yiiiikesmish

[yiiiikesmish]

don't mind me i'm just reeling from the shock of how fucking good this is. like like i'm a puddle on the floor rn and really fucking mad that clark kent isn't real. you smashed it outta the park with this babe.

I get wet at the thought of you (being a responsible guy)

Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Clark Kent, staring as the lamb. He has more than one pillow, calls his mom (but not too much), isn’t afraid to buy you tampons, and thinks about your needs like it’s second nature. You, staring as the lioness. In your opinion, his thoughtfulness is more effective than any other foreplay. Inspiration from Tears by Sabrina Carpenter

Word Count: 4.0k

Authors Note:stared at this for so long I don’t even know if it’s good anymore but here it is!!! If it’s bad don’t tell me!

Warnings: MDNI 18+ p in v, reader is a freak, Clark Kent fucks, established relationship, sub!Clark if you squint idk maybe even more like switch Clark? they’re horny! that’s all I know, brief prey/predator dynamic, ikea, gratuitous use of italics, please let me know if I missed anything <3 also keep this visual 🖖 in mind for later okay thanks.

It was sick really.

Clark wasn’t even doing anything, and yet here you are, legs twisted together while your heart beats between your thighs.

You watch him now, walking back to your table from the bar, your drink held above the crowd to avoid spilling. His other hand raised too, as if to say I am big but friendly! Don’t be afraid! He’s turning side ways, pivoting with every step to avoid jostling anyone he passes.

You watch his presence ripple, jealous eyes latching onto him as he passes and Clark doesn’t even seem to notice. You don’t mean to, but you relish in it. In the women who bat their eyelashes and reapply their lipstick, praying he’ll notice. You’d been dealing with it ever since you got together, even from your single friends, politely smiling when they make jokes like ‘Does he have a brother?’ Or ‘Do they sell him on Amazon?’ You lie tell them that there’s hope. Other tall, dark, handsome and hung fish in the sea.

Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes, his glasses started to slip on the journey. They sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on, just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You felt like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he did it without even breaking conversation, just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story where he saved a cat from a tree or performed was he described as ‘life changing’ head after he saved your favorite food truck from being smashed to smithereens.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly had a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark had a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wear a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here-“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and lips pulling out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. Your words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re horny, you’re not thinking straight, and in all honesty you’re pissed he didn’t let you keep kissing him.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears going bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I’m the one who climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

You actually consider it for a moment. It is a big meeting, and you do still need to review the slides, an early night is probably a good idea. But then another thought interrupts you. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your cunt pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he could feel it already. If you were any less turned on you’d be embarrassed. Besides, what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like map to your ultimate goal.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. Next, his jeans your hands almost clumsy with your excitement.

You yank them off, fast and aggressive, barely giving him a chance to process. You only have his briefs left, your index fingers crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around his cock. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. With a tired you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picture it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

You cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.

Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this fair thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!

Masterlist

[yiiiikesmish]

oh poor damien. i love that feral gremlin so much. and jason is so not slick. i love this story so much omg. is there any chance i could be added to the taglist?

Welcome to the Pod (Class 4B)

Jason Todd x Teacher! Reader

masterlist • prologue • chapter 1

🐠 🌊 🦈 💌 🐚 🪸

summary: In which Jason navigates fish themed UI and Damian learns he is not being banished (yet)

wc: 3.2k

---

Three days.

It had been three days since Jason Todd had sat in a too-small chair at a too-bright table in a classroom that smelled faintly of lemon diffusers and washable markers, listening to a teacher with pencil earrings talk about his demon brother like he was a regular kid. Three days since he’d nodded, smiled, and downloaded a fish themed app out of pity and maybe a flicker of something he didn’t want to name.

Then the call came in. Outlaws business.

He’d left Gotham on the jet that same night, leather jacket still smelling faintly of elementary school carpet cleaner, and dropped into the middle of the Amazon rainforest for what Artemis charitably called “light paid crime.” Which, translated, meant dismantling a cartel’s weapons deal while making sure Roy didn’t blow something up for fun.

Now, three days later, Jason is knee-deep in mud, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, machete in one hand and rifle slung across his back. The air is so thick it feels like breathing through soup. Somewhere in the distance, automatic fire cracks through the canopy, and Artemis yells something in ancient Greek that sounds encouraging and insulting at the same time.

Gunfire cracks through the trees.

Jason ducks low, sliding behind the twisted trunk of a kapok tree as bullets chew through the vines above his head. The air smells like cordite and wet moss, the kind of humid, choking heat that makes every breath feel like drowning.

“Left flank!” Artemis shouts, vaulting across a ravine like gravity’s just a rumor. Her sword flashes once, clean and bright, and someone screams before the jungle swallows the sound.

Jason wipes the rain off his sights, exhales, and puts two rounds through the nearest gunman. The body hits the mud with a wet smack.

Another burst of fire.

Another kill.

They’re moving fast, efficient, three parts of a machine built for demolition. Jason can almost forget Gotham. Almost forget classrooms and pencil earrings and a kid with a falcon doodled in the margins of his worksheet.

And then–

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

The sound cuts through the firefight like a cartoon submarine surfacing.

Artemis rounds on him, soaked and furious. “I SWEAR if that noise goes off one more time, I will take that phone and snap it over my knee.”

Roy crashes through the undergrowth, loosing another arrow that explodes a Humvee into fire. He’s grinning like this is comedy hour. “Nah, leave it! This is the best part of my week.”

Jason snarls, firing into the trees as another wave breaks through. “Three days, Harper. Three days of this.”

Another volley rips through the treeline. Jason drops, fires back, mud soaking through his knees. He reloads by muscle memory, other hand already swiping furiously at the glowing screen in his lap.

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

‘Friendly reminder: bring a raincoat tomorrow for outdoor science!’ 🌧️

Jason snarls, jabs at the settings. A menu slides open, mocking him with its uselessness:

Mute notifications (1 hour) Turn notification volume higher Opt out (not recommended: may affect student morale 🥺)

“Are you SEEING this?” Jason barks, shoving the phone toward Roy mid-gunfight.

Roy peeks, looses an arrow without looking. The arrow lands clean, detonates a supply crate. He doesn’t even blink. “Yeah. You hit mute every hour. Easy. I’ve been doing it for years, Lian's class uses the same app.”

Jason stares at him, betrayed. “Every hour?”

Roy grins, notching another arrow. “Yep. And I’m still the top engager in Lian’s class. King of the GuppyBoard leaderboard. Skill issue, my guy.”

Jason’s eye twitches. He thumbs at the opt out option, and immediately a guppy swims across the screen, eyes wet, fins trembling.

‘Do you really want to swim away, Mr. Shark?’ 🐟💔

Jason hurls the phone into his vest, half-tempted to hurl it into the river instead. “I am going to kill this fish.”

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

‘Thanks for staying connected to your pod!’ ✨🦈

Artemis slices another merc in half and doesn’t even look at him. “Jason, if you don’t silence that thing permanently, I will.”

Jason fires a burst into the underbrush, scowling. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

Roy’s laughing so hard he can barely aim. “Imagine getting clowned by a guppy.”

Another barrage slams into the trees. Jason fires back, still clutching the phone in one hand, because apparently this is his life now. Dodging bullets while a cartoon guppy guilts him into parent teacher engagement.

–

The BatPlane hums low beneath them, slicing clean through the dark. The smell of gunpowder and wet earth has been scrubbed away, replaced with the sharp tang of disinfectant from the Outlaws’ too-small shower stall. Fresh clothes. Fresh bandages. Mission accomplished.

Artemis hasn’t spoken since they boarded. She sits across from Jason, arms folded tight, jaw locked. Her sword leans against the seat beside her like a silent threat.

Finally, she snaps. “We were compromised because of you.”

Jason doesn’t look up from tightening the strap on his holster. “We were compromised because their spotter missed you diving off a cliff like it was Cirque du Soleil.”

Her eyes flash. “No. We were compromised because your phone would not stop—”

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

Jason winces.

“—doing that.”

She stands in one clean motion, grabs her sword, and stalks toward the private quarters. “Nobody bother me,” she growls. The door slams behind her.

Jason leans back, scrubs a hand over his face. “She’s never gonna let this go.”

Roy is stretched out two seats down, phone in hand, earbuds in, looking entirely too content. He taps his screen, then glances over. “Could you not? Lian and I are doing bedtime stories.”

Jason blinks. “You’re what?”

“Yeah.” Roy flashes his phone, grinning. On the screen, Lian’s face beams up at him in a shaky video call, wrapped in a blanket, holding a stuffed dolphin. He wiggles his fingers at her. “Say hi to Uncle Jason, peanut.”

Jason waves hi to Lian and looks away, embarrassed. Roy turns his phone back toward himself, voice softening as he starts to read.

Jason sighs. Pulls his own phone out. The cursed guppy stares up at him from the lock screen, smug little bubbles rising to the surface. He almost doesn’t swipe. Almost.

But then he sees the notification.

Not a class update. Not a reminder about raincoats or bug jars.

A direct message.

Hi Mr. Todd! I just wanted to check in. I noticed you haven’t been as active on GuppyBoard the past few days. Totally fine if you’re busy, I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay on your end :) Please don’t hesitate to reach out if you have any questions.

Jason stares at it. The words sit there, harmless, cheerful, devastating.

No one asks him that. Not like this. Not without wanting something in return.

He exhales, slow. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

Another notification pops in under hers:

Class 4B is excited to share their recycling challenge results tomorrow! Go Team Blue!

Jason tips his head back against the seat, eyes closed. “Goddamn fish.”

Jason stares at the two messages. The cheery class update is easy enough to ignore. He’s already perfected the art of not giving a damn about glitter projects and water cycles. But the personal one? The check-in? That one sticks.

His thumb moves almost on instinct. He taps the little heart under the recycling announcement, because apparently that’s a thing now. A tiny guppy does a triumphant somersault across his screen:

‘Thanks for engaging, Mr. Shark!’ 🦈✨

Jason groans. “Kill me.”

Still, his fingers hesitate over the direct message. He can hear Artemis pacing behind the closed door, and can hear Roy’s low, steady voice reading to Lian in the next seat. For once, there’s no gunfire. No shouting. Just him and the ridiculous little app.

Finally, he types:

Sorry for not responding. Been out of town for a few days. All good.

He stares at it. Debates deleting. Debates throwing the phone into the aisle and letting Artemis make good on her threat. Instead, he hits send.

The reply comes faster than he expects.

Oh! I’m glad to hear from you. I hope your trip went well! I was just worried. I never want family to feel left out. Damian’s been doing great this week. He made the most detailed map of Gotham city centre during our lesson and explained the history behind each burrow name :)

Jason blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. No judgment. No accusations. Just a woman in pencil earrings, somewhere in Gotham, who noticed Damian sketching a grid and thought that was worth sharing.

And for some reason, it hits harder than a bullet.

He tips the phone sideways in his palm, staring at the cheerful little bubble trail drifting up the screen. His chest feels… weird. Heavy and light all at once. Like maybe this isn’t just some stupid app. Like maybe she actually—

Nope. Nope. Not going there.

Jason rubs a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “Goddamn guppy teacher.”

But still. He thumbs the message again, once, twice, like he’s memorizing the shape of it. And against his better judgment, against every wall he’s built, his mouth pulls, just barely, into a smile.

–

Three days.

Three days ago, Todd had promised he would handle it. That he would talk to Miss Y/N, smooth things over, make it go away. And to Todd’s credit, he had done it. He went to school. He talked to her. Damian knows because the letter has not been mentioned since.

But then the imbecile disappeared.

No word, no explanation. Nothing but empty space where there should have been follow-up. Damian had been forced to track the Batplane’s trajectory himself, watching the dot crawl across maps it had no business being on. Technically, Todd isn’t even allowed to use the Batplane for Outlaws business. But Bruce lets him anyway, after the usual guilt trip about how the others get Batmobiles, or signal lights, or capes with reinforced kevlar, and what does Jason get? Hand me downs and bad memories.

According to Damian’s calculations, the plane should be returning to Gotham tonight. Which is why he is sitting in Todd’s so-called safehouse now, waiting.

He tells himself he is not anxious. He is not worried. He is simply gathering information. It is the smart thing to do.

Still, three days is a long time.

Clearly, the conversation with Miss Y/N had gone so disastrously that Todd has chosen to flee the city rather than face him again. No doubt the woman had confirmed Damian’s every suspicion: that he is impossible, unpleasant, unteachable. Todd, shame clinging to him like the stench of Lazarus, has been unable to look Damian in the eye ever since.

Meanwhile, Miss Y/N has only doubled down on her false kindness. She greets Damian with “sweetheart” every morning, her voice pitched with gentle cheer, as though speaking to a dying animal who must not be frightened in its last days. She pats his shoulder when he sharpens his pencil. She asks about his weekend plans in front of the others, her eyes soft with pity.

Pity.

Damian knows the look well. It is the same look people give stray dogs before they are euthanized.

Clearly, she has already determined that he is beyond saving. That her efforts were wasted. That she must be merciful in her disappointment, the way one is merciful before the axe falls.

Damian digs his fingers into the worn leather of Todd’s chair, jaw tight. He does not need polite. He does not need false kindness. What he needs is a straight answer.

Footsteps sound in the hall outside. Heavy, deliberate. Todd’s.

Damian straightens, spine rigid, cape folding neatly around him. He fixes his eyes on the door, face blank.

The lock clicks. The door swings open. Jason Todd steps inside, rain dripping from his jacket, boots caked in mud. He shuts the door behind him, glances up and nearly drops his helmet.

“Jesus Christ.”

Damian is perched on the arm of the chair like a gargoyle, cape spilling around him, eyes glowing in the dark.

Jason presses a hand to his chest. “You trying to kill me? Who the hell sits in the dark like that?”

“You are late,” Damian says flatly.

Jason doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he bends down, unlacing his boots. He sets them neatly side by side on the rack by the door. Shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it carefully on the hook, rainwater dripping onto the mat. Helmet goes on the shelf above, aligned just so. His movements are calm, deliberate, infuriatingly domestic.

Only when everything is in place does he glance back at Damian. “Late for what? The dramatic gargoyle routine?”

Damian scowls. “You promised me an explanation. Then you disappeared for three days.”

Jason shakes his head, tugging off his gloves finger by finger. “You’ve been sitting here for three days stewing over this? Unbelievable.”

“It was obviously disastrous,” Damian says, jaw tight. “So disastrous that you fled the city in shame. You could not bring yourself to face me, and Miss Y/N—” his mouth twists, the words sour— “has been treating me with false kindness ever since.”

Jason stops, gloves in hand. He blinks at Damian, then lets out a short laugh. “You really spent seventy-two hours convincing yourself I embarrassed you so bad your teacher started giving you pity stickers?”

Damian doesn’t move.

Jason drops the gloves onto the counter, every gesture maddeningly tidy. “Newsflash: she doesn’t hate you. If anything, she’s your biggest fan. Said you were smart. Said you were… what was it… ‘thoughtful,’ I think.”

A flicker crosses Damian’s face, gone as fast as it comes.

Jason hangs his holster on the peg by the door, lining it up perfectly with the others. “So relax. I did my job. You owe me one. End of story.”

Damian blinks. “…You did your job?”

Jason kicks the toe of his boot into place on the rack. “Yeah. You know. Covered your ass. Ran interference. Made sure the teacher doesn’t think you’re a feral gremlin who needs to be exorcised from the classroom.”

“I do not need interference.”

Jason smirks. “You needed something. She was one signature away from sending that letter to Bruce.”

Damian stiffens. Jason sees it, and like the menace he is, keeps going.

“Lucky for you, I was there to make sure your academic career didn’t end in a blaze of glory. Smooth talking, some light charm. You’re welcome.”

Damian stares at him, scandalized. “You expect me to thank you for this?”

“Would be nice,” Jason says, hanging his jacket with neat precision. “Considering I saved your life.”

“My life was not in danger.”

Jason hums like he disagrees. “Anyway, she doesn’t hate you. She actually said nice things. Thoughtful. Mature. Well behaved.”

Damian’s jaw drops. “Lies.”

“Swear on my grave.” Jason pauses. “My future one, not the first. That ship has sailed.”

Damian glares, but the tightness in his shoulders eases just a fraction. Jason sees it. Files it away. Then, just to twist the knife:

“Oh, by the way,” he says casually, opening the fridge, “is she single?”

“…What?”

Jason cracks open a bottle of water. “Your teacher. Cute. Patient. Looks good in pencil earrings. I’m just saying, if she’s single—”

Damian makes a strangled noise. “This is—this is absurd—you cannot—”

Jason leans against the counter, smug as sin. “What, can’t ask a simple question?”

“You are insufferable.”

“Big word for someone who still has multiplication tables on their homework.”

Damian is vibrating now, cape practically bristling. Jason is about to push further when

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

The sound cuts through the room.

Damian freezes.

Jason glances at his phone, then back at Damian, completely unbothered.

“…No.” Damian’s voice is flat. “No, that’s not–”

🫧 bloop bloop 🫧

Jason pulls the phone out, thumb swiping across the screen. His mouth twitches into a grin.

Damian shoots to his feet. “That is Miss Y/N’s notification. That is the GuppyBoard notification. Why is it playing on your device?”

Jason scrolls casually. “Relax. Just the app.”

“You joined the pod?” Damian’s voice jumps an octave. “YOU JOINED THE POD?"

Jason smirks. “Mr. Shark, reporting for duty.”

Damian lunges for the phone, wild. Jason holds it above his head, amused.

“Chill, kid. You’re gonna crack the screen.”

“You traitor!” Damian snarls, leaping again. “You swore this was handled”

“Handled doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the perks.” Jason tilts the phone toward himself. “Speaking of… make sure to bring your grammar textbook tomorrow. She says you’ll need it.”

Damian goes absolutely ballistic. “HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?”

Jason grins wider. “Oh, and don’t forget outdoor shoes. You’re doing another nature walk.”

Damian lunges again, teeth bared, fingers snatching for the phone. Jason twists out of reach, holding it higher, still smirking.

“Stop, you’re gonna—” “Give it to me!” “Damian, seriously—” “TRAITOR—”

Jason’s patience snaps. His voice cuts through the room, sharp and raw:

“Cut it out! I only joined because your teacher looked like she was gonna cry if nobody from your household downloaded it!”

The words land like a blade.

Damian freezes mid-grab, his hand hanging useless in the air.

Jason exhales, lowering the phone just slightly. His voice comes quieter, rougher: “She said no one had signed up yet. Said it broke her heart.”

Silence.

Damian slowly draws his hand back. He stands very still, jaw tight, cape brushing against the floor. His mind turns over the words again and again.

She would cry over something like that.

Of course she would. He has seen her flinch at spilled paint water, her face crumple when a student tears their drawing in half. He has seen her soften when a child forgets their lunch, offering them crackers from her desk as though it could fix the world.

She is naïve.

Gentle.

Too gentle.

The League had its own word for people like her. The ones who could not yet lift a blade, whose hands shook when faced with blood. They were not despised. Not exactly. They were protected, tolerated, sometimes even cherished in small ways, though everyone knew the truth. The weak were not meant to last.

Miss Y/N would not last.

Not in Gotham.

Not in this city that devoured the soft-hearted first.

And yet… when she looked at him, when she smiled and called him “sweetheart” in that maddeningly kind voice, something in Damian bristled to life. Something ugly and desperate and unfamiliar. He despised it, the way his chest tightened, the way he caught himself listening when she spoke to others. The way he cared. And yes, that mattered to him, though he would sooner die than say it aloud.

He looks away from Jason, voice flat, certain. “She would be the type to cry over something like that.”

Jason doesn’t answer.

“She is naïve,” Damian continues. “And gentle. She will likely leave Gotham before June.” His throat feels tight, but his face does not betray it.

He lifts his chin, final.

“Very well. Keep the app.”

