated this. did you know? didn't you know?

Clark wouldn't lie to you.  And technically, he hadn't. You had never even mentioned superman before tonight, so he felt safe never bringing it up; being just Clark, your neighbour.

He liked being just Clark with you. He loved it, in fact. The easy conversations over the laundry machines, how you’d wave from your doorway when he came home from work, the comfortable silences when you were just in each other's presence. He enjoyed the simplicity of helping you, seeing your grateful smile, hearing your lighthearted jokes. It felt... normal. It made him feel normal.

With you, he wasn't Metropolis's hero, or an alien, or the last son of Krypton. He was just… Clark. the perpetually helpful, sweet-but-awkward guy from the apartment across the hall. And you treated him that way, so, the thought of losing that, of your perception of him changing from 'sweet, awkward Clark' to 'Clark, who is also Superman,' made his stomach churn.

"Superhero." The word echoed in his mind. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the heat still radiating from his cheeks. He’d noticed the shift in your easy smile, the way your brows had furrowed in confusion as he stumbled over an excuse, all but sprinting from your apartment.

He must have looked like a complete idiot, a mess who couldn’t even handle a compliment.

This was not how he handled difficult situations. He was supposed to be the one who kept a cool head under pressure, the one who faced down villains and disasters and saved lives every day under extreme pressure and scrutiny. But a simple, off-hand joke from his neighbor had turned him into a overthinking, panicked, mess.

He knew you. He knew you were kind, discerning, intelligent. He noticed the softness in how you treated others, a thing he admired a lot. He knew how good you were, so it made him feel...bad. guilty. he should trust you, he knows he could, that you'd never tell, or do anything to jeopardize his secret.

But he was just scared, so scared. what if you looked at him differently? Would you still joke with him? Would you still offer him dinner? Or would he become ‘Superman’ to you, even in the quiet confines of their building?

He threw himself back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his empty, quiet, apartment amplifying the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.

What were you thinking right now? Were you piecing it all together? were you going back through old Superman interviews, and realizing that only Clark Kent had ever conducted them? were you upset that he hadn't told you? you wouldn't be mad, but he would be crushed if you felt betrayed.

He swallowed hard, fidgeting with his hands in frustration. He couldn't just pretend it didn't happen. He couldn't avoid you forever. The apartment building was too small, your connection had grown too strong. He owed you an explanation, he owed you the truth. He just needed to figure out how.

He slept on it— not well, tossing and turning and hardly really sleeping. Thinking of when he would see you next, and what he would say, what you would say. He knew he couldn't avoid you forever. This apartment building wasn't THAT big, he still had a job, a city to protect. He also didn't want to avoid you, your company was nice and he had grown used to your presence, spending time together in his off hours. He didn't want that to end.

In the morning he made coffee, the warm scent of it blanketing the entire apartment, but doing little to comfort him and the feeling crawling around in his stomach. He paced his apartment, the decision solidifying in his mind. He would tell you. Today. He just needed the right moment.

Before he left for work, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring himself down. his icy blue eyes boring into every divot and curve of his skin, scrutinizing, he furrows his brow and stands up straighter, he took a deep, confident breath, the kind he usually saved for dealing with city-wide threats

"I-I am...superman." he says out loud, as if you were in front of him. 

he scoffs and shakes his head in annoyance, that didn't come out right. Good Lord, why was this so hard? it was just...you. His neighbour— his friend, one of the people he trusted most, wanted to be around most. it should come easier to him, but as he stares at himself, repeating different variations of "I'm Superman..." out loud, all of them falling flat, sounding wrong. He squinted at his reflection, this wasn't going to work. 

He turned away from the mirror, it was time for work anyways. he grabs his briefcase and listens closely, when he hears no movement from your apartment, he moves; rushing out as quickly and quietly as possible, by the time you'd be able to hear him out there, he would be already two flights down the stairs. his heart beating frantic in his ears, loud enough to give him a headache.

He wanted to tell you. He just didn't know how.

You hadn't seen Clark in a week.

It was like he was using the same sixth sense he had possessed to swoop in and fix any problem you had, to now avoid you. The hallways were quiet when he would usually be coming and going from work, he was never by the mailboxes or in the laundry room. 

his helpfulness never stopped though, he took out the garbage bag you'd left outside of the door in the ten minutes it took you to finish your show and go to deal with it yourself. he brought your mail up twice. but it was like he was a ghost, never seen or heard by you. his goodness still seeped into your life, invisible, but you could feel it.

Something had obviously changed that night, when you'd made that joke. That's all it was, a joke. you, perhaps, naively, had thought 'oh wow! Clark is strong and handy, and always there to help me. like a superhero!' because, well, that's how you felt about him. he had saved your day countless times with his smile, with this eagerness to help.

You considered knocking on his door. You thought about it, again and again. You were his neighbor, his friend— whatever THIS was. Things felt awkward, a regression maybe, but it didn’t seem like something that should be swept under the rug. The way he had rushed out of your apartment without any explanation, the way his eyes had lingered on you before he made a quick, panicked exit... it all felt wrong.

The thought of a regression stung. You truly appreciated Clark’s steady presence, his quiet strength, the way his mild awkwardness only made him even more endearing. Now, the hallway felt emptier, the silence from across the hall heavier. It was like something was missing, he was missing.

It couldn't be that Clark was offended somehow, or that didn't like metahumans. Clark loved all life, big or small, powerful or weak, young or old; he valued everything all the same. so why has he reacted so suddenly to your words?

You knew you'd messed up, but you couldn’t for the life of you figure out how. "Superhero." You mumbled the word to yourself, testing it, trying to find the hidden meaning that had sent him into a tailspin. It was a compliment, true and simple. He was YOUR superhero. He always seemed to appear exactly when you needed him, always went above and beyond, always with that earnest, gentle expression that both charmed and amused you.

Unless… unless he thought you were mocking him? But that made no sense. Your tone had been genuinely appreciative. You had no reason to mock Clark. You genuinely liked him. More than liked, probably.

"Superhero," you muttered to yourself, leaning against your door, listening to the lack of sound from his apartment. "What was I even thinking?"

Whatever it was, he must be mad, you think. You'd never seen Clark truly mad, but you figured this must be it. This silence, this absence. It had to be his anger.

A week. A whole week. This was ridiculous. Your patience, usually long-suffering, was wearing thin. You missed him. What was he doing right now? How was he doing at work? Was he alright? these were all things clawing away at your head when you're supposed to be sleeping.

this was enough, it was hurting. more than you could've ever expected to, tugging at your heartstrings and stinging in your eyes. you felt fractured, and the idea that you had somehow hurt the kindest person you'd ever known made it even worse.

