#the first computer bug

[aorticsingularity]

When it when the when she when when

[wyn0rrific]

minimal effort nyx doodle

[foxboybugs]

i'm literally just a fox i should be chasing squirrels and building my den but unfortunately i'm about to crash out over adobe after effects

[vioyume]

Ya think "Flower Journey" would get into controversy within the game world since the wasps are depicted as villains?

I spent too long playing this stupid flappy bird clone and I am forming stupid headcanons surrounding it.

You can probably make the same argument about the enemies in Mite Knight but they're more or less depicted as "mystical creatures".

Don't take this too seriously. I just thought it would be funny to have Flappy Bird be canceled.

[haemosexuality]

the reason the queen was so fixated on noelle was because she wanted to find someone with determination to be the new knight and she knew how determined noelle was to find her sister because of all her searches!!!!!!. AAAAAAA

[redrosydiaz]

it is barely 8 am and the univer is t e s t i n g me i SWEAAAAAAR

[peliginspeaks]

is null like Aware that theyre only 2 and that thats not normal. i feel like they wouldnt realise xD

Null is not Aware. in general. However funny as that answer is this really did make me think so I'll try to answer it real style too shdhds

Null doesn't remember anything before the last 2 years or remember how they came about. Someone existed prior to that, now that person does not exist in living memory anymore, and Null is-not in her place. I don't think it has a concept of its age...? Since it only recently has developed a concept of being a thing that is alive, due to having been killed before. Null has very little internal dialogue that doesn't surround the feeling of hunger and emptiness and schemes to fill it, and no sense of identity to speak of outside of that, so the sense of being abnormal compared to most humans doesn't register with them much. However, by now they've probably realized that most people have a birthday and parents and a childhood, and from very early on they realized people like it when they appear to be like Most People.

So, if you asked Null about its background, you'd probably get a patched together mix of the information of others that it's heard and filed away. It wouldn't take an especially careful ear to realize that none of it adds up. References to moving from the Surface at age 18 clash with anecdotes of living in the Neath as a child, and if pressed for an age you'd swear you heard tell of a birthday party they hosted with a number that exceeded the one they just gave you. If you are positioned to be talking to Null, you are probably either too polite or too disinterested to pry. ...Or too confused. Most likely too confused.

(...or it will make you want to talk to them more to find out what's going on. Bad idea, overall.)

[th4t-bug]

Here is chapter one of Bug's origin story! Ao3 for those who don't like reading on Tumblr:

And now, here we go, because I have gotten the first five followers of this blog as of last night.

The Beginning

(Chapter One of "The Bug")

It's strange, really, how much my life changed in the span of three short months. It feels like forever ago, but I can still remember how this all started so clearly.

I was walking home from school, by myself. It was late, I had to make up a test in one class, and earlier that day had earned myself a detention in another. That's not the point though, what really matters is that it was dark out already when I left. I nervously peeked around each and every alley I passed on the sidewalk, around there I was more worried about getting mugged than the cold- for good reason.

The sound was faint, down an alleyway I was coming up on, but I would already recognize the sound of breaking glass anywhere. My mouth went ever so slightly dry, my backpack heavy on my shoulders, and I made what must be one of the dumbest decisions of my life.

With my hand on the wall, I peeked around the corner.

“Anybody There?” I whispered my words before I processed anything, my throat tightening at the sight before me. I'm still glad to this day that I was so great at being silent, even back then. There, down the alley, was a man, tall, and a nasty scar along the side of his neck. He held a broken glass bottle in his hand, no doubt the cause of the sound I had heard earlier.

And, most importantly to me at the time, backed against the wall in front of him, was Maddie Lane.

Maddie and I weren't friends. I didn't know her that well, but she seemed like a nice girl. And then, as we silently made eye contact over that evil man’s shoulder, she looked so scared. I don't exactly remember what the man said to her, something about money- I just know that I had to act, to do something, and I did before even thinking about it or its consequences.

My backpack was heavy, like a bag full of rocks with how much stuff I had to keep in there, so it’s surprising I was able to slide it off of my shoulders so quickly without hurting myself- and hurl it at the man.

My improvised projectile hit the man solidly in the head with a force that surprised me. The guy didn't even have time to react, the hit was angled enough for the man to fall and hit the brick wall of the side of the alleyway with the back of his head. There was a sickening crack and I fought the urge to heave as I watched the man's eyes roll back into his skull, his form slumped on the ground. There was the sound of my backpack heavily hitting the ground somewhere in the commotion, but if it was before or after the man went unconscious, I couldn't tell you, and there was a shriek (although I don't know if it was Maddie who made that sound, or me).