---

🫧 up next 🫧 : jason ups his guppy board engagement. damian chooses between being a kid and duty. jason asks miss y/n for a favour

---

taglist: @flockoff-featherface , @fennecspage , @darling-eos , @otakusimp1 , @possiblyafangirl , @straight-n-arrow , @olaflookalike , @athenannann , @mr-underhills-things , @normalspencerfan , @letsbedragonstogether , @catiwinky , @bearchermer , @saltyfriendsaladbandit

[yiiiikesmish]

THEY HAD SEX. IVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS. i love this duo so much you don't understand.

Borrowed For Blue

Steve Rogers x shapeshifter!Reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Summary: You're finally getting significant alone-time with Steve.

Warnings for smut (puns, obvi, but there's no sexualizing of you as a cat fwiw), protected p in v (Steve's a planner when you let him be, this is known), a cutesy date night in that devolves into sexy times REAL quick, but Stevie tried. That should be on record. MINORS DNI. WC 1.8k

Steve’s caught off guard and fumbling. Bucky dropped you off in Alpine form, and you still haven’t changed back for his whole, little house tour. A simple setup, just like you’d expect, but there are candles everywhere, and it smells of fresh baked cookies. It almost seems like he’s selling you on it. Isn’t that what realtors do when they want you to move in?

No need to try so hard, buddy. I’m definitely interested in closing the deal.

His hands twitch like he keeps forgetting he can’t reach out to touch you while walking around.

“So, um, we’ve got dinner, dessert, wine, and a bubble bath,” he rattles off, shuffling trays and pans over the kitchen counters to cool before serving, “if you want.”

You pick a clear spot and hop up, stretching your neck. To him, it seems like preening, so you have to emphasize by scratching at your collar pointedly.

Steve blinks, confused. “You…want it off?”

He gets a nod in reply.

“You—“ he coughs and swallows “—want me to take it off?”

Another nod, this time with added, authentic preening because Steve’s face changes when he gets it. If and when he removes your collar, you will shift. You will shift and will have no clothing, no cover at all. You’ll be naked, completely on purpose, for him to see.

Gently, his long and delicate artist fingers dance around to the clasp at the back of your neck, tugging first tighter then looser to release the joint. Steve holds it close, hesitant, as if you’ll change your mind at any second. You simply continue to stare him down—sweetly, with golden eyes—until he straightens again, then you jump from the counter, sauntering with your tail up towards the bedroom.

The sway of your hips is pretty dramatic, even as a cat, but it does the trick.

Beyond the threshold, you shift to your full self, transforming the warm, flickering candle glow into a shadow of what’s to come once Steve rounds the corner, and he follows. He follows so quickly you haven’t even turned before his lips are at your shoulder, and his arms wrap your waist.

 You stayed in cat form because you knew you couldn’t be trusted to make it one second without climbing him like a tree. The only words you can imagine are naughty so best to keep those under wraps before Buck is a distance away. With how quickly he gives up on dinner, Steve has the same intentions.

He’s ready to touch you, itching to, in fact.

Tender though insistent, the mindless way he shuffles forward, pressing along your back, knocking you past the bed, proves he can’t wait any longer with the tension as high as it is. Neither can you.

You grab his hands, encouraging one up and one down your body, holding them with interlaced fingers, exploring your skin while the proximity betrays Steve’s his lustier desires.

He’s just that into you.

He prepared for you to be here. The covers are turned down. The candles all have holders or drip trays. Not a single garment of clothing is on the floor or even visible inside an absently cracked drawer. You’re slightly surprised there are no rose petals thrown about.

The bulky man behind bullies you until the wall bumps your elbows.

You giggle with joy, stifling a grin.

“Dinner first?” you joke.

Steve releases his grip to spin you around, nearly growling, “that’s what microwaves are for,” and captures your lips instead. Few modernizations have caught on for him more—apparently—than the ease of reheating a delayed meal.

He paws over you but lingers on seemingly innocuous areas, gently mapping the shallow of your spine between your shoulder blades, the dimples of muscle above your hips, the jut of your wrist bones as your hands explore the planes of him, too.

He dressed nicely, for a dinner in his own home, slacks and a tucked-in button-down, no belt, no shoes or socks inside either. The fabrics are luxurious and tantalizing since you know just how strong the man underneath them is. Although built of pure patience normally, Steve breaks down at a mere nibble of his bottom lip, slamming you the last few inches against the wall and cages your jaw between his hands, tongue shameless in its pursuit of more.

Candles shake on the dresser, one taper rolling off axis precariously. You both peek sideways, breath bated, as it settles safely.

You scrape at his back enough to free the shirt tails, but how you’re pinned—and how he’s pinning you—makes anything else impossible. You bury your hands in his hair, twisting the front of his shirt until a button pops.

“Rip it,” he begs. “Just tear it off.”

Steve’s falling into a trap, a sweet catastrophe of his own making. He shimmies you up to his stomach to undo his pants but can’t keep you high enough on his hips. You sense his finger tips ghosting your folds. He doesn’t have the right angle. His patience must really be boiled away to forgo warming you up.

He carries you to the bed, keeping your mouth occupied as you finish with the buttons and push the shirt off of his shoulders. He lays back, scooting you up so he can shimmy out of slacks and boxers alike. 

You’re amused by how this action bounces you playfully.

“And now…” Steve kicks his clothes away and leans forward, planting a kiss in the hollow of your clavicle, grabbing a condom blindly from the bedside table.

“Man with a plan, eh?”

Steve looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Yeah,” he says simply. After a long moment and a squeeze of your thigh, he sighs. “You know, when I was on that mission with Sharon, I kept thinking about it—what and who I’d want to be with, for real—that’s how I got through. I thought of someone to live a smaller, more intimate life with, someone who wants me as me, someone okay with the quiet peace of being near each other. And you’re it. You are what I always hoped for.

“I love you. I absolutely love you, babygirl, and I had to tell you. You gotta know. I love you.”

You take his face, his sincere, sweet face, in your hands.

“First,” you bite back a smile, ”maybe don’t mention another woman with your dick poking my ass.”

He panics. “I—shit—that’s bad. That’s so bad, isn’t it? I’m sorry,” he mumbles, shifting awkwardly until you stop him.

“Second, it’s alright. You’re it for me, too, Steve. I love you.”

He sags into your hold. “I got nervous—“

“I know.”

“—and you’re just so beautiful.”

You take the wrapper from his hand and tear it, letting Steve remove the rubber and inch yourself backwards until his hard cock slaps the V of his abs. Both of you watch the sheath roll down his length, eyes darting between each other and his lap.

Out of sheer curiosity, you curl four fingers around him, thumb tracing the seam of his head.

Steve has no more words for now; he only needs your lips again. This kiss is unbroken though as he pulls pillows to his side with one hand and cradles your nape with the other. Easily, smoothly, he flips you onto them, raising your hips level with him kneeling, bracketing himself. His hands roam. He strokes at your limbs like he’s painting a masterpiece, and it’s wildly arousing and annoying at the same time.

“Stop petting me, Steve.”

“I’m not,” he denies, languidly rolling his tip through your slick, working to mix the colors of passion evenly over hot skin.

You both expected he’d be the most impatient, not you, strung out and up, scratching in protest of waiting. He’s thought about you, drawn you, shared things with you he doesn’t usually tell anyone. He fantasized about a whole life with you, but he has to pay for this teasing.

“Wait,” you blurt one instant before he pushes in, “what type of cookies did you bake?”

“You’re such a rascal.“ Steve snorts in delight, brought back to the joy of the occasion, released from some untenable pedestal. He hangs his head, gripping the base of his cock to pause. “Shut up and let me love you, babygirl.”

You’re happier than words, art, or music can ever convey as Steve’s large hand anchors you to your pedestal. Finally, he sinks in to the hilt.

He bends over you, lacing fingers together, nuzzling your throat as you grow accustomed to the fit of each other. He’s so careful and gentle with Alpine, the same way he now treats you so lovingly, lavishing attention on your breasts, hips stilled.

You begin to rock against him first.

Once he starts moving, Steve slowly body drapes flush with yours. Your neck angles to watch his firm ass thrust. His muscled back flexes and he pushes your joined hands into the firm mattress to stabilize himself.

“What do you need?” he husks in your ear. “Want to make you come.”

You can’t get the words out until he sits up to reposition you high on the pillows once more. Steve watches closely as your fingers find your clit, moans when they touch him nestled deep inside you, and then swats away your hand to take over.

“Like that?”

He finds a rhythm fast.

“Oh, yes—“ he pulls out enough to hear you whine “—like that.”

He’s pointed in these moves, mesmerized and darkly proud to see you fall apart on his cock, but Steve Rogers, the light-hearted heavyweight in love, is a kiss-you-while-he-comes man. There can be no space between you for the end, and you don’t care that it’s crushing you. He’s worth it. He’s it.

 You two stare at each other, eyelids hooded in fatigue and contentment, basking in the glow.

Steve only lifts off when you begin wriggling for air. He tosses the condom in the bin and sits at the edge of the bed, smiling.

He turns to ask, “what are you thinking about?”

So much. Everything, you want to respond, but you can do better. “How good you feel,” you say, crawling to latch onto his broad shoulders. “How good it is to see you feel good and spoiled. You?”

He hugs your arms as best he can.

“Me? I’m thinking about how to serve you dinner in the bathtub.”

Even though you have the whole weekend, he really is impatient to do it all, but you don’t blame him. You were anxious, too. Bucky’s not picking you up. It’s just Steve who’s supposed to take you to HQ next.

“Don’t worry,” you purr. “We can do this all night, and all tomorrow, and all of the day after.”

[Main Masterlist; Companion Animal Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

@supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry @bitchy-bi-trash @rogersbarber @blogbog710 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thiquefunlover63 @bucky-fricking-barnes-reads @fallinallinmendes @stellar-solar-flare @deandreamernp @hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat

[yiiiikesmish]

GIRL LET THEM LOVE YOU COME ON (but also real. affection from people? gross). Urgh I love these three so much. Andy being so stressed that he and omega didn't have their own thing was so so cute omg. Have I told you that I love these three so so much yet? yes but whatever. I'll say it twice.

Read Between the Lines

Pairing: Andy Barber x Fem!Reader x Ari Levinson Word Count: 2,699 Summary: Andy seeks a deeper connection with you, and you surprisingly find yourself responding in kind. Warnings: A/B/O AU. M/F/M dynamic. Explicit language. Sassy, untrusting, rough around the edges!Reader. A fictional verse that is not kind to omegas. Mentions of an omega in heat. Slight angst. 

A/N: My babies 😭

POUND TOWN MASTERLIST

You had to roll your eyes at yourself as you made your way to the kitchen. 

It was just about the time that Ari usually started to prepare dinner, and you hated how much you liked sitting at the kitchen island to watch him cook.

And sneak you tastes in between all his cheffing.

It was dumb, but…well, it kind of almost made you sort of happy.

You scowled at that realization, huffing a little as you crossed the living room, then the entryway, the kitchen now in sight.

But then you heard Andy mutter your name in this tone he had never used before–frustration–and it had you stopping in your tracks as your belly sank hard.

You should probably just turn around and go back to your room. It seemed like you were just on the precipice of finally witnessing the very thing you had been wary of all along–Andy and Ari’s true colors. 

The way they would say it aloud, just between the two of them–how disappointed they were in you and selecting you as their omega. 

Your stomach was roiling now, anxiety trickling throughout every inch of your body as your inner omega whined pitifully and you angrily blinked back tears.

No. If they were going to shit talk you and air the truth aloud while they thought they were alone, you were going to stay right here and listen to every single word that came out of their lying mouths. 

Clenching your hands into tight fists at your sides, you hedged closer to the kitchen doorway, pressing yourself to the wall to remain hidden as your heart hammered in your chest as the alphas continued to talk. 

“Why are you struggling with this so much?” Ari asked softly.

Struggling with what exactly? You? As their omega? And a bad one at that?

Andy heaved a long-suffering sigh. “It’s just…I see how much she enjoys being in the kitchen with you, and I love that for both of you, I really genuinely do, but I dunno, I guess I just want…” 

As Andy trailed off, Ari finished his sentence for him, “Something special that you can share with her, just the two of you?”

Andy’s voice was the smallest you had ever heard it as he replied, “Yeah.” A beat, and then his concerned protector voice was speaking now. “Does that upset you?”

“Not at all, handsome,” Ari murmured. “I totally get it. I stumbled on the cooking thing with her by sheer dumb luck, thanks to my obsession with food and my desperation to connect with her, but I think you are overthinking this and driving yourself crazy with all this research and trying to come up with the absolute perfect idea. Andy, just be you.”

“You really need to stop being so perfect,” Andy laughed, but it was filled with emotion, and it made your own eyes sting for a different reason now.

“Sorry, you’re stuck with me and my utter, undeniable perfection,” Ari sniffed.

Your hands slowly unclenched at your sides as your heart rate started to regulate. Your anger and betrayal faded away too as you swallowed hard and edged closer to the doorway, peeking around the corner to see Andy and Ari hugging, Ari’s big hand gently soothing up and down Andy’s back as the other alpha buried his face against his love’s neck.

You couldn’t believe it. Andy was this upset because he wanted to connect with you and spend more time with you, one on one?

Something in your chest fluttered, and for some reason, a dumb smile split your lips. You pulled back immediately, grimacing at yourself as you pressed your fingers to your mouth to try to curb the way your stupid lips kept trying to curve upward.

What was wrong with you?

You like being wanted, your inner omega crowed.

Giving the empty entryway the stink eye, you resisted the urge to huff. Rolling your eyes at yourself, you took a moment to school your features into an unknowing, indifferent mask. 

Then you turned the corner, stepped into the kitchen, and planted your hands on your hips as you asked, “Are we having dinner tonight, or what?”

And maybe your belly somersalted just a little when the alphas pulled away from each other, and Andy’s gaze found you and softened then warmed as a genuine smile tilted his lips. 

“Absolutely, honey,” he replied, no trace of his former upset to be found on his handsome face. “We can all get started on it together.”

Your belly did another fluttery swoop as your inner omega urged you to look at how happy you make him and you ignored her, suppressing another smile as you moved toward the kitchen island and tried not to bounce in place as Ari began to gather ingredients for tonight’s meal.

Later that night, once the house was dark and quiet, you found yourself wide awake as you laid in bed, staring into the darkness. 

You couldn’t stop thinking about what you had overheard earlier. 

The way that Andy was so desperately seeking a way to connect with you. 

And the way that Ari coveted his own connection with you that had formed. 

They really were making it hard to hate them and hate this new life you found yourself now living. 

More than that, there was a part of you that wanted to make Andy feel better. 

You tried telling yourself it was because it was dumb that he was so worked up over some sort of stupid activity for the two of you. 

But really, deep down, you couldn’t stop hearing how small and sad his voice had sounded when he spoke to Ari earlier. 

Andy always tried so hard to make you happy and content. Would it really kill you to return like 5% of that energy? Just this once?

Groaning quietly, and knowing that you wouldn’t be able to sleep until you did this, you flung back your covers and slid from bed. 

You made your way out of your bedroom and were relieved when you saw a soft light spilling from the living room, maybe a little excited too, even though you didn’t know why, as you peeked inside and saw Andy sitting on the sofa. 

He had his laptop on his lap, his brow furrowed and his reading glasses perched on his nose as he stared at the screen, reading something intently. 

“Are you working this late at night?” you asked as you stepped into the room. 

Andy’s head snapped up, his whole face lighting up at the sight of you. “Hi, honey!” That familiar concern of his flashed across his features next as he asked, “Are you okay? Did you have another nightmare?”

“No,” you huffed, crossing your arms as you stood there, staring at him. You swayed on your feet for a moment, not really sure what to say. 

This was a stupid idea.

Andy swallowed, and he shook his head at himself, his grin wry as he closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table before sagging back against the sofa with a tired sigh. 

“Can I be honest?”

You nodded, your eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I’ve been trying to research something fun for the two of us to do together,” Andy confessed. “I’ve spent hours over the past few weeks pouring over local community sites and threads. I probably know more about the farmer markets and state fairs in a hundred mile radius than the people who organize them.” 

Inside, you were all warm and gooey that Andy was admitting all of this to you, that he wasn’t keeping things from you and making you feel othered compared to Ari, which was what you worried about most in being a late addition to their pack. 

Of course, on the outside, your smart mouth ran away with your reply before you could stop it, “Sounds like a waste of time.”

Andy’s smile dimmed, his gaze falling to his lap. “Yeah, I suppose it is. I’m sorry I’m not more fun like Ari.” 

Once again, the words were out of your mouth before you could really process them let alone keep them to yourself, “You don’t need to be fun and showy, you’re soothing and make me feel safe, and that’s important, too.” 

Slowly, Andy lifted his head to meet your gaze. His eyes glimmered as he swallowed hard, something so beautifully touched aimed your way as he watched you for a long moment, not quite sure how to respond. 

When he finally did, his voice was rough–with emotion, you suspected–as he told you, “Thank you, honey. That means a lot to me, especially coming from you.”

You fought the urge to preen at his gratitude, and how genuinely happy he looked by your comment, feeling stupidly pleased with yourself as you shrugged and then huffed.

There was no real bite to your words as you said, “Stop making me be nice, it’s gross.” 

You moved closer, rounding the coffee table and swiping up the throw blanket on the armchair before sinking onto the sofa a few feet away from Andy. 

You situated the blanket around you, getting comfy before peeking over at him to find Andy watching you with this soft, glowing smile on his face.

“It may not be as exciting as a state fair–which, ew, sounds like a lot of people–but maybe you could read aloud to me like you did that one time? That wasn’t horrible.”

A bark of laughter erupted from Andy, and you nearly giggled in response because it was so unexpected and you liked that you had made him laugh. It lit up his whole face, and a tiny voice in the back of your mind observed that you had never seen him look more gorgeous than he did in that moment, happy and smiling, because of you.

Andy looked a little shy now as he played with the hem of his t-shirt, asking, “You liked when I read to you?”

“Don’t fish,” you glared at him, but it was half-hearted. You sank against the sofa arm, all comfy now as you looked at him and arched a brow. “Well? I’m waiting?”

“Okay!” Andy sounded excited now, by something so basic, but you found yourself amused as he launched himself from the sofa and moved toward the lined bookshelves a few feet away. “Are you in the mood for anything in particular? Fiction? Fantasy? Sci-fi? Horror? I’m sure we have some good thrillers, too.”

“You pick,” you told him, feeling a little overwhelmed by all of the options presented to you.

Andy must have realized that immediately, and was quick to say, “Sure,” before skimming the book spines and plucking one from the group.

He sank back into his seat, glancing over at you again with a soft smile. When he put his glasses back on and cracked the book open and started to read aloud, his cheeks were ruddy from joy.

And, you had an inkling, from your undivided and willing attention, too.

A few weeks later, Andy had barely been at work for a few hours before he arrived home and burst through the front door in a frenzy. 

“Ari?” he called, his voice trembling with concern as he carelessly dropped his briefcase by the front door and yanked off his suit jacket, dropping that on the floor too before rushing further into the house.

“Here,” Ari’s voice was quiet and tinged with helplessness, his face stricken as he appeared at the mouth of the hallway that led to your bedroom. 

“Where is she?” Andy asked, taking a moment to draw Ari to him, cradling his bearded cheek and giving it a soft caress. 

It was a wordless sign of reassurance despite the way Andy looked as distressed as Ari. 

“She’s in her room. She locked herself in there and won’t let me near her,” Ari fretted.

“I’m not surprised,” Andy murmured, looking past Ari to your closed bedroom door. His nostrils flared, and your scent–much muskier and more pungent than usual–filled his nose. “This is likely her first heat in years since they were kept on suppressants at the breeder facility.”

“I can hear her whimpering in pain,” Ari’s voice cracked. “What should we do? We don’t want to force our way in, right?”

“No,” Andy immediately shook his head. “No, she won’t like that. Come on, I want her to know I’m home in case…” he shrugged, grabbing Ari’s hand and leading him back down the hallway. “Just so she knows, in case it brings her comfort.”

Once they arrived outside of your bedroom door, they were nearly bowled over by the heavy scent permeating the air. 