You had to do something, say something. even if he was angry, even if he didn't want to say anything back.

Taking a deep breath, you walked to your door, your heart thrumming a nervous cadence against your ribs as you cross the hall. You paused, just for a second, then reached out and rapped gently on Clark’s apartment door.

One knock. Then two. You waited, expecting the quick, quiet click of the lock, perhaps the rustle of him moving inside. But there was nothing. You knocked again, a little louder this time.

Still nothing.

"Clark?" you tried weakly through the door, sighing gently as your hand falls to its side.

"Clark, i don't know if you're home. if you are though," you take a breath and clear your throat, you'd never felt so nervous when talking to him before, you don't know why this is happening now of all times.

"I just wanna say I'm really sorry..." you wanna beat yourself up for the way your voice audibly wavers, the tears that are big and fresh threatening to spill. you didn't normally cry over things, you usually shut down a bit, built defenses. but you felt so sad and pathetic begging at his door, you just wanted your friend back. 

"I really didn't mean to make you mad at me, I'm sorry—"

The click of the lock, soft but distinct, made you jolt away from his door. You stopped, and you watched, anxious, as the door slowly swung inward.

There he was. Clark.

He definitely didn't look mad.

His curly hair was usually a little messy, but right now it was completely disheveled. His glasses sat askew on his face, his eyes were still kind and soft when you looked into them, but you saw he had just the slightest bags under them, he looked worn out.

His gaze met yours, and the look in his eyes instantly dissolved any remaining self-pity you had. The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

"Oh, Clark," you whimpered, your voice pathetic.

He winced, his brow furrowing deeper. "No! No, no, no, don't cry," he stammered, his own voice sounding rough, unused. He took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid to approach you, his hands hover awkwardly at his sides. 

"Please don't cry. I'm not mad. I promise. Not at all."

Clark ran a hand through his already wild hair, his glasses still crooked. He looked genuinely pained, his eyes darting away from yours for a moment before settling back on your face, he hated that you were crying— because of HIM. He stepped fully out of the doorway, his hand reaching out tentatively, then dropping, was he allowed to touch you?

“Clark,” you choked out again, the single word the only thing you're able to conjure up; a plea, a question, an apology all rolled into one. Your chin trembled, and another tear slipped free. 

Clark looked genuinely lost, a far cry from the composed, if slightly clumsy, reporter you usually knew. His eyes, usually so clear and honest, were clouded with a mix of distress and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He was beside himself.

"I... I never meant to make you cry," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.

He took another step, this time, his hand didn’t retreat. Slowly, and very gently, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall further. The touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it sent a jolt through you, a warmth spreading from that small point of contact. Then, his thumb moved again, wiping away another tear. You leaned into the touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it offered.

"Please. I'm so sorry." His skin was warm against yours, and for the first time in a week, you felt a fragile sense of peace settle over you.

“Why did you leave? And you've been avoiding me? I thought… I thought you were mad. I thought I’d done something wrong.” you sniffle, your eyes are glassy and wide as you look up at Clark for answers.

His thumb stroked your cheekbone, a quiet, repetitive motion that was incredibly soothing. He took a heavy breath, his eyes darting away for a brief moment, then back to you. he shakes his head, lips pursing slightly at the suggestion.

“I wasn’t mad,” he repeats, his voice low and strained. “Never mad. How could I ever be mad at you? You’re… you’re the kindest person I know.” He paused, searching for the words.

"I—" Clark paused again, clearly struggling to put the right words together. He took a shaky breath, rubbing his temples for a moment before meeting your eyes again, his face a mixture of uncertainty and guilt. 

"I never meant to make things weird between us. I thought... I thought I could handle it. But I can't. I’ve been lying to you."

Lying? Clark? those two words just didn't make sense put together like that. you feel your brow knit together and your mouth opens with a question hanging silent on your tongue. 

"Clark, what are you talking about? You haven't lied to me." You shook your head, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of his words.

He winced, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then to the hand still gently caressing your cheek. 

“You called me a superhero,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And... you were right. More right than you knew.” 

When your expression goes blank, somehow even more confused than before, he speaks again. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“I am a superhero. Not just your superhero, but... a superhero. The one you hear about on the news. The one that flies. The one from Krypton.”

You stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, the tears on your cheeks drying cold. The warmth of his thumb on your skin was the only real thing, a tether to the moment, because everything else was tilting.

Superman. Clark Kent. Your awkward, sweet, kind neighbor. It was impossible. It was… undeniably obvious, now that its been pointed out.

The way he always seemed to know when you needed help, appearing just as your groceries threatened to spill, or when your pipes burst. Not physically clumsy, no, but his social awkwardness, his carefulness not to draw attention to himself.

"You... you're..." Your voice was a barely audible whisper, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on his face.

Clark's face betrayed all his vulnerability, his gaze searching yours, absolutely terrified of your reaction. His hand, still on your cheek, trembled. He was bracing for anything– anger, disgust, fear, rejection.

"I know it's a lot," he mumbled, his voice softer now, laced with a raw honesty that pierced through the initial shock. "I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I just... I didn't know how. I didn't want to lose what we have."

He was scared? not just of you knowing his secret, but how you'd react to him— all of him. You had been so consumed by thinking he was mad, by your own hurt, that you hadn't considered any of this. He was scared you wouldn't like him anymore, that the ordinary, sweet neighbor you cherished would be overshadowed by the extraordinary hero.

But he was still Clark. Always had been. The heroics simply solidified the quiet strength and unwavering kindness you already knew. it made so much sense, if anyone was going to be superman, it would be him— and it was.

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips, a shaky, tear-laced sound.

“You’re still Clark,” you murmured, your gaze unwavering. 

“The Clark who helps me with groceries, who fixed my sink, who listened to me ramble about my bad days.” A small, genuine laugh escaped you, a sound of pure affection.

“The Clark who’s like… a superhero. just, even more so now, I guess.”

“You’re not… mad?” he asked, a hint of wonder in his voice.

“Mad?” you scoff, leaning a little closer.

“Clark, I’ve been worried sick for a week that you were mad at me. I thought I’d said something wrong. I thought I’d lost you.” Your voice softened, your gaze dropping to his arms, then back up.

“I missed you, Clark. Terribly.”

You saw the moment his fear finally receded, replaced by a glimmer of hope. His thumb, which had resumed its gentle stroking, paused. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there, a question in the depths of his blue eyes.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, an eager, excited rhythm. You had wanted this, in some unspoken way, for so long. You leaned in, just slightly, inviting him.

His other hand rose, cupping your jaw, his fingers brushing against your hair. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, standing in the quiet hallway of your apartment building, the weight of a universe-shattering secret hanging between you, yet feeling lighter than air.