I was breathing heavily, my vision was a blur, and I was unable to look away from the man's body for a moment before I shook my head and looked up at Maddie, seeing the shock in her brown eyes. “Are…” I trailed off with a nervous swallow, I could still feel my hands traveling. Finally, the words managed to leave my throat, “Are you okay?”

Sure, it might have been a basic question, but that's all I could think of to say. I wanted to make sure she was alright, after what had happened.

Maddie took a deep breath, looking at me as if I was no more than a hallucination. “Yeah, I think so.” She mumbled out, sounding like she was trying to detach from the situation itself.

I was concerned, sure, but to say the least the situation felt awkward. Sure, me and Maddie shared the same English class, but we didn't really know each other. I didn't know what to say, and with the all the events that led up to this- I didn't want Maddie to think I found her ‘just in time' because I had been following her, which wasn't the case. I eventually settled on the most generic question I could think of.

“...how’d this happen?” Okay, so it may have been a very bad thing to ask given the delicate situation, but my brain pulled up blanks everywhere else. Maddie shook herself out of her stupor and shrugged, saying that it was sudden and she didn't know. It didn't sound like the truth, but I didn't push her.

I nodded and walked forward with a grimace last the still unconscious man to pick up my backpack, hoping nothing in it was broken. “Do you need me to walk you home?” I asked after a moment, but it was more of a formality than anything. Maddie, thankfully, did not take me up on my offer and shook her head. “No- no, I think I can get home safe from here.”

I nodded again, it was for the best really, we were both still a bit shaken up and I preferred being alone when something was disturbing me. “Good… I guess I'll see you tomorrow?” I said as I slung my backpack back onto my shoulders. Maddie nodded awkwardly and her brown eyes glanced away, “Yeah.”

We stood silently in that alleyway for a moment in front of each other before Maddie said her goodbyes, turned away, and left. It was a strange moment, but I didn't notice anything distinctly wrong with Maddie at the time. I sighed heavily, glancing back at the man who was still unconscious on the ground of the dirty alley. I was starting to get concerned, if he was knocked out that long he could have gained brain damage from the situation.

I, however, didn't feel particularly inclined to call an ambulance or the police, as I wanted to get home soon. I simply tried to steady myself, and I resumed the walk home.

It was dark, but my parents weren't back yet- as usual, they wouldn't be until morning. I let myself in the house, and stumbled down the hall to my room. I set my backpack on the floor next to my bed, gently so as to not risk damaging anything.

I wasn't hungry. I had eaten on the walk home from school- before seeing Maddie. But mostly, that man's unconscious body, the sound of that sickening crack- it had unnerved any sense of an appetite I may have had that night.

I crawled into bed after kicking off my socks and shoes, but otherwise didn't bother changing. That situation, all of it had exhausted me, more than I would have thought with how much worse it could have been. My green eyes stared up and spaced out at my blank white ceiling, and I got to thinking.

I mean, sure, I knew the crime rate in my city was pretty high, too high to be considered safe, but in my neighborhood it really did get bad at night. I blindly reached to the side, turning off the lamp on my night table, the blinds of my window had already been pulled shut. The room became nearly pitch black aside from the soft light of my phone, I always preferred it like that to go to sleep.

My eyelids felt heavy, I put on my wireless headphones for music and shut off my phone, placing it on the nightstand to charge. I thought of Maddie, what might have happened if I had passed her by. I sighed softly, closing my eyes, the last thought that crossed my mind before I slept was ‘maybe it's possible for me to help people more?’

Which, of course it was.

The next morning, I went through my usual routine, feeling like a passenger in my own body. I got up, dressed in clean clothes, brushed my teeth- all the works. I did so quietly, not wanting to wake my parents who would have gotten home only two hours or so before.

I don't remember thinking a lot that day, it was mostly a blur of memories from the night before. I ate breakfast on a TV tray in the living room, cleaned up a bit, and grabbed my backpack before leaving for school. I made a point to pass the alleyway from before on the way, it made my heart jump to my throat, but the man wasn't there any more- so at least he hadn't died there (as I had almost nearly convinced myself of).