It smelled like heaven to their primal inner alphas, but to their logical minds, all they could focus on was the strand of immense distress that was coming off of you in waves. 

Andy quietly spoke your name, his knuckles rapping on the door. “Honey, we know you’re in heat, and we’re here for whatever you need.”

“Go away!” your voice was ragged and stubborn with a note of hysteria. “Leave me alone! Don’t come near me!”

From inside your room, you groaned in agony, curled into the fetal position on your bed, covered in sweat as you clutched your stomach and openly wept at the pain. 

It felt like your body was on fire from the inside out, your belly clenching every few moments in a way so agonizing, it stole your breath away and had you dizzy and on the verge of passing out.

But you couldn’t do that. You wouldn’t.

You were now truly at your most vulnerable, with two alphas just on the other side of your door, looming. 

Waiting.

For you to give in to them, finally. 

Their omega that they had waited so long for, at her ripest and most tempting.

You knew they were likely going feral. The thought of triggering their ruts, of having them show you just how primal and impatient they could be–what they could really do to you, especially when you were at your weakest–it made you sick.

It terrified you, too. In so many ways.

It would destroy all of the fragile trust and safety in them that had built up over the past few months.

So you didn’t want Andy and Ari anywhere near you.

And it wasn’t just because you didn’t trust they would be able to control themselves when you were in this state–part of you was concerned you wouldn’t be able to control yourself either.

From giving in to them.

From becoming the thing you tried so hard to avoid most of all–a weak and willing omega who only lived for her alphas’ knots. 

A thing–not a person–for them to fuck and fill and breed.

You whined loudly as another surge of pain streaked through you, sobbing at the force of it as you sagged into your messy, unmade bed, weak and hinging on delirious from pain.

“Sweetheart,” Ari’s voice sounded as pained as your own body felt. “Please, let us take care of you.”

“We won’t touch you or knot you or anything you’re thinking,” Andy was quick to assure you. “We just want to set you up in a nest in our bedroom, so you can be soothed by our scents and as comfortable as possible.”

“And I can cook you anything you want, and we can give you some pain killers, and just…please, omega,” Ari sounded near tears, and you heard a soft thunk against the door, knowing it was his forehead meeting the wood in his helplessness. “Please let us help you.”

As usual, all of their words sounded so pretty and promising–perfect, and exactly what you needed–but now, more than ever, knowing you couldn’t control your body or your mind in your condition, you didn’t want to risk it.

You couldn’t.

You couldn’t give in to them.

You had to be strong, no matter how hard it was, or how much it fucking hurt. 

Even if it killed you, you were determined to get through your heat alone.

Andy and Ari be damned. 

HISSY OMEGA, LET THEM LOVE YOU!!! 😭

—

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[yiiiikesmish]

AHHHHHHHH I LOVE THIS. THEY ARE SO SO CUTE.

things my chronically offline bf does — Clark Kent

summary: clark kent thinks tiktok means the passing of time, you're a (wannabe) influencer. what could possibly happen? answer includes but isn't limited to thirst traps, using your hot bsf to go viral, online anonymous confessions, and one really old cat named bean. word count: 15k (insane, ik) content warning: heavy rom-com vibes, heavy on the comedy and ridiculous. heteroerotic friendship, domestic clark & reader (they see each other naked and sleep together & so much more, they're literally disgusting), size difference, reader is a (non famous) influencer but she goes viral thanks to clark not knowing what slay means, clark and reader have no notion of privacy or boundaries around each other, they're also so stupid. heavy fluff, everything is sweet and nothing hurts. an embarrassing amount of slang and memes and tiktok mention (i apologize). this is seriously just crack. oh ALSO protective clark oh em gee i swooned writing that part. lois and jimmy act like creepy twins /aff notes: this got out of hands, guys. ty for 1k<3 i hope you enjoy! apologies for the slightly rushed ending, i was growing tired with this behemoth of a fic

It’s common knowledge that Clark Kent and technology do not mesh well. He writes all of his drafts on paper. He takes notes on his legal pad with a pencil that he keeps losing, and he uses a cassette recorder for interviews, and he uses an actual camera for pictures. He has a phone, he has a laptop, he just— doesn’t really use them. He doesn’t know how to and doesn’t need to know more than is absolutely necessary (as in how to send emails, how to use Google and how to type his final drafts for proofing).

So anything beyond that, and he’s completely out of his depth. Put him in a complete alien civilization light years away from Earth and he would still be more at ease than if you’d asked him to make a TikTok video and, God forbid, post it. 

So really, it only made sense that his best friend was an influencer. You weren’t exactly popular, and you didn’t do it for fame, you just enjoyed sharing your life with the people who stick around. You were a wizard with your phone and could turn any moment into something cinematic. 

The two of you were polar opposites. He was the moon, pulled into orbit around you, and it made sense he felt so good whenever he was with you. You were the sun. 

He was happy to tag along with you to any of your adventures. Trying out a new restaurant, a new club, vlogging a last-minute trip, trying out PR packages you get. 

You’d always been the life of the friendship, and Clark was never afraid of being in your shadow. In fact, he reveled in it. He liked being invisible to others around you, as long as he was seen by you. It was more than finding a distraction so people didn’t look at him for too long and start getting suspicious; it definitely helped, for sure, but it was never what made him want you as his best friend. He couldn’t help it. After all, he was a sunflower. And you were the sun. 

Sometimes his colleagues at The Daily Planet didn’t believe him when he talked about you to them, and gave them your username. It didn’t help that he didn’t have any social media so he couldn’t show them that you followed him back. Clark didn’t really care whether they believed him or not. 

“It’s not because she has less than a thousand followers doesn’t mean your lie would be more convincing,” Jimmy said with the sageness of a monk. “She’s too pretty for you.” Then, as an afterthought, he added: “No offence, Clark.”

Clark shrugged. “None taken. I know she’s pretty.”

Lois hit Jimmy on the shoulder. “Eve is too pretty for you too but you don’t see me insulting you.”

Clark frowned. “Guys, she’s my best friend, not my girlfriend.”

Jimmy looked at him with pity in his eyes. “Lying about having a best friend is so sad… I didn’t know you were so lonely, Clark. I’ve been failing as a friend.”

Clark just rolled his eyes but didn’t try to convince him, since he didn’t seem like he wanted to be convinced. 

“She would love to meet you one day,” Clark added before forgetting. He kept forgetting to. Or maybe, he just wanted to have you all to himself. He’ll never tell. 

Jimmy looked at him suspiciously. “Is she just going to be a printed picture of her Instagram feed on a doll?”

Lois and Clark both ignored him. 

“If she’s your best friend, she must be a really good person, then. I would love to meet her,” Lois said, before pressing on the follow button. Ding! “Oh. She followed me back already.”

“She knows about you,” Clark said. “She must have recognized you.”

“That was quick,” Lois noticed. 

“Yeah,” Clark replied. “She says she’s terminally sick online or something. I never understand her when she says those Internet words.”

Jimmy’s jaw dropped. “He wasn’t lying…” he whispered to himself, mind blown. Which, honestly, he should have seen it coming. Clark was the most honest person he’d ever met. He was incapable of lying to save a life. Jimmy pressed the follow button on his phone too, as if some part of him still wasn’t convinced, and watched with quiet horror as a follow back notification popped. And he couldn’t justify it as you just following back everyone, because you only followed cat and food accounts.

Clark just thought Jimmy was being his weird self again and didn’t pay it too much attention. Honestly, he just took it as a compliment to you, which made him happy. He always felt proud and happy whenever people complimented you, as if he was an extension of you. 

“Great, I will call you for the details. She’s gonna love preparing something for the four of us. She’s such a good event planner.”

Of course Clark didn’t text. Not that he didn’t want to, it was just that even the biggest phone he could get was still too tiny for his hands and it made typing a pain in the butt. 

“Cool, can’t wait,” Lois said. Jimmy was just staring in the horizon. 

Clark smiled. He was happy all of his favorite people were going to meet. 

You were waiting for Clark at the Daily Planet’s lobby. You were taking pictures of the regular cat that became an honorary reporter at the office, more exactly. 

“Hi Clark,” you brightened when you saw him. 

“Hey you,” Clark replied, fondness dripping from his voice until it was sticky and sweet. “How was your day?”

“It was okay, I found this new spot we absolutely have to try together,” you replied, getting on your tiptoes despite your heels to press your lips to the edge of his mouth. Clark smiled instantly, like a switch was flipped.  

Some people would say you were too obsessed with image and social media, but Clark knew you better than anyone else. Even if you weren’t an influencer, even if social media and the internet didn’t exist, you would still be the same. You would still take pictures of your day, share your meals with Clark in a spot you really liked, and you would still take video diaries. 

“I can’t wait,” Clark replied. “Oh by the way, Jimmy and Lois said yes.”

With his superhearing, he heard Jimmy gasp from somewhere behind. “She’s really real. Wait, I thought he said she was his best friend? Why are they kissing?” Then the unmistakable sound of Lois slapping his shoulder. 

He tuned it all out. He would get over his weird crisis later. 

You grabbed his hand and dragged him away. 

“Oh, yeah, I saw they followed me both. I figured you talked to them.”

Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his. 

“What did they think?” you asked curiously. 

“Lois said you must be a good person if you’re my best friend. Jimmy… well, I think he really liked you. He said you were way too pretty for me, whatever that means,” Clark replied earnestly. 

“He’s an idiot,” you replied. “I’m not too anything for you. I’m just right for you.”

Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”

Clark often offered to learn about internet and what you do, but you just replied, “no it’s fine, don’t worry about it <3” (you made the heart with your hands). 

You appreciated his offer, but you knew how all of this made his head turn and how hopeless he was with everything that was even remotely tech-related (don’t even get her started on microwaves and Clark). And quite frankly, you found him cute just the way he was. Like an overgrown, oversized, oblivious but eager puppy. 

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

You were asking as if it was a planned event, when in fact Clark wasn’t aware of this until right then and there. But Clark was nothing if not adaptable (he did get adapted to an entirely new and foreign planet when he was just a baby), and nothing if not used to you, so he took it in stride and nodded. 

“Mhm,” he replied. “I’ll even make dinner if you want.”

“Deal.”

Walking to your place hand in hand had become routine early on in your friendship and one of the few things Clark would never bring himself to sacrifice. It was home away from home. 

“I’m going to the gym tomorrow, you’re coming with me.”

“Okay.”

“Great.”

Clark, being who he is, didn’t need a gym, or at least not one fit for humans, but you asked, so he obeyed. 

“What time?”

“Six am.”

That meant you were trying again to renew yourself and to adopt better habits and hobbies. It was something you routinely went through almost every six months. First when it’s the new year, second when it’s June, when you realized you’d been slacking off and not following your new year resolutions, and Clark became your accountability partner.

That title sounded big and full of responsibilities, but Clark didn’t really do anything, really — except show up wherever you went and gently reminded you of your commitments. When it was something really important, like taking your meds, he pressed but other than that, he let you flit through life like the butterfly you were meant to be. 

Clark was awake before you, unsurprised to find you pressed against his body, sleeping deeply while holding him like you were scared he was going to flee. Well, considering he was Superman, he guessed you weren’t far off the mark. 

With his free hand, he grabbed your phone to check the time since the arm he wears his watch on was currently being repurposed as a body pillow and his heart felt heavy at the thought of disturbing your sleep. 

5.15AM. He woke up early, but not too early. Just in time to wake you up so you could enjoy your ‘free time with Clark. That’s what you called cuddling up with him and talking about your dreams before you both had to leave the bed. 

“Psst,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

“No,” you grumbled. 

He chuckled softly. “What about your free time with me?”

“Mhmhmhmmm…” you mumbled before shifting position until you were actually cuddling him. “‘m awake,” you said. 

He didn’t doubt you. He just thinks that you’re also asleep at the same time. 

The both of you stayed like this for half an hour, Clark rubbing his thumb mindlessly on your arm, a quiet and gentle smile on his face while he listened to you ramble about your dream.

“You dreamt I was Batman?” he asked incredulously, swallowing back the laughter that overcame him. “Sweetheart, I’m literally already my own superhero, why would you dream of me as someone else?”

“I don’t know, Clark,” you replied and he didn’t need to look at your face to know you were rolling your eyes. “I didn’t do anything. I was quite literally just a spectator. Don’t shoot the messenger and all that.”

“You’re right. How could I forget you were literally incapable of wrong doing?”

“Mhm,” you hummed. “Better not forget next time.”

You fell back to sleep at six am on the dot. Clark tried to wake you up and remind you of your plans but you declined all attempts with the smooth dexterity of a politician deflecting questions. 

“Sleeping with you is its own workout anyway,” he muttered to himself. 

Clark quickly left you when he heard someone call for Superman but he came back before you woke up, which didn’t actually say anything about how long he took, since your sleep schedule was as predictable as a string of letters typed by a thousand monkeys on a typewriter. 

He was under the shower when you finally woke up and barged in through the bathroom without a care in the world. 

“I’m sleepy,” you tell him while peeing. 

“Hi sleepy, I’m Clark,” Clark replied while showering. 

You chucked the entire roll of TP at him and Clark didn’t even try to avoid it, even though he definitely could have. (You loved Clark dearly, but his dad jokes when you just woke up were unforgivable.)

Morning you was the best kind of you, and it was nice to know that your grumpiness didn’t do anything to erase your lack of privacy, because invasive you was also the best kind of you.

It’s not like there’s anything you didn’t already see. 

(To be fair though, you didn’t just start barging in on him when he was naked without a care for his consent, it just… happened. 

First it started with you walking in on him changing boxers, dick and everything out. Then it was him accidentally walking on you under the shower (honestly, how he didn’t realize you were under there with all of his gazillion superpowers was beyond the two of you). And then again, you walk in on him because you keep forgetting that Clark’s at your place more often than not, and then after that Clark accidentally used his super vision on you because he thought you were injured.

 So you sat him down one day and asked if he minded whenever either of you accidentally sees the other naked and he replied ‘no’, so you asked, ‘would you mind if it wasn’t accidental? Not exactly on purpose but just… not caring at all?’ and he said ‘no’, and you said ‘okay, by the way you have a big shlong’ and that’s basically how it started (after teaching Clark what shlong meant.

Clark only regrets his decision when it’s early in the morning and his hormones are raging and you’re changing in front of him like no one’s watching.)

He was out of the shower by the time you were brushing your teeth. 

“You’re not vlogging this morning?” he asked, feeling that same rush of pride he felt whenever he used one of the words you taught him, towel wrapped around his middle. His hair was wet and curled and doing all kinds of swoopy woopy things. His chest was glistening and dripping with water. 

“I wanted to but I also didn’t want you to steal my thunder with your naked cameo,” you replied with a floss string between your two front teeth. “Although you would have definitely made me go viral.”

“Ah, my bad,” he replied humorously. “I’ll try to be less… hot under the shower next time.”

You threw the used floss in the bin. “I don’t think that’s possible, unfortunately.”

Clark blushed and the redness followed him right to his neck and collarbones. 

You grinned toothily at him so he could inspect your teeth. He grabbed your chin between his index and thumb, and used his thumb to push your lower lip lower. “Mhm…” he hums thoughtfully. “Perfectly flossed. You get a star. Doctors from around the world want you as their client.”

“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”

His lips broke into a happy grin. “You’re welcome. You know, it’s not too late to go to the gym now.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say that,” you said. “My past self was crazy. I don’t associate with the likes of her anymore.”

“I see, your past self is being cancelled. Right?”

You burst out laughing before petting the top of his head. “God, I love you Clark. Never change.”

You ended up going to the gym anyway, dressed in your “cuntiest” outfits to “serve” (to serve what? Clark thought you quit being a server a year ago), but all you did was point at things and ask Clark if he could max them all out. Of course he could, and you knew he could, but you asked for a demonstration anyway. 

Then, because seeing him succeed flawlessly at every machine (and after attracting every “gym bro” in the vicinity who started asking Clark about powders and training regimen and whatnot, and lowkey looked impressed when Clark replied earnestly to the question of how he became so strong with “By being kind and respectful to everyone”), you decided he now had to do pushups with you sitting crisscross applesauce on top of him. 

“But why?”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it felt like to be a barbell,” you replied. 

“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”

“Same difference,” you replied. And of course, Clark was totally convinced. 

“Do you mind if I take pictures?” you asked him once you were sitting on him and he was laying on the floor, shirt off. 

“You know I don’t,” he replied. He didn’t need to remind you not to post his face anywhere because he trusted you implicitly. 

And then he started the pushups with complete ease, because there was no better way for him to spend his day-offs than to go to the gym with your best friend and use her as additional weight. 

You took plenty of pictures; some you called aesthetically pleasing and “would do well in tumblr”, others you said were just silly and for fun.

You showed him the pictures while still on his back, your arms on each side of his neck as you scrolled through the pictures for him while he stayed in an isotonic contraction (his muscles didn’t even flail, and it took you almost fifteen minutes to show him everything because you annotated each one.)

“I really like this one,” Clark said, lifting a hand from the floor to point at a picture, still lifting your weight with only one arm. 

The picture he picked was one where he looked at the mirror in front of you, and he was obviously looking at you, while you were making a silly face that wasn’t really silly, because it made you look devastatingly pretty. You were also flexing your left arm, winking and tugging your tongue at the camera. 

“Solid choice,” you replied, tapping something on the screen. “Definitely one of my favorites too.”

He smiled happily, and then remembered they were in public and he shouldn’t be showing off his strength so much, as much as he wanted to impress you. 

So, he pretended to have his muscles locking and asked you to get off, in case anyone was watching. You were always up for a bit of acting with him. You said it made you feel like the sidekick of a hot spy in a film noir.

Clark hung in the side while you took a video of yourself rambling to the camera — he was tall enough that he didn’t worry about his face being caught on camera, but the camera could still pick up your interlaced hands from the angle you held the camera. People would only be able to see his arm swinging and the beginning of his legs. 

You were talking about going to the gym and how you earned a big meal after it (though if you asked Clark, he would say you should never feel like you have to earn a meal, and that you could eat anything anytime you wanted if it made you happy). 

You set up the phone against the wall so it could take a video of you and the table. Clark was sat across from you, and again, wasn’t visible at all. Not even your face fully showed. Just the bottom half of your face. Your hands did most of the talking as you animated your stories with a floating burger. 

The camera captured Clark’s hand across the table, wiping the side of your mouth with a thumb, and your pleased, bashful smile after. 

It captured you stealing fries from Clark’s plate, and then Clark sharing half of his fries with you. 

It captured your laughter, and then your lips as they moved to form the words: I love you, Clark.

(When you finally uploaded the video to YouTube a while later, people commented: 

‘am I the only one who felt like a third wheel throughout the video? I loved it though. Always wanted to be the third to a hot couple’

‘God I see the things you do for others’

‘Guys ik she said he was just her best friend but I’m seriously having doubts rn. Maybe she meant it as in best boyfriend?’

‘You’re so pretty!!!!!! And your bf looks so hot too. Definitely my fav power couple of youtube’

Which then pushed your videos to more people.

You read all of the comments to Clark while he was writing down notes for his next article. His thoughts? “I think they really liked the video. I’m happy for you, sweetheart.”)

You picked a nice coffee shop downtown for your first meeting with Lois and Jimmy. Jimmy couldn’t look you in the eyes in shame. 

“I’m so sorry I doubted Clark’s ability to have pretty friends,” he said, before getting elbowed by Lois in the ribs. 

“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”

You took it in stride. You loved them and they loved you. Jimmy helped you take the perfect pictures for your picture dump, Lois and you talked about fashion, and Clark was happy to just step back and watch as three of his five favorite people get along so well. 

“How did you guys meet?” Lois asked curiously. She’d been eyeing the way you were both sitting so close to each other it bordered on lap sitting. 

“He mistook me for a scarecrow,” you replied. 

“We were childhood friends.”

“Clark I love you, but for a journalist you’re really bad at hooking people in,” Lois said. “As for your best friend, she was clearly made to hook people in.”