And then, he brought himself in close. His lips were hesitant at first, pressing softly against yours. It wasn't a demanding kiss, it felt like the first taste of oxygen after a long week of holding your breath. It was soft, sweet, full of unspoken apologies and a blossoming hope.

When he pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed for a moment as if savoring the feeling. When they opened, they were alight with utter adoration, like you were the only thing to exist in this moment.

“I… I’ve wanted to do that,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.

This was Clark. And he was everything you had ever hoped for, and so much more. The superhero, yes, but also the man who worried about his laundry, who looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and who, right now, was finally letting himself be fully seen.

“So,” you whispered, your voice thick with anticipation, your heart pounding excitedly from the aftermath of his kiss.

“does this mean dinner is back on the table?”

Clark’s lips curved into a soft, relieved smile, the kind made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The adoration in his gaze deepened, and he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your forehead.

“Dinner is definitely back on the table,” he murmured, his voice laced with pure fondness. “And every meal after that, if you’ll have me.”

my first fic that's not a joc character, mom im scared. hope u like tho <3

[kaylasficrecs]

this was so good. like so good.

you hide your injuries from him — Clark Kent

summary: you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway. content warning: reader falls and gets crushed by a bookshelf and bruises her ribs, abuse of painkillers, crack treated seriously, humour turning into angst and hurt/comfort, Clark is an idiot, Superman is reliable but Clark Kent isn’t, established relationship, Clark Kent is hopelessly in love with you, he’s just dumb sometimes. suggestive content — oral, f!receiving; nothing explicit but still heavily implied, mdni. black cat reader + golden retriever (cat?) clark kent word count: 6.8k words note: this was supposed to be silly and shorter but oops! things got a bit out of hand. written in one day and absolutely not reread, don’t mind typos or inconsistencies! >.<

────୨ৎ────

Dating a superhero is not for the faint of heart. Don’t get it wrong, you love Clark Kent, and you love dating him, even if sometimes the weight of the entire world plays third wheel between the two of you (sometimes it even felt like you were the third wheel). It’s okay, you knew what you were getting into.

You actually love that Clark Kent has such a bleeding heart, and that he’s so kind and so helpful.

But you also really wish he would stop disappearing every time he finally has to take down that bookshelf that was hovering dangerously..

It seemed like a cruel trick of fate, truly, how every time he finally agreed to do it, something in the other side of the world comes up, and he looks at you with a guilty and sheepish grin before he wears his suit and leaves you behind, you and that stupid bookshelf you couldn’t use anymore and only looked ugly.

You probably would have gotten this over with months ago if you’d done it on your own, but no, you were stupid and you decided to trust your boyfriend. It’s your fault, really, for believing him when he said he would do it. What kind of girlfriend did that? What kind of self-respecting, independant, strong and smart woman did that? Really, you only have yourself to blame.

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” he says, and he really looks apologetic and guilty when he apologizes, and you hate that it makes it so much harder to truly be mad at him.

“It’s fine, just go,” you reply. You’re waiting for him to leave so you can finally get rid of that monstrosity in the living room.

He smiles, thinking he got away with it. He doesn’t know it’s because you decided to do it yourself.

“I love you so much baby. I swear to you I’m doing anything you want me to do as soon as I come back,” he promises, eager and hopeful and genuine, and he cups your face gently between his too big hands and he kisses you on the forehead gently, as if you would shatter if he’d applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

You can’t help but snort. Not meanly, just… he always says that. And while it’s mostly true, it apparently doesn’t apply to that damn bookshelf. Why? Absolutely no idea. You remember one day when Clark had literally mowed the lawn instead of fixing the damn shelf. What was wrong with him? Was the shelf made of kryptonite or what?

You’re proud of yourself for not sounding petty or annoyed.

“Go save the world, big boy. The world needs you.”

So did you, but not anymore. You can do anything on your own. You don’t need stupid otherworldly powers for that.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he repeats.

“I love you too. Now go before the unthinkable happens.”

He’s gone in a flash, as if he was only waiting for your permission. There he goes, probably away for the rest of the day.

You push your sleeves back and get to work.

It starts easy enough. The shelf was already cleaned and ready to be thrown away. All it needed was a strong pair of arms, and a long ladder.

You got this.

You don’t got this.

The ladder was probably older than Clark’s home planet and it stood shakily like it had a goddamn cold, but it was tall enough and it was sturdy enough for the job. Screwdriver in hand, you started unscrewing the screws (how many times were you going to say that word?), thinking to yourself that Clark was an idiot for putting this off for so long. There’s literally nothing difficult about this – or dangerous, if you didn’t count the ladder’s strange composition, and honestly, it doesn’t even count, because if it were him doing this, he wouldn’t even have needed it in the first place.

Everything was going perfectly well. You were halfway done with the screws and you were thinking of taking a small break (totally deserved, in your humble and completely unbiased opinion), when Superkitten decided that the ladder was a pair of legs, and he started rubbing himself all over it, making it even less stable than it already was.

“Superkitten, go away!” you try telling him, but of course, Superkitten answered to no one.

He’s sharpening his claws now against the splintering wood and you suddenly have the clearest vision of your demise. Dying because your stupid (God bless his stupid little heart) cat used your ladder as a scratching post.

Everything happens so fast you barely had time to think, only act, and you’re gripping onto the shelf for dear life and next thing you know, you’re on the floor. Superkitten had fled the crime scene the moment the ladder fell and you hung onto the bookshelf.

You’re not proud of it but your last thought before the wood quite literally crushes you into oblivion is: serves Clark right.

────୨ৎ────

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been unconscious for, but when you come to your senses, the sun is barely starting to set and Superkitten is licking your face. He must have been going at it for a long while because your skin felt raw. At least someone was worried about you, though, if the low whining coming from your cat was anything to go by.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you tell him, trying to reassure him. You try to lift a hand to pet him but pure agony blocks you from moving.

Now that you think about it, your chest hurts and you have a hard time breathing with the broken pieces of wood littered your body like a blanket. A painful, not warm at all, not soft blanket. If you have to have a not soft blanket, you would rather have Clark draped all over you again.

Clark. Ugh. This is all his fault. If he’d fixed the shelf when you’d told him to, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You hope you haven’t broken any ribs. You need your ribs for baking.

Superkitten’s whining has gotten louder now, probably scared because you’re awake but you’re not moving, and your heart breaks a little. You didn’t mean to worry him.

Summoning all of your strength, you push the wood off of you (you want to scream but you don’t because Clark would definitely hear that and you really, really don’t want him to see you in this situation).

“There,” you breathe out to no one but yourself, your arms falling limp to your side, weak from the strain. You can finally breathe again, at the cost of your arms.