I continued on my way to school, got there- yadda yadda yadda. I will be completely honest here, the only thing I remember noticing that day is that Maddie Lane was missing from her seat in my English class.

Luckily, that day, I didn't have to stay after school as I had the day before. So the walk home from school was not in the dark, but it still had me on edge, checking around every corner. It wasn't too cold, I was always resistant to temperature changes. It was about two or three months from the first snow of the year, but my jacket was zipped all the way up- I guess somehow it made me feel safer.

I did the same thing I did the night before, checking down the alley ways on my usual path home. I didn't stumble along anything bad, not for my area at least, but getting closer to my house seeing the trash and broken items on the dirty ground left a sour taste in my mouth.

The city wasn't great, hell, it was far from it. It was dirty and ridden with crime. But, for me, it was home- well, the area of my neighborhood was at least. One person could not fix all of this, it would take a miracle, a hero, even a grade A superhero to really help. However, I was no hero. But I was a rather stubborn kid who had seen some horrible things, and I wanted to help.

So, for the life of me, I was going to try.

[coconut530]

hoooo boy this one was tough to get through

[shwarmadillo]

don’t mind me just picturing those scuttling noises as the result of an interdimensional tape recorder sprouting legs and scurrying around the archives like a confused beetle

[luetta]

idk if people on tumblr know about this but a cybersecurity software called crowdstrike just did what is probably the single biggest fuck up in any sector in the past 10 years. it's monumentally bad. literally the most horror-inducing nightmare scenario for a tech company.

some info, crowdstrike is essentially an antivirus software for enterprises. which means normal laypeople cant really get it, they're for businesses and organisations and important stuff.

so, on a friday evening (it of course wasnt friday everywhere but it was friday evening in oceania which is where it first started causing damage due to europe and na being asleep), crowdstrike pushed out an update to their windows users that caused a bug.

before i get into what the bug is, know that friday evening is the worst possible time to do this because people are going home. the weekend is starting. offices dont have people in them. this is just one of many perfectly placed failures in the rube goldburg machine of crowdstrike. there's a reason friday is called 'dont push to live friday' or more to the point 'dont fuck it up friday'

so, at 3pm at friday, an update comes rolling into crowdstrike users which is automatically implemented. this update immediately causes the computer to blue screen of death. very very bad. but it's not simply a 'you need to restart' crash, because the computer then gets stuck into a boot loop.

this is the worst possible thing because, in a boot loop state, a computer is never really able to get to a point where it can do anything. like download a fix. so there is nothing crowdstrike can do to remedy this death update anymore. it is now left to the end users.

it was pretty quickly identified what the problem was. you had to boot it in safe mode, and a very small file needed to be deleted. or you could just rename crowdstrike to something else so windows never attempts to use it.

it's a fairly easy fix in the grand scheme of things, but the issue is that it is effecting enterprises. which can have a looooot of computers. in many different locations. so an IT person would need to manually fix hundreds of computers, sometimes in whole other cities and perhaps even other countries if theyre big enough.

another fuck up crowdstrike did was they did not stagger the update, so they could catch any mistakes before they wrecked havoc. (and also how how HOW do you not catch this before deploying it. this isn't a code oopsie this is a complete failure of quality ensurance that probably permeates the whole company to not realise their update was an instant kill). they rolled it out to everyone of their clients in the world at the same time.

and this seems pretty hilarious on the surface. i was havin a good chuckle as eftpos went down in the store i was working at, chaos was definitely ensuring lmao. im in aus, and banking was literally down nationwide.

but then you start hearing about the entire country's planes being grounded because the airport's computers are bricked. and hospitals having no computers anymore. emergency call centres crashing. and you realised that, wow. crowdstrike just killed people probably. this is literally the worst thing possible for a company like this to do.

crowdstrike was kinda on the come up too, they were starting to become a big name in the tech world as a new face. but that has definitely vanished now. to fuck up at this many places, is almost extremely impressive. its hard to even think of a comparable fuckup.

a friday evening simultaneous rollout boot loop is a phrase that haunts IT people in their darkest hours. it's the monster that drags people down into the swamp. it's the big bag in the horror movie. it's the end of the road. and for crowdstrike, that reaper of souls just knocked on their doorstep.