Clark was too happy to even feel offended, and just let you tell the story. The insult flew right over his head. 

It wasn’t anything grand. Clark was in the fields with his parents when he noticed a figure almost his height in the distance, and ran towards it. It was you, standing still with your arms outstretched. 

He ran back to his parents and asked if they put a new scarecrow in the fields that looked like a little girl. 

Jo and Ma looked at each other concerned before setting off to find this little scarecrow girl. 

And the rest was history. 

“I still don’t know what you were doing,” Clark confessed at the end of your story. “You won’t tell me.”

You shrugged. “Because I am aloof and mysterious.”

“This raised more questions than it answered,” Jimmy said with a faraway look on his face. 

“Good,” you and Clark said at the same time. 

“Your friends are really nice. Maybe I should become a journalist too and then become your colleague. That would be so much fun,” you told him after quitting Jimmy and Lois. “What do you think?” You took a sip of your Oreo milkshake you got for take-out.

Clark smiled. “I think you just can’t get enough of me,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “Yeah, you’re right. I won’t even try to lie.”

He laughed. 

He had never realized how his friendship with you could be seen as strange until you were both in college and everyone on campus the two of you were dating. It was common knowledge around all of the campus that you and Clark were the it couple. Even in high school, you’d been both voted prom queen and king, even though you both didn’t even know you were participating. Clark didn’t regret it though, because he got to wear a crown alongside with you and dance. It was one of his fondest memories with you. 

“Friends don’t act like that,” people would say. No one would ever be able to understand the bond you two have, so he doesn’t bother replying or trying to explain. Besides, what you have between the two of you was special, and he wanted to keep it that way. 

But Clark supposed there was some part of truth to that. Lois and Jimmy were his best friends too, but he would never cuddle in a bed with them, as much as he loved them. He also wouldn’t even dream of letting them peck him on the lips, or, God forbid, walk in on him under the shower. 

If this friendship was considered weird, then he was happy to be weird with you. Besides, nothing he could ever do would be weirder than being an actual alien pretending to be human. Or stumbling through your window into your apartment, jaw dislocated and nose bleeding.

“Clark? Is that you?” you called out from the kitchen.

He closed his eyes. Coming here was a bad idea, because he hated the thought of worrying you, but there was also nowhere else in the world he would rather be. “Yeah,” he replied, voice distorted because of his jaw. He heard you close the lid on a sauce pan and wipe your hands on a kitchen towel before hearing the soft pads of your feet walking into the living room.

“Hey, what did I say about tracking blood and mud in my apartment?”

Your words sounded mad but your voice betrayed your worry. You dropped the kitchen towel and reached him in quick strides. He was sitting on the floor against the wall, and you fell on your knees, hands hovering over his jaw, unsure whether you could touch him in this state. 

“Sorry,” Clark replied. “Will remember for next time.”

“There won’t be a next time because you’re going to stop letting bad guys hit you, okay?”

He laughed, even if it hurt to. Of course you said it as if it was that easy. It wasn’t, but Clark would make it so. 

“Stop laughing at me,” you chided, even as you inspected his nose. “It doesn’t look broken, so that’s good.”

“It healed on the way here. Perks of being Superman.”

“Stop acting like nothing’s wrong or I’ll break your nose myself, and I’ll make sure your healing factor is too busy to handle your nose first.”

“Wow,” he said. “Such violence coming from such a tiny little human.”

You grabbed his jaw without a warning and snapped it back into place. 

“Golly, woman! Warn a guy first, will you?” he yelped indignifyingly, rubbing his smarting jaw, before moving it left and right to make sure it was still working. He didn’t need to worry because you were a professional by now, ever since you were both fourteen and you started playing nurse for a Clark who was discovering his powers and trying each day a new way to test his abilities.

“If I warned you, you would never be ready,” you replied, and Clark smiled sheepishly at that. You were right. Despite him being the strongest human on Earth, his pain tolerance was subpar, and he always chickened out before anything like that. Usually, you would at least fake a countdown. “And besides, that’s what you get for making fun of me.”

He pouted. “I’m sorry baby,” he said, batting his eyelashes at you. 

“Ugh! This is so unfair,” you groaned, before bending at his height and pressing your lips against his pout in a quick peck. “I hate you.”

“I love you too,” Clark replied, not in the least bit remorseful for guilt-tripping you, basking in the bliss of the feeling of your lips against his, as fleeting as it was. 

You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Don’t even try to talk to me for the next five minutes. I’ll be too busy hating you.”

He was behind you before the five minutes even were up, wrapping his arms around your waist, still pouting. “Why are you so mean to me?” he asked, cheek pressed against the top of your head. He was still in his dirty Superman suit; he hadn’t even taken off his boots yet. 

You were trying really hard to ignore him. It was funny, and Clark couldn’t keep up the wounded act any longer. His shoulders were shaking with barely suppressed mirth. 

“Message received, baby. I’ll let you be for five minutes. In fact, I’ll let you be for thirty minutes.”

He used that time to clean up the mess he’d left behind (superheroing wasn’t a clean job) and finally take a shower. He tried not to notice how you kept pretending you forgot something in the bathroom while he was showering. First, it was your glasses, which you hadn’t even found, then you had to check a pimple on your face, and then it was your makeup, which you needed to retouch. 

“You know,” he said, voice barely heard over the sound of the stream of water. “I’m starting to think you’re just finding any excuses to come check on me.”

You shot him a dark look. “You said you weren’t going to bother me for thirty minutes.”

“I’m not bothering you, but you are bothering me.”

He realized his mistake before the words even finished leaving his mouth. You gasped.

“See if I ever bother you again,” you said, turning on your heels.

Clark groaned, before shutting the water off and grabbing a towel to wrap around his hips and chased after you, dripping water everywhere but unable to care because he just wanted to catch before you locked yourself in your room (and coincidentally blocking him from getting his clothes) and started listening to heartbreak songs at full volume. 

“Nooo,” he whined, “you know I love it when you bother me! Please don’t ever stop!”

“Nuh uh,” you replied, escaping his hand narrowly.

“Oh come on, are you really going to sulk at me for that? And why were you so mean to me anyway? Ever since I got here, you were being grumpy, which, don’t get me wrong, I love it, but I don’t understand why, did I do something wrong?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe it’s the fact that you were injured again as Superman, you don’t take it seriously when I’m worried, you make fun of me when I tell you to be more careful, and you tracked blood everywhere! You know I hate blood! Stupid blood! And your blood isn’t even normal, it’s alien blood!”

You still didn’t stop walking but now the two of you were walking in circles until you were the one chasing him now. It was a ridiculous sight, but it wasn’t an unusual occurrence at your household. 

“Wait, what do you mean by alien blood?”

“Your blood doesn’t come off easily, you know that! Remember when I was trying to scrub your blood out of the rug and I kept mixing any chemicals I could find and accidentally made chloroform?”

Clark felt silly for entertaining for even one second the terrifying thought that you thought of him differently, and his shoulders dropped. He stopped walking. And he did remember that time. Of course he did. He’d been sick with worry his muscles had locked in place for a few seconds before he finally spurred into action and got you to a safe place with fresh air and threw away everything else before it did more damage. 

He’d made you sleep over at his place for a week to make sure the smell had completely left the apartment. 

“Baby, I’m sorry, I know you hate blood, but I really wasn’t thinking straight, and I just wanted to see you, and it made everything else disappear. It’s not an excuse however, and I apologize for it. And I’m also sorry for not taking you seriously when you’re worried about me, it’s just… I’m not laughing at you, it’s just… it’s really sweet how you’re always so worried about me, and you always get so endearing when you lecture me, I just can’t help myself.”

You sniffed. “Okay, fine. I forgive you. And I’m sorry for being so mean to you today. It’s not really because of you. I’m just so irritated these days and lashing out makes me feel better, even though I shouldn’t.” 

Clark’s heart instantly broke at your small voice, and gathered you in his arms. “No need to apologize, sweetheart. I gave you a good reason to get annoyed at me, it was my fault.”

“It’s always your fault,” you mumbled, voice muffled by his chest. 

He snorted through his nose, unable to help himself. “Yes, baby. It’s always my fault, and I’m sorry.”

“Mhm, and you’re taking me out tonight.”

“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”

There was a comfortable silence before you said, “I think your towel just fell.”

Clark couldn’t look at you for the rest of the day without going as red as his cape in the face and you laughing at him every single time. 

“It was time it happened, you know? It’s just the natural course of events.”

You pretended it was fine, but Clark could tell you were embarrassed a little too and that knowledge comforted him a little. 

You were laughing at him again. Because he just took out his pocket notebook from his backpocket so he could make a note out of something he wanted to look up later. And he had a tiny pencil that came with it.

“You’re so—” you shook your head.

“An old soul?” Clark offered helpfully as he closed his notebook and slid it back in his pocket. 

“Chronically offline, I was going to say, and it’s crazy how even your words reflect how chronically offline you are.”

Clark smiled. He liked it when you teased him, because it meant you liked him, even if he had ten billion other proofs that you liked him. 

“I’m going to say words and you’re going to say the first thing that comes to mind, okay?”

“Let’s do it.”

He moved his upper body so that he could fully face you, giving you all of his attention.

“Serve.”

“Tennis.”

“Eat.”

“Food.”

“Slay.”

“Dragons.”

“Flop.”

“Flip flop.”

“Tik Tok.”

“Clock.” 

Your face got progressively red as you tried not to burst out laughing. 

“Do you know what rizz means?”

“Uh… not really, but I remember Lois telling Jimmy she didn’t understand how he got so much rizz. Is it… freckles? He has a lot of freckles.”

You broke into laughter. “Oh you’re so cute, Clark. I just want to eat you up. In a soup. Like wonton soup but it’s Clark soup.”

“Thank… you?” 

“You’re welcome, babe.”

Clark Kent was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken, respectful young man. It’s a truth universally acknowledged. Despite his stature and his size, no one had ever seen him use it in a way to cause harm rather than help. Sure, they’d seen him climb on top of a tree to save a kitten, help lift things from one floor to another, but they’d never seen him use that strength against someone else. 

And no one ever will. Not even you. Clark takes great mesures to make sure that it stays that way. He’ll do anything to protect you from anything that could upset you and if it’s truly important, he won’t tell you about it. Why would he ruin your day when he was perfectly capable of handling everything? He was happy to handle everything else while you were busy enjoying yourself, like now.

You weren’t even drunk — you hated alcohol and besides, Clark couldn’t get drunk either so it wouldn’t be fun for him to be the only one sober — but you were feeling the music, and talking to someone, looking gorgeous and in your element in your dress. You looked stunning. Not just because your dress was pretty — though it was — but because you were radiating with joy. You loved going out and having fun and dancing to a music that reverberated deep in your ribcage. 

“Hi Clark!” you screamed over the music, even if he could have easily heard you mumble it ten feet away in the middle of fireworks. “You having fun?”

“I am,” he called back.

You grabbed him by his hands and tugged him against you. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“Oh, no, you know I don’t do any of that.”

You snorted. “If it’s just because you’re embarrassed of your dance moves, I won’t judge, I promise. I’ve already seen them all anyway.”

“It’s not that…” he countered weakly. It was exactly that. His gracefulness as Superman unfortunately did not translate to when he was Clark Kent, and coupled with his height and size, he was an actual public hazard. He didn’t want to accidentally bump into someone or, God forbid, step on your feet. He knew you wouldn’t care, but he did, and it made him feel bad. 

You huffed. “Fine. I’m gonna go dance with that hot guy over there, then. He’s been trying to talk to me for like an hour but since I thought you were going to dance with me… anyway, it’s his lucky day, bye Clarkie,” you said, before sauntering over to the guy who, Clark had to admit, was attractive. 

He watched you talk with him with an unnamed feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he forced himself to take a sip of his water. Maybe he should have gone with you. 

But then you were back already, not even ten minutes later. You said you just didn’t “vibe” with him, but Clark suspected it was because you missed him.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered against the crown of your head. “I was getting tired anyway.”

“Bollocks,” you replied in a fake posh accent. “You never get tired.”

He hummed. “True. I just wanted to go home with you.”

“Then let’s go home.”

The streets of Metropolis were half-lit. It was a Friday night in the summer so everyone was still out, despite the late hour. He had your hand in his and you were skipping on the pavement, heels clicking, arm swinging. 

He loved you best when you were like this. Happy and blissful and totally unaware of the rest of the world, because you trusted him to have your back, even if you weren’t entirely aware of the many ways he’s had your back.

“I hate the subway,” you muttered, scanning your metro card against the reader. 

“Well, you refuse to fly you home, and also walk home so,” Clark replied patiently. 

“Should have taken a taxi.”

“And complain about how it’s expensive all the way home?”

“You know, Clark, I don’t think I appreciate how much you know me. Maybe it’s time we start putting some distance between the two of us.”

Clark didn’t need to reply, he merely looked down at the way you were literally pressed against him until there was not a single inch of space left between the two of you. 

“Shut up,” you grumbled. 

The subway was full despite the late hour so the both of you had to keep standing. Well, Clark had to, but you leaned against him, putting most of your weight against him. He loved it. 

It happened when there were only five stops left.

You were rambling to Clark about something even you wasn’t sure about it, when Clark noticed the man behind you who had been trying to get closer for the past five minutes.

His reaction was swift but controlled. Making sure your attention was elsewhere, namely fixating on the bright lights announcing the stations left, he grabbed the man’s wrist in a tight enough grip that it was uncomfortable, but not tight enough to break anything — yet. 

“Hey, baby, can you explain to me what Instagram again?” he asked you, voice soft and sweet. 

“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“

He tuned you out, not out of malice, just so he could focus his energy into the man who thought sticking his phone underneath your skirt was a good idea. 

The man’s eyes looked up in unwarranted anger, ready to yell at whoever dared touch him, but it quickly switched into fear once he saw the stony expression on Clark’s face — and the height and muscle he had on him. 

Clark knew he shouldn’t, but he squeezed his grip tighter until his super hearing could pick up the sound of his joints creasing against each other. 

“Are you even listening to me, Clark? This is your problem, because you say you want to understand but then you always zone out even before I even start.”

“Sorry darling, there’s just a… bug that’s been bothering me.”

“Silly, just swat it away, and then give me your full attention.”

Clark grinned, and twisted the man’s wrist until it sprained. Just enough to make him second guess himself next time he tried to pull this stunt again — to you or any other unsuspecting girl who may not have Superman by their side. The phone dropped and Clark ‘accidentally’ stepped on it.

“Perfect idea, my smart girl.” 

The rest of the ride home went without any other problem, but Clark still couldn’t for the life of him understand what Instagram was. 

You passed out in bed before Clark even took off his pants. 

He sighed at the sight, but without any real annoyance. He supposed your clothes were comfortable enough to sleep in, but he gathered your makeup wipes from the bathroom.

You mumbled something intelligible when the mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crossed a leg on the bed and sat down, and he smiled. Even unconscious, you were endearing. 

He poured some product in the cotton before he wiped your face with it gently. He did the same with another cotton wipe and focused on your eyes this time, removing the mascara and eyeliner he loved so much that made your eyes look even bigger and shinier. 

He threw everything away and then got into bed behind you. Sleep had never felt sweeter than when he slept with you in his arms. 

Things my chronically offline bsf does

“What’s this?” Clark asked, blinking at the screen you just shoved in his face as if you were afraid he was going to somehow miss the glowing bright box. He was drinking his glass of milk when you walked in the kitchen in a flurry of excitement. 

“It’s an idea for a TikTok,” you explained. It probably explained it for most people, but it only left Clark even more puzzled. He knows you explained it to him, multiple times, but he keeps forgetting. 

“What’s bee-ess-eff?”

“Best friend. It’s you. You’re my chronically offline best friend. I think the world needs to know about this.”

“Uh… sure?” He wasn’t sure why the world needed to know the things he did, but he wasn’t one to not show you support whenever he can, so he went along with it. “What sort of things do I do?”

“Take notes on an actual notepad.”

“That’s normal, why would they care?”

“You use physical maps.”

“They’re fabricated for a reason!”

You ignored him again. “You print recipes instead of following them on your laptop. Wait, let me correct that. You ask me to print you the recipes because you still haven’t figured it out.”

He blushed at that. “But it’s just so much easier that way! I like having everything I need right in front of me. I don’t want to have to scroll or zoom in or whatever else it is.”

“Mhm,” you replied, unconvinced. “I still think it makes for a really funny TikTok video, so. I’m posting it.”

“Well… okay. Sure. Maybe someone in the comment section will explain to me why it’s so funny.”

You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”

He brightened up, confusion leaving his face. This, he knew. This, he was used to. “I love you, sweetheart. Let me know when you upload it. I want to read comments with you.”

The TikTok was forgotten for a bit. Life got in the way, you got distracted by other shinier, newer, better things, and it was deadline season for Clark, and crime seemed to have multiplied overnight. 

So, it wasn’t long before he and you finally got to reading the comments. 

“Clark, you’re a famous man,” you preamble. 

He paused mid-slurp of his chicken noodles. “Huh?”

“The video blew up.”

Clark instantly looked concerned. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, silly. It means the video went viral.”

“It went where?”

“Ugh! Whatever. You’re famous. I got like 35k comments.”

Clark knew what going viral meant. He was just being a little jerk, and you were so used to him being actually that obtuse that the joke flew right over your head. 

But the number made him pause. “That many? Where do these people come from?”

“All around the world. Do you want me to read the comments for you or not?”

Clark placed his chopsticks down and stapled his fingers, as if he was getting ready for an important meeting. “Let’s hear it.”

You cleared your throat, readying yourself to start reading some sort of royal decree. “Him having the actual notepad from old iPhone noteapp is taking me out.”

Clark was frowning, not upset, just trying to understand. “Okay, but where is my notepad taking them out?”

“Do you actually want to know or do you prefer living in bliss?”

“Uh… is it bad?”

“No, I just don’t know if you want to preserve your ignorance.”

“Oh. Explain this one. I’m intrigued.”

You did, and he cracked a smile when he finally got it. You kept reading him some comments, explaining them when needed. 

“Someone said, this is the only person who would probably survive a nuclear fallout.”

You snorted at that one, knowing that the commenter couldn’t possibly realize just how close to the truth they were. 

“How did they know?”

“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”

“Oh. Okay, next one.”

“I am lowkey jealous of him. I bet he is happy and healthy and has clear skin.”

“Could you reply to them?”

“Yeah. What do you want to say?”

“Tell them that if they have questions about how I live, they can ask me. Or I guess, direct message you.”

“If I do that, everyone will flood my DMs but fine. The things I do for you… okay, done. Next. Bet he pays all his bills by check too with a crying emoji.”

Clark frowned. “Why are they sad? Did I make them sad?”

“A crying emoji is basically laughter, don’t worry.”

“Weird. Next.”

“This guy’s got the world’s cleanest internet footprint. Even rainbolt wouldn’t be able to find him.”

“Who’s rainbolt?”

“A dude who’s really good at finding locations in the world with the tiniest picture.”

“Oh.”

Sometime between the first comment and the last one, you’d ended up on his lap, and he’d leaned back against his chair to give you more space. 

“What is this one?”

“I hope he knows he’s iconic,” you read out loud. 

“Oh. That’s really sweet. I am iconic, thank you. But so are you.”

You smiled, pleased before bursting into laughter. “Oh you’re gonna hate this.”

“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”

“Chronically offline but chronically FINE,” you said, barely able to read it with a straight face. “I should have known people were going to lose their mind over you.”

“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”

“Yes, honey. They’re saying you’re hot.”

“Oh. How many of them?”

“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”

“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”

You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself. 

He can write me a letter any time. 

I would learn how to use a rotary phone for him. 

I’m getting a pigeon just so he can start sending me letters. 

“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”

Clark smiled, pleased and smug. That’s right. He was yours. 

You started including him more in your TikToks, partly because people demanded more of him, but mostly because you enjoyed doing things with him. 