It takes you a longer time to move again. Thankfully you don’t think your ribs are broken (you’re not a professional but you’re pretty sure the pain would be more unbearable than this) but they’re definitely bruised. You feel like a giant bruise, honestly. You guess there won’t be any sexy times with Clark any time soon. You scoff at the thought. Why are you thinking about that? Besides, Clark definitely doesn’t deserve any sexy time for being the world’s most unreliable boyfriend. Bruised ribs or not.

You want to throw everything away but you’re not sure you’d be able to bend down, so first you make your way, slowly and painstakingly, to the bathroom where you first swallow half of a pill of Clark’s heavy duty painkillers (probably a bad idea, but you have a very good reason for being stupid, and you’re not going to waste it — you love bad decisions, especially when you’re not responsible for them) and then check the reach of the damage.

Gingerly, you lift your shirt up.

One giant bruise. You literally became a Smurf.

Thirty minutes later, the painkiller has fully kicked in and you decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence. Honestly, you should be mad at Clark for gatekeeping these painkillers when you have period cramps. He’s had these all this time and he never even offered once? Rude. Cruel. Blatant abuse.

Is it normal that your heartbeat is so fast? And that you feel kind of delirious? Probably. You just got crushed half to death, so it would make sense that your body’s in a state of shock.

Superkitten hasn’t left your side ever since you woke up on the floor, and it tugs at your heartstrings. He’s obviously shaken.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you whisper to him, scratching his cheeks with both hands. “Mommy’s not gonna do that ever again, I promise. That was really stupid of her, wasn’t it? No, you’re right. Daddy’s the stupid one. This is all his fault.”

He meowed, which was all the confirmation you needed.

“Let’s go to sleep,” you whisper to him.

You change out of your clothes to put on your favorite sweater (Clark’s old college shirt) because even if you’re still a little pissed at him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him, even if he doesn’t deserve it (lie), and you curl up in his side of the bed, body wrapped around a purring Superkitten, wishing Clark was here right now.

────୨ৎ────

“The shelf is gone,” Clark says, a little dumbly.

“What are you talking about?” you reply.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you don’t really want to talk about what happened (the bruises are agonising and you don’t dare take more of Clark’s painkillers after you spent the entire night with your knees on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl as you emptied your entire stomach — bile and intestines), and quite frankly, you just want to mess with him a little bit.

“You know, the bookshelf! The one in our living room?”

You look at him, feigning concern, and you touch his forehead with the back of your palm, hiding the wince as the movement pulls your muscles. “Are you sure you didn’t take a nasty hit to the head, baby?”

He huffs, looking adorably indignant, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

He’d come back a couple of hours ago while you were still asleep, and he’d joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms like you were his favorite bouquet, holding you until you woke up. Then, he spent close to an hour just kissing every inch of your face and neck. When he tried to pull your shirt away, you stopped him with a hand to his face without a word, because you knew Clark would stop without a word. Even in your half asleep state and the numbing pain you’d remembered he couldn’t see you underneath your shirt.

And now you’re fully awake, and he hasn’t stopped following you, pestering you about the shelf. I’ll fix it now for you baby, he says, blissfully unaware and earnest in his desire to do things right by you.

But there’s no bookshelf anymore. It’s gone, and he seems to have a hard time understanding it, because his very core can’t compute the fact that you may be lying to him.

“Where’s the shelf, baby?” he asks, whining. “What happened to it?”

“There’s no shelf, Clark,” you say, as if you’re talking to a baby that’s prone to hysterics.

“Yeah, there’s no shelf now, but there was one! Remember? The shelf I was supposed to take down but then every time I tried to, something came up?”

That irked you. “Oh so now you remember,” you say, and it might have been a mistake because he wasn’t supposed to know you felt as strongly about it as you did. You were supposed to be cool and chill, and most importantly, self-reliant and independent.

His face switches almost instantly, from confused to kicked puppy. “I’m sorry baby, I really am. I was going to fix it, I swear, but then I heard—”

“I know, I know,” you reply, a little more irritated than you would normally be, and it’s partly due to the pain and partly due to the fact that he is right. You can’t get mad at him for wanting to make the world a better place. “That was a job for Superman, yadda yadda, I get it, I know, you can shut up about it now. Forget about the shelf. Forget I ever asked you to help me. I fixed it myself, so you don’t have to keep leading me on with it. Let’s just move on. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Is it possible to get addicted from just taking one half of a pill? Your head is killing you, and your ribs feel like they’re closing in on your lungs and heart, and having Clark hover around you like this, with his stupid morals and values and too pure heart only made everything worse.

Scratch addiction — was it possible to get withdrawal from just one half dose?

You take three normal painkillers. Maybe the right decision would be to go to the ER but you’re too deep into this, and you really, really don’t want Clark to find out about your ribs and have to deal with his guilt again.

You love him, you really do. But you just wish you could take a normal breath again without almost passing out from pain alone.

If he’d fixed that damn shelf months ago like you’d asked him, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You know you could have done it yourself, but he’d made you promise you wouldn’t do that, and unlike some people, you actually kept your promises. If he’d kept his, you wouldn’t be mad at the love of your life, and you wouldn’t be thinking about swallowing all of Clark’s painkillers.

You make the mistake of looking at Clark’s face, and the misery and heartbreak you see on it almost brings you to your knees. If the physical pain didn’t do you in, then his pain so clearly etched onto his angelic features certainly would.

────୨ৎ────

You love Clark but you hate his guilt. You hate the kicked puppy look on his face whenever he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he gets quieter, more overbearing, as he tries to fix things by overcompensating.

Dinner is a matter of awkward silence and grating sounds from cutlery against plates. He made dinner. He really wanted to, even if it was usually your role to make dinner. You let him because frankly, you’re over this whole thing.

The dinner is good but it tastes like ashes to your tastebuds. You keep thinking about his painkillers in the bathroom. The ones you were never supposed to take because they weren’t made for humans. You wonder if he would ever notice half of one missing. You wonder how he would react.

When you go to sleep, he tries to hug you from behind but you flinch so hard (not at him, just at the expectation of the pain that was soon to follow) that he literally makes a noise. A small, wounded, noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, you’re sorry too.

────୨ৎ────

You can’t stay mad at Clark for too long. It’s against your nature.

So when he makes dinner for the third night in a row, and buys you all of the items on your whishlist, and does a million tiny other little things that make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, and he gets down on his knees to sincerely ask for your forgiveness, and he tells you how much of an idiot he’s been, you give in. Because idiot or not, you still loved your boyfriend. So much that it sometimes hurt.

“I forgive you,” you tell him, and watching him smile is like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through dark stormy clouds after a dark season.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. More than you could ever know, even if I’m an idiot sometimes. I genuinely was going to do what you asked, I swear, but I guess I just didn’t see how important it was to you.”