[thelibrarian1895]

this makes me happy

Shoves my Agender/genderfluid Bart headcannon at you via this iconic comic

[teethsmoothie]

sibling woke me up 230am to make them some tea from what was probably the craziest & worst but at the same time. most entertaining nightmare ive had in a long while

[that-rackin-frackin-varmint]

hiii!! this is kind of a weird request, but i'd really like to know your thoughts on al-g rhythm from space jam 2

i know he's not a looney tune and it's definitely a little off this blog's purpose, so obviously you dont have to!!

(but if you do i'm willing to do literally anything in return!!)

No worries, I'll happily offer my thoughts! I do have some opinions about the Space Jam movies and Al G.

My positives are when he's played up for comedy, he's very entertaining as an antagonist. I like how pathetic and scummy he is that he holds a vendetta over Lebron cuz the guy rejected his offers of making him a corporate IP (irony to portray that in a Space Jam movie), and I think it's funny in itself when he tries to insist on people taking him seriously.

Negatives are when the narrative and characters actually insist he's a serious threat. His thing against Lebron is petty and relies on the viewer to believe Lebron is such a GOAT(TM) that it's justified that Al G is acting like a possessive ex over being rejected. His thing against the Looney Tunes felt like a personal vendetta with how he specifically encouraged the tunes to split off from their situated planet -- but it's never explored sincerely so I find it half-baked at best. I also find it frustrating that his words got under Bugs' skin -- honestly, I just don't like the "Looney Tunes are irrelevant" plot point in general, I think it makes them look like desperate clout-chasers and ruins any novelty fun in watching the tunes interacting with other IPs. It's just so corporate, uncreative, and reeks of typical Hollywood Blockbuster sanitisation.

Tangent aside, I feel that Al G should be as deep as Elmer Fudd or Yosemite Sam in my eyes, he serves his antagonist role fittingly -- there's no need for deeper motive beyond ego and shattered pride. But he contributes to the movie's overall Lebron shilling that feels, in itself, like a meta running gag. I don't buy Lebron's hype as a viewer, not the way I buy MJ's hype in the first film cuz it at least offered a compilation of his actual basketball highlights so I can infer his legacy status.

Al G is a foil to Lebron as an entity that seeks out affirmation and legacy, which assumedly Lebron possesses. But Lebron as a character relies on too much external recognition and good faith perception to his real life counterpart that, as a result, causes the movie to be almost incoherent in its narrative and with its characters. Al G consequently feels like he's always talking hot air, and is barely cohesive as an antagonist. Many one-off classic looney tunes antagonists do better in their roles than he does in his.

I also just see him as an antagonist born out of cowardice. Cuz it's all too convenient that the main villain for the corporatisation and IP touting is a non-human algorithm with no further associations to any accountable human beings who created him. Back in Action had the Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum Warner Brothers, and the classic shorts sometimes namedropped animation directors as their bosses -- so it's pretty cheap to me, that the main villain was personified AI with a superiority complex.

Coyote vs ACME at least puts a name to their corporate villain, SJ2 literally blames AI for the downfall of society /j

[darknymfa-art]

Moncember day 21, "leafy bugs". A mash-up of older designs, with a bit of new flavoring thrown in. They're humanoid bugs, what more do you need?

[luveline]

𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫-𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐭

Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.) 3k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Good morning.” 

A stress ball goes careening off the edge of your desk as your body catches up. “Fuck,” you breathe, twisting in your seat to find the Daily Planet’s most puppy-eyed journalist towering over your desk. “Clark! You scared me.” 

Your whisper-shouting amuses him. He smiles, creasing a small wrinkle in the corners of his eyes, pretty pink mouth too much to deal with. If he notices you looking and then looking away, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding too sorry. 

“Are you?” 

“I’m so sorry. Really. What’s got you so, ah, immersed?”

You click the minimise button on your open window, clearing your desktop before he can spot your shoddy workmanship. “Nothing.” 

“Sure. I believe you. Do you want a cup of coffee?” 

“No, thank you.” 

He lingers. Your office skews toward casual dress but Clark’s hardly the first to wear a proper suit, skinny black tie against a solid backdrop. You’d quite like to grab it, hoisting him downward, and you know you’d never do it, but the thought is nice. Your face and neck warm with it. 

Clark’s smile is soft and yet endlessly indulgent, like you’ve given him what he’d sorely wanted. “I can help, you know. I’d love to help you with whatever it is that’s making you all… cagey,” he says. 

“You’re always helping me.” 

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks for reading!! hope you enjoyed!! and thank you becs for proofreading quick before I posted !!