You posted another one: 

things my bsf does for me because he’s just built like that

Ever since they met, Clark had just felt more inclined to do things for you. He was raised that way, yeah, but it was more than that. 

Clark didn’t think there was any door he’d let you open when he was around. Paying for you had always been second nature to him, just like kissing your forehead whenever he was happy. Holding your hands started out because you wanted to hold his hand, but he kept the habit. Now he couldn’t go anywhere with you without holding your hand. 

If anyone asked why, he wasn’t sure he would be able to explain why. He just felt like it. Just like walking on the side of the road, or gently guiding you with a hand to the small of your back. 

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the things you picked, but somehow the internet had a lot of things to say about it. Surprisingly, they were all nice. 

May this kind of friendship kidnap me (What?!)

Is someone going to tell them? (Tell them what?)

I don’t think they’re aware they’re dating. (Clark would like to believe that he would know whether he was dating someone or not.)

THEY SLEEP TOGETHER?!? (Yeah? How else would they cuddle then?)

I feel so bad for their partners. (Clark and you haven’t dated anyone ever, so the worry was appreciated but unwarranted.) 

I’m struggling to find a good bf because girls like her are hoarding the good men (What?)

Girl you’re living the life. Where can I find me a man like that? (In corn fields.)

THAT SHOULD BE ME… holding your hand (Oh! Clark recognizes that song.) 

Clark didn’t say anything as you wedged your head between his arm and forearm, using it as a sort of prop, only watched in confusion as you took a picture of it using the reflection on the train’s windows. 

“It’s for my collection,” you helpfully added. 

Your collection of pictures of the two of you. Picture of your hand against his, another one of you flexing your arm next to his relaxed biceps, his hand wrapped around your waist. He never really understood why, but he didn’t need to understand it to feel a sort of understated satisfaction and pride at the sight of the two of you together, your difference in size so pronounced. When asked about it, you merely said ‘Tumblr’s gonna go crazy’ as if it explained everything.

Clark didn’t know who Tumblr was, but he felt bad for them. 

But like anything else that you did or said, Clark didn’t need to understand it to support it. 

During lunch break, Clark was swamped by Lois and Jimmy who stood over his desk like two very nosy sentinels.

“Did you see your best friend’s new post?”

Clark clicked out of a tab before peering up at his two other best friends through his thick glasses. “Uh… she didn’t show me anything, so I wasn’t aware she uploaded something new. Why? Did she?”

“Oh no,” Lois said, way too normally. “We, uh, we were just wondering if she was going to post something soon.”

“Yeah, we became huge fans. We can’t get enough of her posts,” Jimmy supplied. 

Clark beamed. “Oh, that’s really sweet. She’s going to be so happy hearing that. I’ll definitely let you guys know if she ever wants to post something new on the TikTok.”

“Cool, cool,” Jimmy said in his usual shifty way.

“Wanna go out for lunch with us?” Lois asked.

“Uh… sure,” Clark replied with a nod. You were busy that day, so it wasn’t like he had anything planned with you.

Clark wasn’t much of a talker. Around his loved ones, he preferred listening. He couldn’t get enough of it.

Jimmy was talking about his latest date with Eve, a really sweet girl who kind of reminded Clark of you, because she was an influencer too. 

Lois talked about her latest investigation against Luthorcorp. You could take her out of the office but you couldn’t take the journalism out of Lois. It’s how Lois and him had become friends when Clark first joined the Daily Planet. 

“How are things with her?” she asked once the conversation trailed off and Clark smiled, always happy to talk about you.

“Good, we’re actually going to the movies tonight. I can’t wait.”

Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake. 

“The new horror movie?” Jimmy asked. “Eve and I went to see it last week. It was really good but I think Eve forgot she had her own seat.” He rolled his eyes. 

“Eve deserves so much better,” Lois sighed longingly. 

“Hey! You said you weren’t gonna say stuff like that to me!”

Lois shrugged. “I lied.”

Clark watched them bicker happily. Weirdly enough, it reminded him of his own parents bickering together. 

Clark raised a brow at your look. “Lazy night tonight?”

You were dressed in Clark’s old hoodie that still hung loosely on you and a pair of sweatpants (not his, unfortunately), and your hair was tied haphazardly into a bun. “Mhm,” you grunted. “I looked at my closet and it looked back at me and then I stared back and I realized I was way too lazy tonight to dress up properly. So, you get this.”

“Well, not that you asked, but I still think you’re gorgeous like this. Actually, I think I like you better like this, wearing my shirt.”

“Possessive much, huh?”

Clark rubbed the back of his hand with a sheepish smile. “Ah, well…”

Clark liked going to the cinema with you. He liked buying you overpriced snacks just because you loved them, and he loved it when you inevitably get tired mid-showing and lay your head against his shoulder. Or when you grow bored with the movie and start playing with his hand instead, sending shivers down his spine when you caress the back of his hand with a feather-light touch. 

“This movie is so lame,” you grumbled, hand digging into Clark’s popcorn.

Most of all, he just loved you. Even when you were being a harsh critic.

Clark’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “It’s a children’s movie, sweetheart. What did you expect?” he whispered back. 

“Even kids deserve quality! They need to watch good movies at the earliest so that they learn to appreciate good cinema.”

Clark snorted. He usually tried not to be so noisy in the cinema but the room was filled with approximately twenty children who were all screaming or crying or making some sort of noise. His snort flew under the radar. 

“Have you always been this passionate about children movie?”

“I was a child once too, Clark. This is very important to me.”

Clark barely resisted the urge to grab your hand, buttery and salty, and press a kiss to it. 

Clark cannot exist without you, but Clark thinks that you could exist without him, you just choose not to. 

“Clark,” you said one day, phone in one hand and Clark’s arm in the other. “My favorite bubble tea shop is offering free drinks for couples on Valentine’s day. We have to go.”

Clark knew that bubble tea was your favorite, so it was easy to agree. “I’m not sure they count best friends as couples, though.”

“Oh Clark, you dummy. We’re going to go there as a couple. I got us matching outfits. We’re going to be the cutest couple ever.”

Clark heard matching outfits and his heart hammered inside his chest. He was no stranger to matching outfits. It was you, after all, who introduced them to him. 

It had started out small: friendship bracelets, then necklaces, then clay rings they made together. 

Then one day you’d come across matching beanies and bought them on an impulse, because they made you think of him. Clark had really loved the beanie. His was red and blue, because of course it was. Yours had been pink and black. 

From then on, there were no more limits to what you would consider matching. You’d even made him exchange sim cards holders so that yours became black and his pink. 

A full matching outfit had always been the next natural course of action. 

“Wouldn’t that be… lying?” he said, smiling sheepishly. As much as he loved the idea of wearing matching outfits with you and helping you get free boba, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to help you commit fraud. 

“Clark, think about it. We regularly go on date together. Your toothbrush is next to mine in my bathroom. We celebrate anniversaries. We sleep in the same bed. These are all things couples do.”

“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”

“They don’t have to know that! We’ll just let the facts speak for themselves.”

“Well…” 

Clark Kent was about to commit fraud in the name of love friendship.

You got your free drinks because nothing could stand in the way between you and your favorite drinks with pearl shaped tapioca inside. 

“Hey, Kat,” you said, greeting the cashier by name as if you guys were long lost friends. “Can you help me out?”

Kat had a confused smile, but she also looked intrigued. “Sure?”

You hook a thumb towards Clark. “He’s been sleeping in my bed for close to a year now, and he makes me breakfast every day, but he refuses to believe we’re dating.”

Clark’s entire face went beet red with sheer embarrassment. “H-Hey!”

Your grin could put to shame the Cheshire cat’s smile.

Kat snickered. “Oh boy, he’s got it bad, isn’t he?”

You showed her your matching clay rings. “Look at this. We made them together ten years ago. And now because he refuses to admit we’re together, I won’t be able to get my free drink.”

Kat’s eyes went big, before looking at Clark like he was really dumb. “Is he blind?” she asked you while looking at him.

“Well, they do say that love makes you blind.”

Oh you were good, and you were such a menace, and Clark wasn’t sure his face was ever going to be able to go back to a normal shade after this.

“Was this really necessary?”

“No, not really,” you admitted, taking a large sip from your straw. Your drink was pink, because of course it was. It’s Valentine’s day, after all. “But it was fun. And I technically didn’t say lie.”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whimpered.

“You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately for me.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. Enjoy your drinks. They’re tainted with the taste of my mortification.”

“Yummy. Extra delicious.”

Contrary to popular belief, Clark Kent was a menace too. He just hid it really well, and only let it show around you.

It was stupid, really. He came across a joke store and he went inside for some reason. He thought he would find something silly or cute for you. Maybe matching disguises. 

But then he found a disturbingly realistic cockroach and before he knew it, he was out of the store with a bag and three dollars missing from his wallet. 

He already felt so guilty, but also very excited. 

Clark was pretty humans all over the globe, metahuman or not, had been able to hear your scream when you noticed the cockroach right next to your eyes.

“Clark!” 

Your first scream was one of fear.

Another thing about Clark Kent was that he had a terrible poker face. It’s why you loved playing poker against him.

But it also meant that he was the worst at playing pranks, because guilt always showed on his face. Ergo, you knew instantly.

“Clark!”

Your second one was of anger and Clark smiled, ducking his head to the side. “Good morning?”

“Oh Clark, I hate you.” 

But Clark didn’t need his enhanced vision to see the way your lips quirked up as you struggled to not smile. 

“Are you free Friday night?” you asked him, peeking your head inside the bathroom where Clark was showering. Thankfully he was only showering and not doing anything else. 

“Uh, sweetheart, you know I’m always free Friday nights,” he said, wiping a hand over his face to see you better. 

You snorted. “Oh yeah. Forgot you were such a nerd. Oh well, consider yourself not free anymore. You know, you look really cute with your hair pushed back.”

He flushed.

“You blush down there too. Interesting.” 

You closed the door behind you and he let his forehead bump against the wall with a dull thud. Oh, he was in so much trouble. 

If Clark Kent stopped being dishonest with himself, he would finally let himself admit that he liked you more than normal friends, and more than their own brand of friendship.

His feelings for you ran as deep as the ocean, as old as the birth of his civilization. From the day he thought you were a scarecrow, to his first kiss. His first kiss was with you, of course. It was your first too. You said you wanted to know what the fuss was all about. 

Fireworks had erupted the moment your lips touched his, and never stopped once whenever he saw you. 

Clark Kent was really in love. With his first kiss, his first friend, his first love, you.

And it wasn’t as scary as people made it out to be, honestly. Nothing was scary when you were there. 

When he first started getting his powers, it was scary but you were there. You made it not scary. 

When Pa Kent had a health scare, it was really scary, but you were there. You made it not so scary. 

Point was, Clark wasn’t afraid of the depth of his feelings for you, because he had blind trust in you. (And something told him that you felt the same.) 

Even if you dragged him to random parties on a random Friday after work. It felt weird to spend eight hours cooped up behind his laptop and then find himself in a nightclub that same night, wearing clothes that were way too fitted. 

“I need you to wear something good,” you told him before dragging him into an impromptu shopping spree. It was planned for you, but it was a surprise for him. Really, who was he to tell you no? 

Your whistling and happiness were worth wearing something out of his zone of comfort. 

“You never leave your drink unattended, okay?” you warned him seriously. 

Clark only nodded sagely, even though he was fighting the stupid grin that was threatening to break on his face. It was cute how you worried for him, even though drugs literally had no effect on him. 

“No drinks left unattended, got it. And I don’t talk to strangers. Unless they’re cute.”

“Don’t sass me, young man. I’m doing this for you.”

His smile turned softer. “I know. Thank you, sweetheart.”

It was a regular nightclub, like any other. You wanted to taste their drinks, take pictures, have fun. Clark was used to these nights. You were there for the fun, he was there for you. 

He didn’t usually dance but there was something different about tonight. He remembered the way he felt when you went to dance with someone else, and he didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. 

He waited until you finished your drink to ask, “Can I have this dance?”

You looked at him with eyes wide like saucers. “Oh em gee!” you shrieked. “I thought you would never ask!”

If he’d known how happy it would make you, he wouldn’t have kept refusing you. 

He wasn’t really used to dancing, and the only thing that came to mind when he thought of dancing was slow dancing. So that’s what he had in mind when he asked you. But then you finished his glass in one go and pressed yourself to him until there was no more space left, and the rest of the world disappeared.

He could feel everything. The press of the swell of your breasts against his chest, your hands gliding along his waist, the intoxicating smell of your lavender perfume.

Oh yes. This was a nightclub. This was how people danced. He swallowed thickly. Maybe he chose the wrong time to ask for a dance. 

Your hands are now caressing your neck, up to your hair, your head turned to the side. You were one with the song, and Clark was frozen in place, hands hovering in the air, suddenly unsure whether he was allowed to touch you.

“Aw, Clarkie, getting shy on me now?” you teased him when you noticed him unmoving. You grabbed his hands and placed them on each side of your waist. “Just follow the music. Sway from one side to the other.”

He tried, but God did he feel stiff and watching you in your element didn’t help. The friction of your dancing body against him was doing something to his nerves.

“Look at how the man are dancing with the girls,” you whispered. “Try doing the same.”

He looked, and immediately averted his eyes. “I can’t do that,” he whispered in panic. “It’s… borderline graphic!”

You laughed. “Oh Clark. You’re adorable. I’m gonna grind on you,” you said with that same look on your face that said you were up to no good, and that Clark couldn’t even dream of surviving you.

“Please don’t,” he whimpered in a tiny voice. “At least not here, where everyone can see.”

You paused at that, your teasing smile frozen in place, and Clark watched with barely muted satisfaction at how he’d so easily rendered you speechless. 

But then your eyes turned mischievous, and Clark realized his mistake. “I like the sound of that.”

He groaned, throwing his head back. You used that moment of weakness to press your lips along the lines of his neck. Not a kiss, not a bite. Just the soft press of your lips against his neck.

And then you screamed when your favorite song came on, and it was like that moment never even happened. 

“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly. 

You were so drunk.

Clark Kent didn’t mind taking care of you when drunk. He would like to say it was because he always wants to take care of you, but the truth was a little more selfish than that. 

Sure, drunk you was a menace, but when you got tired and sleepy and drunk, you were always so sweet. So clingy, so desperately needy and Clark absolutely loved to take care of you in that state. You were already clingy on a normal day, but drunk and sleepy was a whole other level. If he didn’t have his Superman strength, he would never be able to extricate you from his body. You turned into an oversized, drunk, needy koala. Clark leaving for just one minute to bring you water was enough to send you into an inconsolable state, so he learned to improvise. Again, he was thankful for his superstrength allowing him to lift you with one arm while he took care of things. 

Tonight was no different. By the time you both reached your apartment, you were already dozing off to sleep but fighting it, your entire chest wrapped around Clark’s arm. 

“Clark, you’re staying the night, right?” you asked, voice muffled and words slurred. 

“Yes,” he replied, fighting hard a smile, turning his own copy of your keys in the lock. 

“And you’re staying with me, right?”

“Yes,” he replied. This time he couldn’t help the smile. He helped you walk inside.

Your bottom lip quivered, tears already forming in your eyes. You let go of him. “You hate me!” 

Clark’s eyes went wide. “What? Where the heck did that come from? I just said I was staying with you.”

“Yes, but you sounded like you hated me when you said it,” you replied, voice already watery. 

“Gosh no, what? I could never love you. I love you. Always have, always will.”

“So why did you stop calling me petnames? You hate me!”

You broke into tears in the middle of your living room and for the first time since ever, Clark felt utterly helpless. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d stopped. 

“Oh baby, is this what it’s about?” he cooed, and his heart broke when you nodded pitifully. “Come here sweetheart.”

He opened his arms and you launched yourself into them. He closed his hold around you, his arms wide enough so he could hide all of you, and protect you. Your shoulders shook with the strength of your sob, and once again he found himself wondering how such a tiny little thing could have so much feelings inside of her. 

“I love you baby, I could never hate you. Forgive me?”

“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.

No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl. 

“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“Aaaah.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions. 

You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth. 

Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.

You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that. 

Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.

“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Okay.” 

You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants. 

Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.

“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”

You pouted again. 

He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin. 

You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love. 

“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”

You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should. 

Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.

He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you. 

Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest. 

Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo. 

He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user). 

Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.

“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.

“Sure. Bubby’s?”

“God yes.”

Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.

Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten. 

It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.

He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.

It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).

He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button. 

He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up. 

And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.

It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well). 

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?

Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.

IS THIS THE BSF?!?!

I KNEW IT!!!!

omg i ship them so bad

Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her

@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK

LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing 

You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms. 

The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her. 

This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.

You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.

Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office. 

Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret. 

And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.

Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.

You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you. 

He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt. 

Now 

So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night. 

“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”

“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?” 

He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”

You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest. 

Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?

Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”

Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”

“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been. 

Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other. 

But panicking about required love was more dramatic.

“Clark.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

“Smartass.”

He smiled in reply. 

He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night. 

What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it. 

But… not now. 

Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you. 

It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More… 

You were running out of adjectives. 

“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking. 

“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”

“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)

“Another time,” he confirmed. 

Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.

Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now. 

“Clark.”

His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you. 

“Could you pass me the salt?”

His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute. 

“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen. 

You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first. 

You can do this. 

You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour. 

You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence. 

You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline. 

“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.” 

When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark. 

“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah. He was perfect. 

“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”

“Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you confirmed. 

As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated. 

Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years. 

Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course. 

Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well. 

“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”

You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”

Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”

“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. 

Bean meowed in displeasure too. 

“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind. 

“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something. 

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk. 

“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days. 

“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”

“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said. 

“You guys talk about me behind my back?”

“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”

He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”

Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked. 

“Hey!”

“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”

“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”

Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”

They shared a look. 

“I don’t think he knows that we know.” 

“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added. 

“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended. 

“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented. 

“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”

“Should we tell him?”

“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”

“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”

“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”

He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”

“Wait… when did she confess?”

“Oh great heavens.”

Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone. 

“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?” 

“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”

“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”

Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop. 

 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you. 

Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told. 

“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”

“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”

“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined. 

“No,” came their reply in unison. 

“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”

He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.  

masterlist ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi

[yiiiikesmish]

god what i would do to have clark kent as my neighbour. unfortunately all my neighbours are assholes.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦

Your washing machine breaks, and Clark Kent—perfect, helpful, devastatingly kind Clark Kent—immediately offers his. The same Clark you've been pathetically avoiding because being around him hurts too much when you're this gone for him. But it's late, it's raining, and he's being so characteristically sweet about it that you can't say no. What could go wrong?

Your washing machine is dead. Not 'making a funny noise' dead, but utterly, stone-cold silent. You’d pressed the power button three times, a desperate little prayer on your lips, before accepting your fate. A mountain of laundry sat mockingly in its basket.

You’re staring into the abyss of your empty detergent bottle (another problem) when your phone buzzes on the counter.

Clark: Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. Everything good?

Your fingers hover over the screen. It’s mortifying. You should just not answer. All your efforts to distance yourself from him, to slowly ease his warmth out of your life, will be for naught if he gets even the slightest sense of you needing help. Clark Kent doesn’t ignore cries for help. Clark Kent swoops in, with his gentle smile and strong, broad shoulders.

Clark Kent makes it hard for girls like you to get over him.

But if you don't answer, he’ll probably show up at your door to investigate, which would be much, much worse.

You: My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky.

His reply is almost instantaneous. A small bubble with three dots appears and disappears before the message lands, and you hold your breath.

Clark: Oh no! Problem solved. My machine is your machine. Come on over whenever.

Shit.

You: Thanks, but it’s OK! I’ll just hit the laundromat. It’s late and I don’t want to bother you.

You’ve already put on your jacket and are hunting for your keys, a grim determination setting in. The walk will be cold. It will be annoying. But it will be blessedly, wonderfully Clark-free, so it’s a small sacrifice in the long run. Your thumb hesitates over the power switch on the machine. Might as well give it another shot. You jab the button with your index finger.

The phone screen in your hand lights up with his name.

He's speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "You don't honestly think I'm letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself, do you?"