He’s so sweet, and he’s so kind, and you don’t know how you’re going to keep hiding your ribs from him without breaking his heart. It’s obvious he already feels bad enough for not taking what you ask of him seriously; he already feels bad enough that you ended up doing something he was supposed to do.

Knowing you got hurt, indirectly because of him, would crush him.

“I love you, Clark. And I appreciate your words,” you reply, and you try to forget about the bruises under your shirt that seem to flare up, in sync with your guilt.

“I am the luckiest man on earth and the galaxy,” he whispers against your neck. “And I was too stupid to see it. Never again, sweetheart. Never again. I don’t even have a proper excuse, other than I was being an idiot.”

His hand trails beneath your shirt. He grazes your ribs and when you shiver, he thinks it’s from pleasure.

“You’re warm,” he says.

Yeah, because my skin is tender and sore and swollen, and even your softest touch feels like fire against my skin.

“I run hot,” you reply.

“Or… maybe I make you hot,” he says, in that distinctive way of his; both confident and boyish, both suave and sheepish, like he’s still not sure whether he’s allowed to be like this around you.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m still mad at you, remember?”

And he pouts. This oversized man, who can lift buildings, who can destroy civilisations with one vision ray, who is on his knees for you, is honest to God pouting, eyes looking at you through his eyelashes, eyes downturned like you’d just told him Krypto hated me. “But you forgave me,” he says— or rather, he whines.

“Did I?” you ask, smirking despite the tender ache beneath your breasts. He always did make everything better.

“You’re so cruel to me my love. And yet, something is wrong with me because I love it.”

You brush his messy curls over his forehead, and he all but melts against your touch, and you scratch at his scalp like you do to Superkitten.

It’s not the first time that you make the comparison. Superman and Superkitten. Both a little dumb, both full of love for you.

He rests his head on your thighs and you keep playing with his hair. It’s soft and silky and it always smells nice. He always denies it but you’re ninety-nine percent sure he steals your vanilla scented shampoo. You rasp your fingernails against his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“I love you, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll work hard on becoming a man worthy of you.”

And there’s something wrong with this sentence, because why would the man who saves the planet on a daily basis not be worthy of you? Who even are you? But still, his words break something tender inside your chest, and your heart spills like ink on paper.

“I love you too, Clark,” you tell him, because it’s all you’re able to say before your throat closes up and your eyes sting.

I should have waited for him, you thought to yourself. I shouldn’t have tried to do it on my own, and I shouldn’t have snapped at him the way I did.

Now you hurt him, and yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Clark Kent is, by definition, a clingy man. No one would never know because on the surface, he almost looks put together — aside from his clumsiness and his fool act that stopped fooling you a long time ago.

Ever since he confessed to you and asked you out and you gave him permission, it’s like all his restraints came off. A kiss on the lips were just the tip of the iceberg. When you guys go grocery shopping, he refuses to let you hold anything, and he holds everything with one hand just so he can hold yours with his free hand.

He kisses you on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your forehead. Anytime, anywhere, for no reason other than he just felt like it.

He never once made you doubt his love because, as cynical as you are, even you can’t deny the love pouring off him in waves whenever he sees you.

Whenever he has to write an article, he always manages to sneak in something only you would understand. Each sentence would start with a letter that would then form a secret message for you.

I LOVE YOU

SWEETHEART

LOVELY

Clark Kent is in love with you. You know that. The world knows that, because he has no issue with showing it to the world. In fact, he has issue if he can’t show you off.

It’s Saturday morning and neither of you has work. It’s a lazy morning, with sun rays draped over your bodies like nature’s own blanket. His arm is draped over your thigh— thigh that’s draped over his own hip. Mornings with him felt like a game of Twisters in the best way possible.

You can feel him, heavy and hot, right against your crotch. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. He bucks his hips, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Clark Kent is a clingy man, but also a relentless one. He can never get enough. Awake, asleep, his mind’s always attuned to your presence. He always wants you.

It doesn’t take you too long for your body to adjust, to react. Your hips respond in kind, and you watch as a smile unfurls on his face. He looks like the world’s largest, and most satisfied, cat in the world.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick from sleep. It’s so deep you feel like it could rumble against your chest. His hands are travellers, mapping each inch of your skin from touch alone. This, I love. This, I love too, he seems to say with his hands.

You shiver again. Pleasure and pain mingle together.

“Morning,” you reply. You’ve never been the early riser between the two of you, and mornings make you feel it.

Then, he disappears from your side, and he appears again between your legs, your thighs bracketing his head, draped over his shoulders like the world’s naughtiest cape. He’s looking at you expectantly, and heat exploses in your lower belly. He’s so big that your thighs are already stretched apart, just to accommodate him.

With one thumb, he slides your panties to the side.

Your head falls back on your pillow, and you twist and grasp the mess of his curls between your fingers.

His hands, large and safe and big and warm, are on each side of your hips, and his thumbs slide underneath your shirt. His face disappears between your legs, and your hips stutter involuntarily.

He tries to go further with his hands, but you stop him. You hold his hands in yours, and close your legs around his neck. You know he loves the feeling of you crushing him with your thighs, and you need to distract him from trying to take your shirt off, because you also know that he likes having you bare and naked, so he can play with your breasts freely. He doesn’t like being caged by your shirt.

But your bruises have gotten worse, and you can’t show him, not when he’s finally moved on and stopped feeling guilty every time your eyes meet his.

He bites the inside of your thigh when he feels that you’re not all there with him.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he demands, lips swollen and shiny. “Eyes on me.”

And what else can you do when he speaks to you like this except obey?

────୨ৎ────

“You hate me,” he pouts.

“What?” you ask, laughing in disbelief. “You just had your head between my legs and you think I hate you?”

He hasn’t even washed up yet. His lips are shiny and glossy and they smell of you.

“But you won’t let me wash you,” he explains. “You hate me, admit it, my love. You only use for my tongue and—”

You blush, and cover his — sticky — mouth with your hands. “Shut up!”

His mouth can’t move but his eyes smile for him.

“Let me shower with you, baby, please. I’m begging you,” he pleads, the moment you take your hands off his lips and you your hands against your shirt.

“No.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Just no? I don’t even get a reason?”

“You’ve been a bad boy,” you lie. “Bad boys don’t get to shower with me.”

He gasps. “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“Not for another four weeks, no.”

This time, he just laughs, taken by surprise by the specificity of your answer. “That’s so specific, baby. Why four weeks?”

You raise one shoulder. “I just felt like it.”