"I..." What were you going to say again? He's turning the concerned voice on and your stomach is flipping. "It’s not raining that much." It is. You can hear the distinct tink-tink-tink of water hitting your windowpane.

"Okay. It’s not freezing rain. But it’s still late. And that laundromat is… not the best. Lois was just telling me about an article she’s editing about how many streetlights are out on that block."

Lois.

The name lands like a small, smooth stone dropped into your stomach. Of course. Lois. Beautiful, brilliant Lois who makes Clark laugh in ways that light up his entire face, who writes the front-page articles and has the world at her fingertips. Who Clark is undoubtedly, irrefutably in love with, if you had to guess. Maybe they’re even together now. You've been so busy avoiding him that you wouldn't even know.

"I’m not gonna be able to focus on my work if I’m worried about you," he continues, blissfully unaware of the small, quiet devastation he just caused. He’s weaponized his own kindness, and it’s ruthlessly effective. "Please?"

You lean your forehead against the cool surface of your dead washing machine. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with just one well-placed "please", you think.

"You working on something?" you've moved on to stalling for time.

"Don't change the subject. Grab your laundry and get over here before I come drag you myself."

You're a goner. "Clark."

His laugh is bright and warm and reminds you of a lot of what you miss about him. "Come on," he coaxes, and the gentle, cajoling tone is going to make your heart leap straight out of your throat and into his hands. "I’ll order us some pizza. Or have you eaten already?"

"Don't get me pizza," you protest. "You need to work."

"I need to take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at this screen too long. I’ll be braindead if I don’t take a break soon."

"Then have a break. You don’t have to share it with me. I don't want to impose."

"Alright," he says, and you hear the telltale squeak of his desk chair as he gets to his feet. "Then I'm coming over and dragging you and your laundry across the hall."

"Clark!"

"Y/N!"

You laugh despite yourself, despite the way your stomach hurts. He's too good, too much, too kind. You can't keep up. "Okay, okay," you say, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm on my way."

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

"Come in," he calls before you can knock. Of course he heard you coming.

You push the door open to find him tidying up the living room, shoving papers into neat stacks and fluffing couch cushions. He looks up when you enter, hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

"Sorry about the mess," he says, though his apartment is immaculate as always. "I wasn't expecting company."

He's wearing his flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, glasses on. You'd have a hard time figuring out whether this or the suit is worse on your heart. 

"You don't have to clean for me, Clark. It's just laundry."

"I know, but..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I wanted things to be nice. It's been a while since you've been over."

You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't been over in so long. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping some distance between us.

So, you say, "Oh... yeah." Like an idiot.

"I missed seeing your face around."

"Did you?"

It's out before you can take it back. Clark freezes, then turns to look at you.

"Of course I did." There’s something like hurt behind his glasses. "Why would you say that?"

"No... I didn't mean..." you stammer. You want to go hide in a closet somewhere. "That sounded weird. I'm sorry. Just forget it."

Clark is still studying you with that puzzled, concerned look, but he eventually lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I’ll never understand how you don’t realize how much people like you around."

"Maybe I'm just fishing for compliments," you say in an attempt to play it off.

"Mm," he hums, taking your laundry basket with such ease one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."

You follow him to the tiny (immaculately clean) laundry nook. It's not a room so much as a closet off the kitchen, with much less space than you need for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. If he stays to chat, you'll be standing no more than an arms' length apart at best, and you're not sure how that’s going to work for the duration of a full cycle.

"Have you eaten?" Clark asks again. He's leaning against the doorframe of the laundry nook, watching you with an easy sort of patience as you start to load the machine. The space feels impossibly small; you have to keep reminding your lungs how to do their job.

"Yeah," you lie, your voice tight as you untangle one of your t-shirts from a pair of jeans and pray that you didn't throw anything too embarrassing into this basket. "I ate."

"Liar. I can hear your stomach from here."

You freeze, utterly mortified. He’s just joking. Probably. "You cannot."

"I can," he insists, a grin spreading across his face that makes your stomach do a nervous little flip. "It’s telling me very sad stories about an empty fridge." He pushes off the doorframe, taking a single, deliberate step into the nook. The fluorescent bulb above flickers once, as if startled. He fills the space completely, blocking the light from the kitchen.

Your hands are suddenly clumsy. You become hyper-aware of the contents of your basket—the worn-out state of your favorite pajamas and, god forbid, your underwear. You try to discreetly bury a pair of frankly embarrassing floral underwear beneath a towel while he leans over your shoulder.

He’s reaching up, his body twisting around you to open a small cupboard above your head. The soft cotton of his t-shirt presses against your shoulder blade as he stretches, and a warm cloud of something clean—laundry soap and fresh air and just him—envelops you. You hold your breath, your universe shrinking to the inches between you, the faint scent of his shampoo, and the solid wall of his chest at your back.

He pulls back just as you think you might pass out, holding out a bottle of detergent. He’s completely, devastatingly oblivious to the five-alarm fire he just started in your nervous system, it seems. His expression is open, friendly, his gaze searching your face. You'd like to curl up inside the washing machine with your laundry and go on a spin cycle right now.

"Laundry detergent for your thoughts?" he asks, offering you the bottle like he hasn’t just driven every rational thought from your head.

You look down at the bottle, trying to remember how words work. "My thoughts are boring."

"That’s impossible." He unscrews the cap for you before passing it into your hands.

You take it, but he doesn't move back. You can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes behind his glasses.

You turn back to the washer, desperate for something to do with your hands and a way to escape his gaze, but your mind has gone completely, utterly blank. What comes after adding detergent? Cold wash? Warm wash? What exactly are you supposed to do with your arms, your legs, your shoulders? How do people even stand normally?

"Let me get that," he says, gently, quietly. His hand brushes yours as he takes the bottle, and he’s pouring the soap in, setting the bottle aside, twisting a dial. The washer rumbles to life, filling with water, and it feels like the air in the tiny nook is being sucked out through the pipes. He closes the lid and turns to look at you. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face properly.

"There," he says softly, like he's accomplished something monumental instead of just starting a load of laundry. "All set."

You nod, acutely aware that you should probably leave the nook now, give him space to escape back to his work. But your feet seem rooted to the spot, and Clark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move either.

"So," he says, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed. The position makes his t-shirt pull slightly across his chest, but at least now he's a full arms' length away from you. "What's really going on with you lately?"

Your heart stutters. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. The avoiding me thing. The way you practically sprint in the opposite direction when you see me in the hallway."

"I don't sprint."

"You do a very fast walk," he says with a small smile. "It's actually pretty impressive. I didn't know you could move that quickly."

Despite everything, you find yourself fighting back a laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe. But I'm also right." He tilts his head and looks at you for a long moment, like if he focuses hard enough, he can figure out what's going on inside your head without you having to say it out loud. It's an unsettling feeling, as if he might somehow peel back all the layers of your walls and see your pathetic little crush sitting at the core.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asks.

Your heart sinks. "No, Clark, you haven't done anything wrong. Jesus." You run a hand over your face, letting out a sigh. "That's not—you're just—"

He's just perfect. He's kind and patient, he helps an elderly woman carry groceries back to her apartment every Thursday night. How do you tell someone like that that it feels like dying every time he mentions the coworker he's clearly in love with?

"We're good," you finish weakly. "You don't have anything to worry about."

He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You just hate being around me?"

"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," you joke.

"Hmm."

"Repulsed," you're holding back a laugh now. "Completely repulsed by your very—"

Clark takes another step forward, and whatever words were in your mouth evaporate. The laughter fizzles, turns less playful and more nervous as he invades your personal space like he's been doing your thoughts, 24/7, for maybe a solid year.

Playful Clark is almost worse than kind Clark. Kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, sure. Kind Clark will stay on your mind, will fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, but you've built up a tolerance. Playful Clark—bold Clark—might actually shatter the very carefully maintained equilibrium you've worked so hard to create around your relationship with him.

"...face," you manage to squeak. He's much too close and much too comfortable, taller than you've ever really allowed yourself to consider.

What a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. If he leaned down, if you got on tiptoes...

"Clark," you say. The word is a weak warning.

He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up. You can feel the blush creeping over your cheeks. "What?"

"Clark."

He's smiling. "Y/N."

You can barely hear your own voice over the roar of your blood in your ears. "Are you just... gonna stand here?"

A small, breathy laugh escapes him. "I don't know. I'm enjoying the view."

"Clark."

His smile widens. "It's not my fault. You're cute when you're flustered."

"Stop. I'm not flustered."

He leans in a fraction closer. "So, I could get closer?"

He knows. He absolutely knows. And you know that he knows, and he's playing chicken. "Clark," you whisper, a final warning. If he gets any closer...

"Y/N." He mimics the tone of your voice. He's trying to tease, but he can't keep the soft, warm edges from creeping into it, the gentle affection he can never hide.

Clark Kent wants to kiss you, you think, distantly, as his nose brushes yours. As a big hand reaches up and cradles the back of your head.

"Is this okay?" he asks, breath fanning over your lips. And god, if that isn't just about the death of you.

The air has solidified, turned to glass, and it's lodged in your chest. "Clark."

"Can I?" His fingertips are warm against the base of your neck. The contact sends electricity racing up and down your spine. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."

"Me catch on?! My biggest problem is that you, Clark Kent, you are the most—"

He's kissing you. He's laughing against your lips as he's kissing you, and your mind has been reduced to a collection of sparks going off in a vast expanse of darkness.

"You're so oblivious," he's saying, his lips moving against yours. "You're the most oblivious person on the planet. I swear."

"I'm oblivious? You're—"

But he's kissing you again—this time more insistent, less patient, a little bit needy and a whole lot of something you can't name, but you want to drown in. Any argument you might have made melts under his touch, vanishes like dew on a sunny morning and leaves nothing but this in its wake.

"I hope your machine is dead for good," he murmurs against your lips.

Your answer gets lost somewhere in the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands.

At least, the Clark Kent problem is solved.

[yiiiikesmish]

lmao i love this series so much. the lego scene gave me trauma flashbacks to when i took my little brother into a lego store and he too tried to eat the lego. fortunately, i was successful in ensuring he didn't eat the lego. unfortunately, the little shit proceeded to scream that he didn't know me and stranger danger. that was fun.

Have you seen those videos where toddlers are having tantrums over the silliest things, such as crying over something their parents have no control over? They're hilarious! Clark would hate seeing his little girl cry, so he would come rushing in when he hears her wailing, and Reader is just standing there like 😑, while Leia is wailing/screaming/kicking around on the floor, cause "no, you can't have a sip. Laundry detergent is bad for you" (the problem can be whatever you want, the more ridiculous, the better)

I wonder how Clark would react? Cause he would want to fix the issue so Leia will smile again, but he can't give her what she wants 🤣🤣

No, you CANNOT drink the laundry detergent

Summary: Reasons why your two-year-old Leia threw a tantrum: you wouldn't let her drink laundry detergent. You wouldn't let her stick her hand in the garbage disposal. Clark wouldn't let her stick her tongue in his ear. Again.

Dad!Clark Kent x Female!Reader

more kent family adventures here!

Clark’s super-hearing picked up the sound instantly — a high-pitched, heart-wrenching wail from down the hall.

He was there in less than a second, hair tousled from the wind outside, still in half of his Superman suit. His eyes darted across the living room until they landed on Leia — his two-year-old daughter — sprawled dramatically on the carpet, kicking and screaming like the world had just ended.

“What happened?!” he asked, practically sliding to his knees beside her. “Is she hurt? Is she—”

You, standing nearby with your arms crossed and an exasperated look on your face, sighed. “She’s fine. She’s crying because I told her she can’t drink laundry detergent.”

Clark blinked. “...Come again?”

“I said no. She wanted a sip. Apparently, I’m the worst mother in the world for not letting her.”

Leia hiccupped mid-scream, her tear-streaked face turning to her dad. “Dadaaaa! Mama said nooooo!” she sobbed, her tiny fists pounding the carpet. “Is bwue!”

Clark rubbed his face. “Honey… laundry detergent isn’t juice.”

“IS JUICE!” she screamed, voice hitting decibel levels that would probably shatter glass if she tried hard enough.

He flinched, and glanced at you helplessly, then back at his daughter. “Okay, listen. We’ve talked about this. No laundry detergent, no sticking your fingers in sockets, no jumping off the kitchen counter, and no eating the toilet scrubber.”

Leia’s cries softened for a second, confusion flickering in her big eyes. “...But I wike da scwubber.”

You groaned. “She licked it once and now it’s a delicacy.”

Clark held up his hands in a let’s be reasonable gesture, trying to keep his voice calm. “Sweetheart, you can’t do dangerous things just because they look fun or tasty.”

She sniffled loudly. “But… I’m big girl…”

“Yes,” Clark agreed quickly, “you are a big girl. But big girls make safe choices. And safe choices mean no eating things that could kill you.”

Leia considered this for half a second before collapsing back into full-volume sobs, rolling dramatically onto her stomach like you’d just told her she could never have birthdays again.

Clark leaned toward you, whispering, “I have literally negotiated with aliens. This is harder.”

You smirked. “Welcome to parenting.”

And as Leia continued her Oscar-worthy meltdown over the tragic injustice of not being allowed to sip laundry detergent or chew on toilet scrubbers, Clark mentally prepared himself for the next inevitable battle — probably about why she couldn’t have spaghetti in the bathtub.

-

It started out as the perfect sunny afternoon — you, Clark, and two-year-old Leia strolling through the park, ice cream in hand, birds chirping, Clark thinking maybe — maybe — this would be a calm, tantrum-free day.

That hope shattered about fifteen minutes later.

Because Leia, spotting the big, glistening pond in the middle of the park, decided it was obviously a swimming pool. And she was obviously going in.

“I swim now,” she announced confidently, kicking off her shoes.

“No, honey,” you said, grabbing them before she could toss them into the water. “That’s not for swimming.”

Her face crumpled instantly. “YES it is! Is big pool! Ducks swim! I swim too!”

Clark stepped in, crouching down to her level. “Leia, sweetheart, it’s not a pool. It’s… uh… duck water.”

She gasped like he’d just revealed the deepest betrayal. “You don’t want me to be with the duckies?!”

“I—no, that’s not—” Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Duck water isn’t clean. It’s not safe for you.”

And that’s when the meltdown hit.

Full volume. Full body. Wailing so loud every bird in the vicinity took off in alarm. Leia threw herself on the grass like she’d been mortally wounded, sobbing about her lost dreams of duck swimming.

It was in the middle of her dramatic flailing that she spotted a pigeon pecking nearby. The tears stopped instantly.

“I want dat,” she said, pointing.

Clark glanced at you, wary. “Want… what?”

“I want dat! Put leash on birdy!”

You nearly choked. “No. You can’t put a leash on a pigeon.”

Leia’s lip trembled. “Why not?”

“Because,” Clark said quickly, scooping her up before she could bolt toward it, “pigeons are wild animals. They don’t like leashes, they like… flying. And being free.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I gentle wif birdy.”

Clark was already walking away from the pond and the pigeon, trying to soothe her. “I know you would, but the pigeon doesn’t know that. And also, we’re not allowed to just… borrow wildlife.”

This set off Round Two of The Meltdown. Leia buried her face in his shoulder, kicking her legs and wailing.

“Dadaaaa, whyyyyyy?”

“Because the pigeon’s mommy would miss it if you took it home,” Clark said, desperately grasping for logic she’d accept.

Leia sniffled. “...Pigeon have mommy?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly, “and a daddy, and probably some little baby pigeons who would be very sad if their mommy got put on a leash.”

She went quiet for a moment, still hiccuping from the tears. “...Okay.”

Clark sighed in relief.

Then she looked at him with big, watery eyes. “We put leash on da ducky?”

You swear you could hear the sound of Clark’s soul leaving his body as he let out a big, big sigh.

-

It was another one of those days where the universe seemed determined to test the limits of Clark’s superhuman patience.

First offense of the morning? You wouldn’t let her stuff her entire hand down the garbage disposal.

It started in the kitchen, where you’d been making breakfast. Leia was toddling around with suspicious intent. You turned your back for two seconds, and that’s all it took.

She was standing on her tiptoes, arm halfway into the sink, heading directly for the garbage disposal.

“LEIA NO!” you yelped, grabbing her before she could even brush a finger against the opening.

She twisted in your grip, outraged. “BUT I WANNA SEE DA MON-TER!”

Clark, entering just in time to hear this, froze. “...The what?”

“Da mon-ter in the sink! It eats food!” she declared proudly, wiggling against your hold.

Clark quickly stepped in, crouching to her level. “That’s not a monster, that’s… very sharp blades that will hurt you.”

Leia blinked at him, then immediately dissolved into a wail. “YOU’RE MEAN!”

-

Tantrum #2 came barely ten minutes later. You’d turned around for one second, and there she was, halfway inside the bottom rack of the dishwasher like a determined raccoon.

“Leia, NO, that’s not a fort,” you said, pulling her out.

“Is a fort!” she shouted, kicking her legs. “Is my house!”

Clark sighed, prying her from your arms. “Sweetheart, you can’t live in the dishwasher. It’s for cleaning dishes, not for—”

“MEAN!” she roared, shoving her little fists into his chest. She howled like you’d ripped her from her forever home.

-

Tantrum #3 was… personal.

You were sitting on the couch, sipping coffee, when you heard an ominous giggle from behind Clark. He was crouched on the floor, fixing one of Leia’s toys, unaware she was sneaking up on him.

Before you could warn him, Leia lunged and stuck her tongue directly in his ear.

“ACK—LEIA!” Clark jumped about a foot in the air, clutching the side of his head. “We’ve talked about this!”

Leia just giggled. “But is funny.”

“It’s not funny!” Clark insisted, wiping at his ear like it had been attacked by kryptonite.

When you stepped in and told her, “Leia, you can’t stick your tongue in Dada’s ear,” her eyes filled with tears like you’d just forbidden breathing. “Again. Remember?”

She stomped her little foot. “But is funny!”

-

Tantrum #4 was the breaking point.

It happened during a trip to the store, when she spotted a magazine with Guy Gardner on the cover.

She stared at it in awe. “I want dat hair. Guh-guh’s hair.”

You glanced at Clark, horrified. “The bowlcut? With bangs?”

“Ya,” she said firmly. “Guh-guh hair.”

Clark shook his head immediately. “No way, bug. That’s not a good style for—”

“I WANT IT NOW!” she screamed, attracting the attention of every single shopper within twenty feet. “I WANNA BE LIKE GUH-GUH!”

And thus began a meltdown so operatic, so dramatic, that Clark ended up carrying her out of the store fireman-style while she shouted about “the meanest mommy and dada in the whole world” and how she “wasn’t gonna live with you anymore.”

When you got her strapped into the car seat, still hiccup-crying, Clark slumped into the driver’s seat and muttered, “We are never letting her see Green Lantern again.”

-

The day had started so well—sunshine streaming through the windows, excited chatter in the air, and the shared hope that introducing two-year-old Leia to the magical world of LEGOs would be a peaceful, joyous milestone. You and Clark pictured her stacking bricks, building tiny castles, maybe even giving you both pointers on proper architectural technique.

Then you walked into the Lego Store, and the universe laughed.

Leia’s eyes went wide, like someone had flicked a switch labeled CHAOS MODE. She toddled beside you, squealing, “Blocks! Blocks!” and immediately lunged for the nearest red brick. Adorable. Until she discovered the Lego orchids.

The orchids.

A delicate arrangement of green stems and pink petals. Beautiful. Untouchable. Edible, apparently, in Leia’s mind.

“Sweetheart, orchids are pretty,” Clark said, doing his best dad-voice impression of Reasonable Human, “but they’re not for eating.”

Leia’s triumphant smile twisted into a horror-movie scream. She hoisted the flower above her head like a tiny, furious trophy. “MINE! EAT! EAT!”

You lunged. Clark lunged. The orchid wobbled dangerously. She tried to bite it. You briefly considered calling an exorcist instead.

Clark pried the flower away. Leia crossed her tiny arms, stomped, and announced, “I WANNA EAT!”

“Okay, okay,” you said, raising your hands in surrender. “We’ll build something. Something—safe.”

Leia ignored you entirely and began hunting for “snackable” bricks on the floor, crouching like a miniature archaeologist of chaos.

Then Clark froze.

You followed his gaze and immediately regretted it. There, suspiciously Lego-shaped and dangerously close to being swallowed, was a bright yellow minifigure head in Leia’s mouth.

“Leia… what do you have in your mouth?” you asked carefully.

She grinned mischievously and clamped it shut like a tiny, plastic-loving crocodile.

Clark gave you the we’re going to die here look. You nodded.

Dad mode activated.

He knelt, spoke gently, and then gently became a WWE wrestler. Hands went in, Leia giggled hysterically, pieces flew everywhere, and you debated whether you should just call this performance art.

“Almost got it!” Clark said, triumphant, holding up the offending minifigure head like a trophy. Leia immediately tried another brick.

That was when the Lego associate appeared. Bright vest. Bright smile. Eyes that clearly said, please tell me you don’t normally wrestle toddlers here.

“Uh… is everything okay?” she asked cautiously.

Clark, cheeks flaming, cleared his throat. “Yes! Everything is fine! Totally… normal Lego play.”

Leia launched into a full-blown tantrum, bricks flying, teeth bared, little war cries echoing through the store. You laughed nervously. The associate stepped back, probably reconsidering life choices.

Clark tried negotiation. “Sweetheart… toys, not snacks. Okay?”

Leia gleefully ignored him and demonstrated that three bricks can fit in her mouth no problem.

After a few minutes of wrestling and acrobatics that would have made Olympic gymnasts proud, Clark emerged victorious, holding up the last captured brick. The associate blinked. You bit your lip to keep from laughing outright.

Clark muttered, flustered, “We’re… we’re not usually like this.”

“Enthusiastic,” you corrected, equally red-faced.

Clark scooped Leia into his arms. She exploded into a fresh tantrum, arms flailing like twin tornadoes, screaming, “MORE LEGOS! I WANT EAT!”

He hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of screaming potatoes and addressed the associate. “Thank you. Truly. We’ll… uh, try again another day.”

“Good luck, Dad,” she said, smiling warmly. “You’ve got this.”

-

The evening had settled into a peaceful rhythm. After dinner, Leia was happily sprawled out in the living room, surrounded by her favorite toys — blocks, stuffed animals, and that a doll she refused to let go of. Her eyelids were heavy, her little hands lazily patting a plush bunny as she drifted off to sleep right there on the carpet.

You exchanged a knowing glance with Clark. “She’s out cold,” you whispered.

Clark smiled, standing up carefully. “Mission: transport sleeping toddler to bed. Engage.”

You both tiptoed around Leia’s scattered toys, gently scooping her up. She stirred slightly, a little groggy but still mostly asleep. Clark carried her like she weighed nothing, careful not to jostle her.

As soon as you set foot in the bedroom, you laid her down softly on the bed. You smoothed her hair and whispered, “Time to sleep now, baby girl.”

But just as you turned to leave, Leia’s eyes snapped open. “Nooooooo! I wanna play! Play in da living woom!”

Her voice was a combination of fury and disbelief, like you had just stolen the moon. She sat bolt upright, flailing her tiny arms. “My toys! My TOYS!”

Clark tried his best soothing voice, “Sweetheart, you’ve played lots today. It’s time to rest now.”

Leia’s face scrunched. “Noooooo! I was still pwaying! I didn’t finish!”

You crouched down next to the bed, holding out her favorite stuffed bear. “You can play with Mr. Snuggles tomorrow, I promise.”

She ignored the bear and crossed her arms like a tiny, furious dictator. “No! No pway now! Living woom!”

Clark, trying to keep a straight face, added, “And the living room needs to rest, too. It’s a tired room.”

Leia shot him a look like he was the most ridiculous person alive. “Woom not tired! I’m not tired!”

She pouted, stomping a tiny foot against the mattress, her tantrum volume slowly rising. “You took me! Took me away! I wanna go back! Back! Back!”

You exchanged a quick glance with Clark—this was going south fast.

Clark tried pulling out all the stops. “How about a bedtime story? Or a song? Or maybe even a super secret tickle attack?”

Leia paused for a split second, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Then she let out a hiccuping wail, flopped back against the pillow, and suddenly—

She was asleep.

The tantrum had apparently exhausted her more than any lullaby ever could.

You and Clark just stared at her little chest rising and falling, trying not to burst out laughing.

Clark whispered, “I think she threw a tantrum because she was tired... and then got tired during the tantrum.”

You nodded. “Classic Leia logic.”

Clark grinned. “Well, mission accomplished? Sort of?”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss Leia’s sleepy forehead. “Sort of.”

As you both tiptoed out of the room, Clark whispered, “Tomorrow, maybe we just play in the bedroom.”

You both laughed softly, knowing full well tomorrow’s chaos was already waiting.

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy @nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo @skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey @soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars @qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179 @kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser @ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin

[yiiiikesmish]

THE YEARNING. omg i LOVE this. the angst is so good but I can't wait to see what happens next. Do superbat loose their shit and immediate confront her?? or will they be cowards and just let her go and the kids needs to parent trap them together? eagerly (but patiently) waiting to see what your wonderful minds come up with!

when we weren’t looking

pairings: poly!superbat x fem!reader, superman x reader, batman x reader, superman x batman, parental!reader x batkids, parental!reader x superkids

summary: You were there from the beginning - a Justice League founder, a guardian to Bruce’s and Clark’s children, and the glue holding two chaotic families together. Love grew slowly, quietly, in lingering touches and missed chances, until it was buried beneath years of duty and heartbreak. Now, when the kids are grown and your heart dares to look forward again, Bruce and Clark must face the truth they’ve both been avoiding: they’ve loved you all along. Will you let them, or has it been too long to let two of the world’s finest heroes into your heart?

wc: 6.1k

content: justice league founder!reader, magical!reader, parenting, jason todd death mention, grieving, lois lane dies, angst, misunderstanding, MISUNDERSTANDINGS, good intentions, accidental child acquisition, parental!reader, inaccurate timelines, unreliable narrator, tags to be added

a/n: guess what! it's a part one, for now, because i apparently don't know how to keep an idea short and sweet. what the actual hell, this wasn't supposed to turn out like this. when will it come out? hmm, i don't know, but i am writing it currently! okay, i hope you guys enjoy! like, reblog, comment and follow for more like this!

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You were there from the beginning. Not as shining, iconic, or universally adored as Superman, Batman, or Wonder Woman, but you never minded. Let them be the faces of the League, the gods walking among mortals. Your place had always been steadier, quieter. And with that came something they rarely had: time.

It started with Robin. The first one. Richard Grayson.

The League needed to fly off-world to face whatever galactic tyrant was threatening Earth that week, and Bruce couldn’t exactly bring a thirteen-year-old into deep space. You volunteered without hesitation. “I’ll take him. He’ll be fine with me.”

That was how you ended up driving Richard Grayson—Robin, in all his excitable glory—to school in your little blue car, the radio cranked up and both of you butchering whatever pop song was popular that month. He sang off-key, you exaggerated the harmony, and by the time you dropped him off, he was grinning ear to ear. The karaoke tradition was born that morning, entirely by accident.

Sleepovers followed. At first, because Bruce needed someone to watch the kid when missions ran long, then simply because Dick liked it that way. Alfred would set up the guest room for you without asking, and by dawn, you were in the kitchen, apron tied, teaching Dick how to flip pancakes without dropping the batter all over the stove.

Unlike Bruce, you let music play. Loudly. You sang into a spatula, spun Dick across the tiles, and even coaxed Alfred into joining the chorus when he thought no one was watching. The manor felt alive in those mornings, full of laughter and dancing instead of the usual sharp silence. And one morning, Bruce walked in on it.

You didn’t hear the faint hum of the Batcave’s boomtube as he returned, nor did you notice him shedding the cowl at the cave’s edge before stepping into the hall. What you did notice was the figure leaning against the doorway, arms folded, exhaustion written into the corners of his mouth as he watched. But in his eyes was a spark of joy that didn’t appear often, yet made Bruce look younger every time it did. 

He hadn’t expected to see his son doubled over with laughter, flour dusting his hair. Or Alfred, straight-backed and dignified as always, holding a mixing bowl like it was a microphone. Or you, spatula in hand, hips swaying with the beat on the radio like the kitchen was a stage. Upon completing your circle, you looked up to see the man of the hour stoic, just enjoying the scene.

You froze for only a second when you saw him, then grinned. “Don’t just stand there, Bruce. Come on.”

And you danced your way toward him, extending a hand. Dick immediately perked up, cheering: “C’mon, Bruce! Just once!”

Bruce started shaking his head, “No, I’m too tired. Just wanted to see what all the noise was when I came in.”

But you didn’t let him get away with it, and started dancing around him, slowly herding him into the kitchen, into the positive energy there. Excited by the turn of events, Dick eagerly starts teasing Bruce and showing him some sample moves he could “borrow if he didn’t have any”. And wasn’t that embarrassing? He’s Bruce Wayne, of course he knew how to dance. 

Even Alfred arched a brow, lips twitching. “Master Wayne. It wouldn’t kill you.”

“Couldn’t possibly deny you, Alfred.” Bruce said smoothly before rolling his sleeves.

“We both know that’s not true at all, Master Wayne.” Alfred calmly replied, pulling Dick to the side with him as Bruce approached you.

You tilted your head with a small smile, and it made him pause slightly to admire you. Even in the morning, with your slight bed head and pajamas that are well-loved, you were a sight to behold. He extended his hand towards you, waiting for you to place your hand in his, before leading you through a waltz. Yes, Bruce Wayne knew how to dance, just not the dancing you or Dick expected this morning. A loud, joyous laugh ripped from you while Bruce led you through a turn, his eyes lighter than you’ve seen from him in a while. 

Dick whooped. Alfred allowed himself the smallest chuckle. For one fleeting second, the walls of Wayne Manor held something softer than duty and shadow.

That was the morning the sleepover breakfast ritual began.

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It wasn’t long before the table grew larger.

Conner was one of the first additions. In those early, uncertain days, Lois Lane wasn’t ready to meet the boy who carried half of Clark’s DNA, and Clark himself… he was still learning what it meant to be responsible for someone who looked at him like a father. It was you who stepped forward again, without hesitation.

Conner joined the sleepovers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. A little rough around the edges, unsure of where he fit, but you saw the goodness in him immediately. You paired him with Dick, nudging them into friendship until they found their own rhythm, trading secrets about capes and fathers over late-night snacks in the Manor kitchen.

Sometimes those breakfasts included Bruce, still in the corner pretending he wasn’t watching, and sometimes Clark, who would arrive bleary-eyed from Metropolis with his cape shoved hastily under a jacket. He always looked a little disheveled, tie half-done, hair mussed by wind instead of gel, and once, memorably, with powdered sugar stuck to his sleeve because he’d grabbed donuts in a rush.

You’d laughed so hard you nearly dropped the spatula. “God, you look like a dad who overslept carpool duty.”

Clark froze for a beat, then laughed too, the sound soft and sheepish. “You’re not wrong. I’m still… figuring this whole thing out.” His gaze drifted to Conner at the table, head bent as Dick showed him how to draw a smiley face in pancake batter. Something uncertain flickered in Clark’s expression — guilt, wonder, fear, love, all tangled together.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow as you flipped a pancake. “That’s all anyone’s doing, Clark. Figuring it out as we go.”

His shoulders eased a little at that, the weight lifting if only for a moment. He reached out, ruffling Conner’s hair, and the boy wrinkled his nose but didn’t pull away.

“See?” you teased, sliding another pancake onto the stack. “You’ve already got the embarrassing dad move down. Give it a year, and you’ll be threatening to wear socks with sandals.”

Clark rolled his eyes, chuckling as he pulled up a chair. “Lois would never let me live it down.” Then, quieter, almost to himself: “But… thank you. For doing this. For giving him… something normal.”

You met his gaze across the counter, spatula in hand. “He’s not the only one who needs normal, Clark.”

And for just a second, it wasn’t Clark but Superman who looked at you like you were holding up the sky for him.

For a time, the mornings belonged to all of you: pancakes, off-key singing, two boys finding their place together, Bruce lurking in the corner until you dragged him into the dance, Clark slowly learning what it meant to be more than just a symbol.

And you. Always you, steady at the stove, making sure they were fed and laughing and cared for.

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Not every memory was bright.

Jason came next, loud and brash and secretly the one who craved the sleepovers the most. He swaggered into the Manor like he owned the place, quick to mouth off and quicker to fight for his spot at the table. He claimed he was too cool for karaoke but always stole the microphone halfway through and belted the loudest, voice cracking but proud.

Dick and Conner never let the age gap keep them apart from him. If they were heading out for pizza or training in the yard, Jason was right there with them. They slowed their pace when he tried to keep up, pulled him into their circle with a brotherly arm around his neck, and made sure he knew he belonged. Sometimes it was chaotic, three boys bouncing off the walls, but it was good chaos — the kind the Manor had needed for years.

And Jason loved routines. Especially the ones that were just between the two of you. Saturday mornings, when the others were busy, you’d drive him to the library. He’d wander the aisles for hours, losing himself between shelves, asking you a million questions about every cover that caught his eye. Afterward, you’d stop by the used bookstore downtown, and you made it a point — every single time — to buy him whichever book he wanted. No conditions, no questions. His eyes would light up, and he’d hold it like treasure all the way home.

Those were your moments. Jason and you, arms full of paperbacks, laughing as you both tried to juggle too many books and cups of coffee. It was a small tradition, but it was yours. And he always, always, hugged you before racing upstairs to show Alfred his newest find.

You adored him. You adored them all.

And then he was gone.

The night Jason died shattered you in ways you didn’t think possible. You held Dick as he sobbed and raged, you held Conner as he tried to process death in a way no one should have had to. You held yourself together just enough to be strong for them. But when the nights stretched too long, when the bed stayed empty, grief turned sharp and ugly inside you.

You became reckless in the field. Violent. Too violent. You went for the kill more than once, your fury a wildfire you couldn’t always leash. The League benched you after one close call — after Martian Manhunter caught the intent in your mind, caught the image of you driving your weapon into Joker’s chest. He told Bruce. He told Clark. And you never forgave him for it.

You and Bruce clashed constantly during those months. He needed someone steady, someone who could share his silence — but you couldn’t sit still in grief the way he could. You wanted blood. You wanted justice that would never come. Sometimes you thought you hated him for being able to pull back when you couldn’t. Sometimes you thought you hated yourself more.

The only thing that anchored you was your weekly visits to Jason’s grave. You’d bring fresh flowers, sweep away the leaves, and read a new poem each week like he was sitting there listening. It was routine, ritual. A way of keeping him close when the world felt so hollow. That’s where he found you.

The night Jason returned to Gotham, older and angrier and wearing scars you didn’t understand yet, he went to his grave first. And there you were, kneeling in the dirt, brushing soil from the headstone with gentle hands. When you turned and saw him standing there, your knees nearly gave out.

“Jay?” Your voice cracked, fragile as glass.

He didn’t let you touch him, not then. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure if he ever could be. But you knew him well enough to see what was left unspoken: he had come back, and he had come to you first.

It was hard after that. He wanted nothing to do with the Manor, especially when he saw Tim wearing his costume, his mantle. He spat venom and pain in every direction, and you caught most of it without flinching. You didn’t push, but you didn’t let go either.

It took time. Months. But eventually, he came back to one of the sleepovers. He hovered in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, pretending he didn’t care about the smell of pancakes or the sound of music drifting from the radio. Dick raised an eyebrow, Conner waved him in, Tim froze, and you… you simply handed him the microphone.

Jason scowled, muttered a curse under his breath — and sang anyway. Loud. Angry. Alive.

You cried quietly into the spatula you pretended was your mic.

And just like that, the tradition lived again.

Through every change, every new child, every heartbreak and return, the tradition lived on. The tradition kept evolving, the kitchen table growing fuller as the years went by.

Tim arrived while Jason was gone, sharp-eyed and shy, carrying the weight of knowing too much and trusting too little. You caught him lingering in doorways, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he belonged, until one morning you pressed a whisk into his hand and told him to beat the eggs. He did it silently, but you caught the ghost of a smile when the radio kicked on and Dick dragged him into an off-key duet. By the end of the week, Tim had stopped lingering and started sitting at the table.

Then came Cass. She didn’t need words to tell you how much the tradition mattered. She just slipped into the kitchen one morning, silent as shadow, stole the spatula from your hand, and twirled in place. You laughed, joining her, and she smiled — bright, unguarded, rare. From then on, she danced every chance she got, the radio her favorite language.

Jon arrived like a storm that broke the world.

Lois had died in childbirth, and Clark unraveled. He was a man who could move mountains, stop aliens, hold the Earth itself in orbit… but he couldn’t save her. For weeks, he drifted, hollow-eyed and guilty, clutching the baby like he was made of glass. He didn’t know how to keep going. It was then that the three of you became something more than teammates.

Bruce opened the Manor without hesitation. You moved into the guest wing, with Clark and Jon in the room next door. Suddenly, the vast, quiet house was alive with the sounds of an infant's cries at 3 a.m., soft lullabies, and little fists pounding against anyone who held him too tightly. 

Alfred adapted instantly, setting bottles beside his tea service. It reminded him of days long past of doing the same for a younger Bruce, and it brought him much joy to see Bruce be able to experience some of the same joy.

The three of you found a rhythm so quickly it felt preordained. You took the late-night feedings, humming along with the radio as Jon curled against your chest, soothed more by your heartbeat than anything else. Clark would stumble in a few hours later, bleary-eyed, sheepish, offering to take over. Half the time, he fell asleep in the rocking chair with Jon sprawled across his chest, cape draped over both of them like a blanket.

Bruce claimed he wasn’t good with babies — “I don’t do small talk, let alone small children” — but Jon had other plans. By six months old, Jon would gurgle and reach for him the moment Bruce entered the room. You’d find them in the study sometimes, Bruce working at his desk with Jon in his lap, little hands tugging at his tie while Bruce signed League reports one-handed.

And when Clark’s grief threatened to consume him, it was you and Bruce who steadied him. Bruce gave Clark structure. “Routine,” he said flatly, and forced Clark into it. Early runs at dawn, sparring sessions in the cave, and scheduled check-ins with Alfred. It anchored Clark when he might have otherwise drifted away entirely.

You gave Clark grace. You told him it was okay when he cried. That grief wasn’t weakness. That Lois would have wanted him to keep going, not drown in guilt. You slipped photos into his hands, reminded him of Jon’s smile when he doubted himself, and pressed warm coffee into his palms when words weren’t enough.

Together, the three of you carried each other. And the kids carried you, too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Whenever missions took Bruce or Clark away, Dick, Jason, or Tim would step up. You’d walk into the kitchen to find Dick or Conner trying to feed Jon from a bottle while Alfred supervised like a hawk. Jason would read him stories in dramatic voices, turning Goodnight Moon into a Broadway performance. Tim was the calmest of the bunch, cradling Jon against his hoodie while researching League files with one hand. Even Cass — silent, graceful Cass — would sit on the floor, letting Jon tug her hair without complaint.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was seamless. Every revolving door of Wayne Manor only added more hands to hold the baby, more laughter to soften the nights. For a while, you didn’t just survive grief — you lived through it, together.

There were nights Clark would look at you and Bruce, Jon asleep in his arms, and whisper, “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

And you believed him. Because back then, you weren’t just teammates. You were family.

Jon was four in the summer Alfred finally bullied you into taking a holiday. “You’ll blink and he’ll be grown,” he’d said, packing enough sandwiches for an army.

So you went. A day at the beach: Bruce chasing Jon down the shoreline, his sleeves rolled up, sand clinging to his calves; you laughing as you splashed after them, scooping Jon into your arms as he shrieked with delight. Clark stood back with a camera, trying to capture everything at once, grinning so wide it softened even the grief that still haunted the corners of his eyes.