It’s a lie. You said four weeks because Google said bruised ribs took six weeks to recover, and it’d already been almost two weeks. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

“Fine. I guess I deserve that. But you should know I’m going to miss you terribly while you’re showering in there, all alone, without me, without anyone to scrub your back for you because you’re all alone.”

You push his face away with your hand again. He loves being manhandled by you. “I think I’ll manage, lover boy. But thank you for the concern.”

He watches you close the bathroom door like a sad puppy being left behind.

They always say things get worse before they get better, and you hope that’s the case with your ribs. The longer you look at it, the more ashamed you felt. Falling from a stupid ladder. Trying to hold onto a broken shelf. It’s no one’s fault but yours. Clark didn’t make you grab that screwdriver and climb on that ladder. He didn’t make you fall. You did. You thought that an old and unstable ladder was good enough for the job, and you tried to hold onto the shelf you’d just spent twenty minutes unscrewing from the wall to not fall.

All of this is on you. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the shame.

You don’t know why but under the shower you break into tears. The instant the hot drops of water touch your skin, it’s like a faucet is turned on. Your ribs hurt with the weight of your sobs. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s keeping it secret from him when all you want is to be cared for by him. You don’t know. You’re being stupid, and you’re so glad Clark is too much of a gentleman to use his superheating when you’re under the shower on your own, because you’re really not sure how you would have lied your way out of that.

Only a few more weeks. Your bruising is going to disappear soon, and you would no longer have to avoid Clark anymore.

By the time you’re out of the shower, Clark is cleaned up and dressed (well, he’s shirtless, but he did put pants on), and he’s busy sliding the last chocolate chip pancake he’d made onto a pile of steaming pancakes. It’s your favorite breakfast. The jar of Nutella is already out on the table, and he’s got hot chocolate ready for you as well.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder, and you know he put it there on purpose, because you’d told him once that it made you go kind of crazy whenever he did that.

You slide on the barstool with barely a wince. You’re smiling so big your cheeks hurt.

“What’s this?” you ask him.

“Breakfast for my one and only.”

“What happened to you thinking I hated you?”

“Well, I figured if you really hated me, I had better start treating you like the princess you are.”

“Aren’t you just smart?”

He preens under the praise, and the sight of the red dusting on his cheeks makes everything else a little easier to bear.

“I hope you like the pancakes. I tried my best.”

“They look fantastic,” you reply immediately. You’re not lying. And even if they looked ugly, you wouldn’t care, because he’d made them for you, because he knew they were your favorite.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He gets closer to you and kisses you on the forehead. “Anything for you, my princess. I mean it.”

You believe him. You’ve always believed him.

You don’t know what the hell you did to deserve a man like him.

────୨ৎ────

“You okay?” he asks you a couple of days later, completely out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your stupid heartbeat’s going to expose you if you don’t calm it right now.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s attuned to you like he’s a radio and you’re his favorite channel.

“It’s just… I saw two sheets of painkillers in the trash. Empty. I’d never seen you use that many before. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s too kind to mention your heartbeat going crazy inside your ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. It’s a wonder, you think, that it doesn’t actually hurt your ribs.

He knows. He must know about the half dose of his painkillers that you took. Knowing him, he probably checked everything in the shelves behind the bathroom mirror.

You can’t think of a lie on the spot. “My- my headaches were getting worse,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think it too suspicious, because he already knows you’re prone to headaches. It’s why you have so many painkillers in the first place. “But I’m feeling better, now. I think they’re gone for good.”

It’s true, in a way. Your rib pain is almost gone. The bruises are mostly for show, at this point.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you,” he asks, gentle frown between his eyes, and it breaks your heart, to be the one to put that worry there on his beautiful face.

“Sorry… I’m sorry Clark. It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll tell you next time, though. I promise.”

He stands up from the couch and walks over to you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He bends down to kiss your forehead. “And I’m sorry you’ve been hurting this badly. Next time, don’t take that much painkillers, okay? I’m not telling you what to do, but they aren’t good for your health, and I’m worried about you. Come to me, and I’ll make you herbal teas and give you massages, okay?”

“Okay,” you croak out.

The guilt is going to eat you alive.

────୨ৎ────

In a way, you’re almost glad when fate decides to take reigns over your life and exposes your lie to Clark.

It happens like this: it’s Sunday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen washing the dishes you’d used to make Clark his favorite cake while he’s in the backyard doing Clark Kent stuff, and then he comes back inside through the kitchen door, and he’s smiling at you and then standing right behind you. He puts his head above yours, because you’re the perfect size for that, and then, without warning, he wraps his arms around your ribs and lifts you up in the air.

It’s supposed to be cute, it’s supposed to be romantic. He’s happy to see you, and he loves you, and he loves to have you in his arms at all times.

You’re supposed to shriek in surprise to fake struggling while giggling and asking him to (not) put you back down.

What you’re not supposed to do, however, is gasp like he’d just crushed your ribcage, and double over in pain.

The effect is immediate.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?! Did I hurt you?”

You’d never heard him this panicked, this horrified. His biggest fear had always been to accidentally hurt you, physically or mentally, and this must seem like his worst nightmare come true.

Clark puts you down immediately on the ground, and he’s turning you gently so he can look at you, eyes raking up your body up and down to check for injuries.

You try to hide your ribs with your arms but it’s useless against his x-ray vision.

You can tell just from the tightening of his jaw that he saw it. He saw what you’d been trying to hide for the past couple of weeks.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice is strangely cold and distant. It’s — terrifying. “I know it’s not me because it looks old. Weeks old. What happened?” he repeated.

You’re standing there, frozen with fear, hands still soapy and dripping water all over the floor. “It’s nothing,” you reply. It’s your first instinct. To lie and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His voice is quiet but almost menacing. “I can see it clear as day. You’re hurt. Tell me when, why, who or what.”

He’s starting to connect the dots, you think. He’s scared of your answer as much as he’s scared of you lying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for. For hiding it from him? For not hiding it good enough from him?

“Baby, please,” he begs. His voice sounds wrecked.

“When I was taking the shelf down, our cat used the ladder as a scratching post, and it fell. I tried to hold onto the shelf but it broke under my weight. And it fell on my chest.”

He rubs a hand over his face as he starts pacing around the kitchen. “You’ve been hurting for two weeks and I had no idea,” he says. He sounds completely wrecked. “And it’s all my fault. If I’d just— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were already feeling so guilty, I didn’t want to add on top of that. And it’s not your fault I fell and bruised my ribs. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“My emotions are mine alone to manage, okay? It’s not— God.” He stops moving, and he turns to look at you. “You shouldn’t have had to hide your pain from me just to spare me my feelings. I’m a grown man, I can take it. I can take anything you throw at me. But don’t hide from me, especially not because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, God, no, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Did you… did you go see a doctor at least?”

“No. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think about it but by the time I did, it was too late.”

“What if you’d broken a rib?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I checked myself. And it didn’t hurt as bad as it would if I’d broken a rib.”

His laugh is a mixture of disbelief and tears. “That doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It’s just the truth.”

“Can I see?” he asks.

“You already did.”

“No, I need to see you. I need to be able to touch you.”

You lift up your shirt from the bottom and lift it slowly, revealing the nebula of purple and blue across your ribs, and Clark’s breath catches in his throat as he falls to his knees.

His hand hovers your skin. He doesn’t need to touch you for your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I should have known. The painkillers, refusing to let me see you change, refusing to let me undress you. The signs were all there and I was too stupid to see it.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say weakly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make you fall, but I’m the one who pushed you to do something I was supposed to do for you, on your own. I’m the one who made you feel like you had to hide it from me to spare my feelings. I’m the one who failed you.”

“I’m the one who made the decision to hide it from you.” Your voice is weak to your own ears. You can’t blink at all. You’re staring at him, on his knees for you again in two weeks. Him apologizing to you twice in two weeks.

“No— you listen to me. Not any of this is your fault. I’m the one who’s been negligent and irresponsible. I’m the one who kept breaking my promise to you. I’m the one who’s made you bear something that was never yours to handle to begin with. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. Unconsciously, I made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me. And that’s unforgivable.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark refuses to let you lift a single finger. He’s helped you lay down in bed in a way that didn’t hurt your ribs and said,

“You can bully me and refuse to listen to me for the rest of our lives all you want but only after you’re okay. For now, just — please — humor me?”

Who are you to say no?

He calls his parents, and you can hear sweet Martha’s voice right from his phone because she always speaks loudly into the phone, worried you wouldn’t be able to hear her over the distance.

“Ma, I messed up,” he says.

You tune everything out while he asks his mom what he should do. And then he’s handing the phone to you because she said she wanted to talk to you, but Clark’s reluctant because he’s worried making you talk will hurt you more but you just roll your eyes at him and snatch the phone from his hand. Nothing will stop you from talking to her. And besides, your ribs are a lot better than they were. And Martha’s not exactly going to come out of the phone just to squeeze her ribs.

It’s fine.

Martha is lovely as always and she says five times that she’ll come on down to their place anytime you wanted, and that she could make your favorite cookies, and that she and Jonathan missed the both of you, and that she hoped you will be alright soon.

She ends the call with, “Come see us once you’re alright, darling. Smallville misses you.”

And it must be in their genes because you can’t say no to her either.

Clark had been standing there the entire time, probably using his superhearing to overhear the entire conversation. He’s worried, you can see it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and he’s rubbing his thumb across his lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks you for the hundredth time since he found out about your ribs.

“Yes. Believe me when I say it, or I’ll never tell you about my injuries from now on.”

He gasps. “You plan on having more injuries?!”

God bless his poor sweet soul.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Just… make yourself useful and come spoon me.”

His body reacts instantly — so used to obeying you — before his mind catches up with him and he jerks. “But your ribs.”

“They’re fine. As long as you don’t plan on squeezing me again.”

He took off his shirt and pants before crawling into bed next to you. He’s sulking. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know about your ribs, otherwise I never would have tried to lift you that way. Promise me you’ll always tell me when you’re hurt. Or even when you’re not hurt. I just need to know how you’re doing at all times.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very, very lonely because my boyfriend refuses to cuddle me.”

“Ouch, but fair.”

Your words spur him into action and soon, his arms are ever so gently wrapping around you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “And I’m sorry for failing you. But I swear to you that I’ll make it up to you, and keep making it up to you till the day I die.”

“I love you too, even if you’re crazy dramatic sometimes.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers. The worst part is that he means it. He truly feels lucky because you love him. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot. “I’m the luckiest idiot in the entire world.”

It’s not even close to the end of the day and it’s too late for a nap, but your eyes start to flutter shut anyway. All you need is Clark by your side and his arms, light as feather, around you.

“And by the way, you’re banned from ever climbing on a ladder again,” he whispers into your ear, right as you’re about to fall asleep.

Idiot.

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[kaylasficrecs]

false alarm

PAIRING: Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Johnny receives an SOS message from you and rushes to your apartment.

WARNINGS: fluff, semi-au(cellphones/texting), protectiveness, domestic fluff, established relationship, kissing, sexual humor, sexual tension, two dweebs

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: oh johnny.... the only blonde man i could ever love.....

READ ON AO3

Johnny Storm doesn’t panic.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Panic is below him. Panic is for people who are unprepared, people who are vulnerable and can lose—and that simply isn’t him.

He’s Johnny Storm.

Except for the fact that he is panicking. Full blown panic. Because the text on his phone reads:

SOS. EMERGENCY. NOW.

From you.

Your relationship is still relatively new, and despite Johnny being, in Ben’s words, "completely and utterly whipped" , you’ve both been taking it slow. Keeping it private.

Johnny understood the reasoning, of course. For every benefit that came with being in the public eye—and being, well, a superhero —there were just as many ugly, unappetizing drawbacks. 

The kind that involved people getting hurt just for being close. 

And one of those reasons—the one that sat in the back of his mind, stuffed into that dusty, cobwebbed corner where he kept things that made him feel too much—was the fear that someone might figure out his big secret. 

That all it would take to bring Johnny Storm to his knees was you. 

He’s not thinking clearly when he leaves the Baxter Building.

He flames on mid-hallway, and shoots through the air, burning bright over the city. He knows the urgency of his movements will cause headlines later, but he doesn’t care.

“Please be okay,” he mutters as he flies. “Please. Please just be a stupid cat or something. Or like...a clogged drain.”

But he knows you. You wouldn’t say emergency unless it was real.

What if you’re hurt? What if you’re scared, or bleeding out on your kitchen floor because of some dumb mistake—and he didn’t move fast enough?

He barely extinguishes the flames as he lands, shoes smoking as he rounds the corner onto your street. A couple stares. A kid points. A teenager tries to stop him. He jogs past them all, muttering apologies, hair still faintly singed.

The worst things are flooding his mind by the time he reaches your apartment, a thin trail of heat curls off his shoulders as he barrels toward the entrance, just as someone reaches the door.

“Hold that—please—!”

An older woman in a quilted vest turns toward him, pausing mid-step. She looks him up and down, and then begins pulling the door shut. Johnny fails to hide his offense as he pushes himself forward.

“Ma’am, I just—can I—sorry, I just need to—”

“Don’t know you,” she says firmly. “Not letting in strangers.”

“I’m not—well, technically I am —but I’m here for my girlfriend.”

At her silence, he adds, “Kinda. It’s new.”

She raises a brow. “So not a girlfriend.”

“I mean, not in the technical sense but—”

She swings her purse at him. “Out! I don’t know you ! You don’t live here.”

“Ow! Okay—please—I’m not—” He ducks the second swing, trying to wedge his shoulder through the narrow gap she’s holding open with her hip. “I’m not here to hurt anyone! I just need to see —ow, okay, okay —”

She starts muttering something about delinquents and city crime as she thwacks him once more. Johnny ducks again, hands half-raised, grateful none of his family is around to witness him getting smacked around by an elderly woman. They would never let him live it down.

“I swear I’m not breaking in!” Johnny protests. “I’m Johnny Storm! ”

She narrows her eyes.

“You know, the Human Torch?” he adds, gesturing wildly. “Fantastic Four? That’s me, on the billboard!” He turns and points outside, where his face—smirking, flaming—stretches three stories high above the city skyline.

She squints at the billboard. “Well. You should’ve led with that.”

He’s still rubbing his arm when she lets him in.

Johnny doesn’t wait for the elevator. He bolts up the stairs two at a time until he’s face to face with your door. He barely skids to a stop outside before banging on it desperately. When there’s no immediate answer, he takes one step back.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, drawing his foot back—

The door swings open.

You blink up at him. “Johnny?”

“Hey,” He exhales sharply, eyes sweeping over you. Your face is not one of panic.  “You’re—you’re okay?”

You open your mouth to reply, but behind you, there’s a burst of noise.

“Wait—is that—” “OH my god —” “Is that Johnny fucking Storm?!”

Several of your friends spill into the doorway, wide-eyed and gawking.

You go rigid. Then you slam the door shut in their faces, back pressed against it as you turn to Johnny, cheeks burning.

“Sorry.” You breathe out. “Is everything okay?”

“That was kind of my line,” he says, holding up his phone. Your text glows on the screen. 

You frown, then pat yourself down, grabbing your own phone from your pocket. You open his contact— named by Johnny himself as hot stuff🔥 —and there it is. Your emergency text.

Your mouth drops. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. They were curious about the new boyfriend, and Rylee got into my phone, and—”

He raises a brow. “Boyfriend?”

“Huh?”

Johnny smirks. “You said they were curious about your new boyfriend .”

“Did I? Maybe you’re hearing things.”

“I don’t think so,” He steps closer, arms slipping around your waist. “You telling people about me, sweetheart?”

Your lips tug into a grin. “Maybe.”

He leans in, just as someone behind the door gasps again.

You both pull back, laughing. Johnny raises a hand—and with one flicker of heat, singes the peephole black.

“Johnny!” you swat his chest. “If that’s damaged, I have to pay—”

He kisses you.

“I think I can cover that,” he murmurs, then leans in again, lips brushing yours. “As your boyfriend.”

Johnny brings you in again, and every frantic piece of him quiets as you melt into his touch.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, breath hitching as you pull back just enough to speak. “If I worried you.”

He starts to shake his head, slow and distracted, because he can’t quite pull himself back into language. He’d rather just keep kissing you until all that panic melts off his skin.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut. His hand traces down your back, a little greedy. A little soft. You’re close and warm and real, and it’s making his thoughts scatter. 

“Right. I forgot,” you say, lips tilting into a smile, “Johnny Storm isn’t scared of anything.”

“Well that’s not entirely true,” he says, almost without thinking.

“No?”

Your fingers are in his hair now, brushing the nape of his neck. He shivers. He leans in again—barely resisting the urge to kiss you stupid—and knocks his nose into yours, more gentle this time.

“I’m scared of you.”

Your brows lift. “Me?”

He nods, just a little, his forehead resting against yours. “Yes. You.”

“I’m not scary.”

“On the contrary,” Johnny says. “You’re terrifying.”

“Oh really?” 

He nods. “I’ve been through… well, let’s see. Interdimensional wormholes. Space monsters. Literal hell once, I think? And I didn’t even flinch. But you—” he whistles lowly, “—the second I thought something happened to you… it was like I forgot how to breathe. My whole body just… reacted . I've never felt panic like that. Not even close.”

Something in your face softens. “Really?”

“You make me weak,” Johnny admits. “In the worst and best way.”

Your eyes flicker over his face, taking him in. Your fingers thread deeper into his hair. “Good,” you whisper, and then you kiss him—slow, deep, and just as greedy. When you finally pull back, your breath is warm against his lips. “You big ol’ softie.”

“Don’t start that rumor.” 

“Your secret is safe with me,” you whisper, teasing. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin your public image by revealing you’re obsessed with me.”

“Well,” he says, as his hands settle further on your hips again. “I’d say being emotionally vulnerable is incredibly hot of me, don’t you think?”

You raise a brow. “That right?”

“Mhm,” he murmurs, nosing along your jaw. “Shows range. Depth. Devastating sex appeal. I mean, you’re practically throwing yourself at me right now.”

You laugh. “In your dreams.”

“Yeah, pretty much,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at you — blue eyes darkened, grin crooked. “Every night. In vivid detail.”

Your breath catches despite yourself. “You, Johnny Storm, are insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he says, “Pinned against a wall.”

“A door, actually. And I wouldn’t say pinned, per say .”

“I beg to differ.”

“You do a lot of that? Begging?”

Before he can reply, a voice calls from inside.

“Alright, that’s enough! We need her back before this turns way too R-rated.”

Another friend pipes up with mock-exasperation.

“Yeah, Johnny, save some of that devastating sex appeal for another night.”

You groan, forehead dropping to Johnny’s chest. 

“Tell them to go away,” he mutters, arms still around you. 

You peel back, mock-apologetic. “Can’t. Duty calls.” 

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I guess I'll just go save the world or whatever. Boring.”

You smile and turn to go back inside your apartment. But just before you close the door, Johnny steps forward and steals one more kiss. 

You hover there for a second, voice softer now.  “Thank you. For coming for me.”

Johnny raises a brow, tempted to say something cheeky—some immature innuendo that would make you roll your eyes—but you catch the look and laugh first.

“Don’t you dare.”

He laughs at your expression, but soon softens. “I’ll always come for you.”

Now it’s your turn to bite back a laugh, and Johnny relishes in the warmth that glints in your eyes. 

Another voice from behind you yells: “Just shut the door on lover boy, already!” 

You grin, mouthing a quiet, “Bye,” before the door clicks shut.

Johnny stands there for a moment, staring at the spot where you disappeared. Then he turns to go, tugging his jacket a little tighter around himself as he heads out.

And as he returns home, he thinks of something nearly as terrifying as the way he feels about you: 

Ben was right. He is completely and utterly whipped. 

And he’s never going to hear the end of it.