By the time the sun dipped low, Jon was worn out, asleep before his head even settled on Bruce’s chest. The three of you stretched out on the blanket, the ocean hissing against the sand, the world held still.

Bruce sat to your right, a steady weight against your shoulder. Clark lay on your left, arm stretched behind you, his fingers brushing yours in the sand. Jon’s tiny fists curled into Bruce’s shirt, anchoring you all together. It was perfect. Too perfect.

You turned your head, found Bruce already watching you, his eyes darker than the dusk around you. He didn’t look away.

Clark’s thumb began tracing soft circles over your knuckles. Slow, deliberate, tender. His gaze shifted from Jon to you, lingering, heat simmering low in his chest.

Your heart raced. The air was heavy, humming with something you’d all been dancing around for years.

Bruce’s hand slid down, brushing against yours from the other side. Two points of contact, two anchors pinning you in place — Clark warm and open, Bruce steady and intense.

No one spoke, but everything was said in the silence. Clark finally broke it, voice low, husky with something that wasn’t grief anymore: “We don’t have to keep pretending… that this isn’t what it feels like.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell them both you’d been theirs for years. Bruce’s eyes softened, his hand tightening slightly on yours, a silent agreement that he felt it too.

And then the comms went off.

First Bruce’s, then Clark’s. A League emergency.

The sound shattered the moment like glass. Clark cursed under his breath — rare, raw. Bruce’s jaw clenched, the mask of Batman sliding back over his features. You tried to smile, tried to pretend it didn’t ache, but the weight in your chest was crushing.

They stood, brushing sand from their clothes, already slipping into soldier mode. Clark pressed a kiss to Jon’s forehead, lingering a second too long, and Bruce tucked the boy gently into your arms before straightening to his full height. Neither man looked back as they focused on the mission.

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They came back different. Not obvious. Subtle. They stood closer. Their words overlapped like a practiced duet. When Clark laughed, it was often at something only Bruce had said. When Bruce allowed himself to soften, it was often when Clark was at his side.

It didn’t take long for you to piece it together. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to if not for all the time spent in each other’s company. You knew them too well and could see the truth hidden within their body language. They had each other.

And if they had each other, why would they ever need you?

The loneliness crept in like a tide. You smiled at them, smiled at Jon, kept the breakfast and sleepovers alive — but you began to pull back. Not because you stopped caring, but because it was the only way to protect your heart. Buried your feelings under duty and routines. They noticed, of course. They misread it, assumed you weren’t interested, and let you slip further from the space you’d once shared. 

The next outer space mission, you volunteered. You needed time. Time to heal. Time to grieve what could have been.

When you returned months later, you didn’t go home to Wayne Manor. You went to a small, modest apartment in Metropolis. Modest on the outside, anyway. Magic had its perks — you expanded the space to fit what you needed. A proper kitchen for the kids’ sleepovers, bookshelves for Jason, extra beds tucked away for whichever Robin or Super wandered through on any given night.

Because the kids still needed you. And you would always be there for them.

The first night back, you slipped into the Manor while Bruce and Clark were out at dinner. Alfred knew — of course, he knew — and didn’t stop you. He only gave you that soft, sympathetic look as you moved through the halls, quietly packing the things you’d left behind.

It didn’t take long. Magic made sure of that. Books floated from shelves into boxes, clothes folded themselves, framed photos wrapped in protective charm paper. By the time the boom tube hummed with the men’s return, you were gone, your room empty save for the lingering warmth of what once was.

The Manor was quiet when Bruce and Clark returned that night, their dinner still lingering as small talk in their heads. Jon was already asleep, tucked in by Alfred, who waited for them at the foot of the stairs with a single sentence that froze the blood in their veins:

“She’s gone.”

Clark was the first to move. He stormed down the hall to your room, Bruce close behind. The door opened to stillness, to shelves stripped bare, drawers empty, walls missing the small touches of you that had made them warmer. The air smelled faintly of your magic — lavender and smoke — the last traces of you fading into nothing.

Clark’s voice cracked as he gripped the doorframe. “She came back… and we missed her. We missed her, Bruce.” His fists clenched at his sides, eyes wild with guilt. “We’ve gotta go get her. Right now. We’ll explain. We’ll fix this—”

Bruce’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, grounding him. “Clark.”

“She thinks we don’t want her. She thinks—”

“I know.” Bruce’s voice was low, even, but softer than Clark expected. He turned toward the empty room, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. “But if she made this choice… we can’t force her back. If we push too hard, we’ll lose her completely.”

Clark’s breath hitched, the weight of it settling like lead in his chest. “But she belongs with us.”

“She belongs in our lives,” Bruce corrected gently. “One way or another. It’s better to have her in some capacity than not at all.”

Clark’s shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. He leaned against the doorframe, staring at the space where your books used to be. “That month she was gone… it was hell. I never realized how much I needed her. How much I—” He broke off, voice rough. “She makes everything turn, Bruce. She makes the world make sense.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the bare shelves, the hollow quiet of the room. For once, the walls of Wayne Manor felt too large, too empty. “I know,” he said finally. “She makes my earth turn, too.”

They stood there in silence, two men who could fight gods but couldn’t fight the absence you’d left behind.

And in your modest Metropolis apartment — stretched wide by magic, humming with laughter from the kids who refused to let go of you — you told yourself you were healing.  It was better this way, you told yourself. They needed space to grow together. And you needed to remember how to stand on your own feet again.

Even if a part of you still ached for the life you almost had. The loneliness followed you into your new apartment. Into the quiet nights when Jon asked if you’d still sing him to sleep. Into the mornings when you woke, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there.

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The sleepovers and breakfasts never stopped. They just moved. The kitchen was slighter, the ceilings lower, but the laughter was the same. Pancakes tasted just as sweet when eaten in a cramped apartment. The kids still sang, still fought over who got to flip the next batch. The tradition lived on.

But the trio? The three of you? That had been left at the beach, half-buried in the sand, drowned out by the sound of a League comm.

But you never left the kids. You never could.

Especially when Damian arrived, he wasn’t a result of violence, no matter what the uglier rumors whispered. He was a weapon born in a lab, Bruce’s worst nightmare made flesh — his DNA spliced with Talia’s, an attempt to craft the perfect heir. Damian entered the Manor fierce, arrogant, and prickly with mistrust. A boy engineered for war but given a family instead.

Damian entered the tradition like a cat into water: claws out, hissing, refusing to admit he wanted in. He sneered at the karaoke, insulted the pancakes, folded his arms at the table, and declared he didn’t need any of it.

And yet, you made him a plate anyway, slid it in front of him without comment. You corrected his posture when he chopped vegetables, guided his hands when he learned how to whisk. You told him stories about Jason and Dick, about how Conner used to sulk through sleepovers until he realized the fun in them. You let Jon drag him into the chaos, refusing to give him the luxury of staying on the sidelines.

It took time. Months. But the first time he sang under his breath, soft and unwilling but audible, you pretended not to notice. Jon noticed. Jon whooped, dragged him to the center of the kitchen, and you caught the tiniest flicker of a smile from Damian before he masked it with another scowl.

From then on, he was yours too.

Your relationship with Bruce and Clark shifted in those years, too. The wound of the beach and the space between you never fully healed — but it scabbed. 

Bruce was patient, quieter with you. Clark was soft, gentle, careful not to push. They never stopped loving you. If anything, their love only deepened, year after year, as they watched you guide their children with a steadiness neither of them could muster. As they watched you throw birthday parties, show up at recitals, and even parent-teacher meetings when you could. 

They never forgot how it had felt on that blanket. How close they’d come to making it real. The warmth of your bodies close together, the heat within each look. The want never left — it lingered in every look, every brush of fingers, every moment you laughed too hard at something one of them said.

At first, you couldn’t bear to stay. After dropping off one of the kids, you’d leave the Manor immediately, unable to linger in halls that echoed with memories of what almost was. Bruce and Clark never stopped you, though the way their eyes followed you to the door was its own kind of ache.

But when Damian arrived, something shifted. He was young, sharp-edged, in desperate need of patience, and you couldn’t just drop him off and walk away. So you stayed. At first, it was only for tea — a cup in Alfred’s study before heading home. Then it was breakfast, Damian stiff-backed in his chair until Jon made him snort orange juice out of his nose.

A year later, you found yourself staying for entire afternoons. Letting Jon drag you out into the garden, while Bruce lingered nearby under the guise of trimming roses. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, helping Damian with homework, while Clark “happened” to return early from Metropolis, setting his jacket neatly on the couch before joining you both.

And little by little, the walls you’d built began to crack.

You started laughing at their jokes again — Clark’s terrible puns that had Jon in stitches, Bruce’s dry one-liners that made Jason wheeze. You let Clark’s hand brush your shoulder when he leaned over you, and you didn’t flinch when Bruce’s palm steadied you by the elbow. Once, Clark smoothed an errant curl from your cheek, thumb lingering a moment longer than it should have. Once, Bruce’s hand brushed yours over a coffee mug, and you didn’t pull away, but gifted him a smile. 

It wasn’t everything. But it was something. And that something was enough to remind you how dangerous hope could be.

Bruce and Clark noticed. They talked about it — often, quietly, usually on the Watchtower between missions. 

“Now might be the time,” Clark murmured once, watching you from across the hangar as you comforted Cass after a brutal debrief. “She’s letting us in again.”

Bruce only hummed, low, but didn’t disagree. “We go slow. She has to trust this isn’t temporary. We can’t let her down again.”

They began to plan — nothing elaborate, nothing rushed. Just… chances. Dinners, quiet moments, gentle confessions, waiting for the right time.

So, of course, when they thought they had a handle on things, everything gets flipped around. 

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The knock at your apartment door was insistent, a chorus of voices arguing outside.

You pulled it open to find them all there: Dick at the front with a bright grin, Jason juggling takeout bags, Tim holding a stack of board games, Cass tucked in quietly behind them, Conner hovering like he’d been dragged along, Jon beaming, and Damian scowling like someone owed him money.

“Surprise!” Dick announced, holding up soda bottles like a prize. “Sleepover night!”

You blinked, stunned — then laughed, ushering them in one by one, kissing Jon’s temple, hugging Cass tight, ruffling Tim’s hair, letting Jason nearly knock you over with a bear hug. “All of you? At once? My poor neighbors.”

Jason smirked. “Please, you love it.” The kids were scattered around your apartment, settling in for the night. Some were setting up the living room, while others were organizing the food. Looking around, it made your heart happy and full to have all the kids here with you. It’s been months since you’ve been able to hang out with them outside of League business. 

You understood, they were young, growing into the heroes they want to be, and having fun while being young. But the loneliness crept back again, the same that lingered after Bruce and Clark. You decided it was time to put your big girl panties on and date outside the hero world, just in case you had better luck. And it’s been going great, a little over a month since you started seeing Jackson, and tonight was another hopefully successful date. Now, to break the news to your overprotective kids. 

“I do, and of course you’re always welcome,” you admitted, smiling. “But… kids, I actually have plans tonight.”

That stopped them in their tracks. Like deer in headlights, they all turn their heads to look at you. Jon’s brows furrowed. “Plans? Like… with people?”

“Like… with a date? You’re dressed nicer than usual.” Dick guessed, eyes narrowing.

You hesitated — and that was all the confirmation they needed.

“A date?!” Jon blurted, jaw dropping. “You can date?!”

Jason smacked him upside the head. “Of course she can date, idiot.”

Tim groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How are you surprised by this?”

Conner crossed his arms, suspicious. “Who is he? Do we know him?”

Cass said nothing, just watched you with sharp eyes and a knowing smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you slipped into your bedroom to keep getting ready. “I don’t owe you an interrogation, detectives. When it's time, I'll introduce you all.”

That didn’t stop them from trailing after you, peppering you with questions while you pulled on earrings and fixed your lipstick.

Jason leaned against the doorframe. “Is he taller than me?”

“Yes.”

“Does he make more money than Bruce?”

“No one makes more money than Bruce.”

Jon frowned. “Does he have powers?”

“That’s none of your business, sweetheart.”

Tim sighed. “Where did you meet him?”

“Out,” you said vaguely, slipping your feet into heels. “Now — black jacket or red?”

They all paused. “Black,” Dick and Cass said at the same time.

“Red,” Jason argued immediately.

“Black is more mysterious,” Tim muttered.

“Red shows power,” Damian countered.

You laughed, trying on both, twirling for them like it was a runway show. They shouted over one another until finally you picked the black, smoothing it over your dress as you moved toward the door.

That was when Jason spotted the small overnight bag tucked beside it.

His eyes went wide. “Wait a damn minute— is that an overnight bag?”

Chaos.

“You’re staying the night at his?!” Conner shouted, horrified.

“You cannot be serious,” Damian hissed.

Dick threw his hands up. “We’ve lost her!”

Jon looked like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real, which is slightly alarming since you had the conversation with him last year when Damian told him so. Maybe you’ll have to have the conversation with him again. Maybe have Clark take him to the North Pole to show him how he’s not there.

You raised your hands, firm but gentle. “Enough. I love you all, you know that. But I am an adult, and I am allowed to have my own life.”

“But—” Jon started.

“No buts. I’ll be back in the morning, and we’ll have pancakes together. Just like always.”

They quieted at that, grumbling but placated. Jason muttered something under his breath about “being replaced by some guy,” but you kissed his cheek and handed Cass the spare key.

“Be good,” you warned as you grabbed your bag. “Don’t burn the place down.”

They chorused their goodbyes as you slipped out, waving. But the second the door shut, they bolted to the window, watching you climb into a sleek car none of them recognized.

The silence was heavy until Damian sniffed disdainfully. “Disrespectful. What kind of gentleman doesn’t open his date’s door?”

That earned a round of muttered agreements as they slumped back inside, half-heartedly unpacking food and setting up Mario Kart on the TV.

Normally, sleepover Mario Kart was a blood sport. Tonight, the game sputtered — no one yelling, no one throwing controllers, everyone oddly subdued.

Finally, Tim broke. “So we’re just… not gonna acknowledge that we all thought she’d end up with Dad and Clark anyway?”

The silence cracked like glass.

Jason threw his controller. “Thank you! Exactly!”

Conner groaned. “Oh my god, finally someone said it.”

Jon looked around frantically. “Wait— wait— is that allowed?”

Dick buried his face in his hands. “Unbelievable. We’re having this conversation now?”

Voices rose, overlapping, chaos spiraling again until Cass quietly stood, walked to the bookshelf, and pulled down the glittery, bedazzled tube that you had made years ago. She held up the Sparkle Talking Stick.

It was needed when you had so many... passionate loved ones in your life. So, for a bit more order and maybe 1% less chaos than normal, you created the Sparkle Talking Stick that each kid signed as an agreement to listen when someone held it.

Immediately, everyone shut up.

Cass placed it on the table. Jason reached for it first, glaring at the others. “She’s obviously happier when she’s with them. She should just say it.”

Conner took the stick next. “Then why the hell is she sneaking out on overnight dates with randos?”

Dick grabbed it after. “Because maybe she thinks they don’t want her anymore! And whose fault is that?”

The Sparkle Stick made its way around, each kid venting in turn, until Damian finally snatched it, glowering. “Enough. The conclusion is obvious: Father and Kent are cowards. Their attempts at wooing are laughable. If they had done their jobs properly, she wouldn’t be entertaining other men.”

He pulled out his phone without hesitation. “Father,” Damian said crisply when Bruce answered. “Due to your and Kent’s lukewarm efforts, she is now pursuing other men. Do with this information what you will. Goodbye.”

He hung up before anyone could stop him.

The kids stared at one another for a couple of minutes.

Jason leaned back, smirking. “Well. Guess we’ll see what they do about it.”

[yiiiikesmish]

oh i am loving the slow burn you've got going on here. as a massive fan of greek mythology i never thought about the underworld having a town-like set up for the dead. it's such a great idea.

equinox part two

afab!hades!reader x persephone!clark kent

Summary: When Clark, the God of Spring, is punished to the Underworld for 6 months as part of a scheme set by the Upper Olympians, he is expecting the months to go by like torture. So, of course, you go against his and every other mortal's assumptions.

chapter summary: As Clark's second month in the Underworld passes, he's determined to find out more about his temporary home. Even if it takes him to some unexpected places.

wordcount: 3.7 k (the longest one yet, but chapter 3 is still being written and passes this)

content: inaccurate depictions of greek stories, afab reader, clark is still male, genderbent!hades x persephone, cursing, past trauma discussions, eventual angst, comfort, discussion of death, tension, longing, pining, idiots not knowing they're falling in love, tags still being added,

a/n: had this beautiful thought and have not been able to get it out of my head. this will be a series, around 6 parts. 5+1 times with Clark Kent, our beautiful sunshine boy, as the God of Spring, and reader being Hades. featuring a traumatized clark and a patient reader who shows clark that not everybody is out to get him. note: this is not accurate greek lore, nor will it be comic book accurate, as this is fanfiction and an au. if things don't make sense, pretend it does, and i'll give ya a smooch.

masterlist

< prev . next >

ongoing series; part three coming soon

Clark had learned, in the month he’d been in the Underworld, that its people weren’t so different from those above. The castle staff — cooks, attendants, and guards — had warmed to him surprisingly quickly. Maybe it was the polished manners Olympus had drilled into him, perhaps it was that he listened when they spoke, or maybe it was just that he wasn’t the cold, untouchable figure they’d probably expected from Olympus.

Still, the sting of his arrival lingered. He’d barely set foot in the throne room before Barry — Hermes — had clapped him on the shoulder with a fleeting grin, mumbled something about schedules, and vanished back to Olympus in a blur of wind with no lingering farewell. That quick, efficient departure had lodged itself under Clark’s skin, a sharp reminder of just how disposable he was to the people who claimed to be his ‘family’. Even so, the Underworld hadn’t been unkind.

In his time here, Clark had also started to notice small details that didn’t line up with Olympus’ stories. The ruler’s fingers bore that dark, permanent stain the legends spoke of — but most people, even those high in rank, didn’t. Not the captains of the guard, not the advisors, not the stewards. It made him wonder if the stain meant something more profound than simple association with the realm of the dead, though no one had volunteered an explanation.

The food, too, defied the bleak images Olympus liked to paint — rich, warming dishes layered with spices and flavors that stuck pleasantly to the tongue. Limited ingredients didn’t mean limited skill, and the cooks here proved it with every meal. Clark made sure to praise their work after every meal, something that never failed to bring a bit of a spark into the staff, as nobody in the Underworld was a voracious eater. They were all too happy to have someone to attend to, to feed, to dress. While still early in his stay, Clark feels sure that he can eventually turn these people into friends. 

Still, for all the Underworld’s vastness, the ruler herself remained a kind of distant orbit in Clark’s days — glimpses caught between duties, a nod exchanged in the hallway, a meal surrounded by the chatter of others. And yet, he found himself looking forward to each encounter, small as they were.

When they occasionally shared a meal in the grand dining hall, and wasn’t that a surprise — to find out that the feared ruler of the Underworld chose to eat at the long table alongside her staff as often as she could. There was no throne at the head, no separation of rank, just a seat among the others. You listened more than you spoke, but when you did, the conversation always leaned toward warmth and laughter. Clark had learned quickly that these moments were rare, and perhaps that was why they lingered with him longer than they should have. Your beaming smile and soft laughter coming to him at random moments throughout the day bring his smile out.

Most days, your paths only crossed in passing. He might catch sight of you striding down a corridor, your pace quick and your attention locked on some unseen list of priorities, while he wandered the castle’s twisting halls in search of another hidden alcove or sunless courtyard. On one such exploration, he met Cerberus — and it had taken exactly one thrown stone and a burst of superhuman strength for the massive hound to decide Clark was worth its attention. Now, whenever the three heads spotted him, they bounded forward with enough force to shake the floor, demanding a game of tug-of-war no one else seemed willing to play.

Today, though, he was ready to see more than the castle and the streets closest to it. The Underworld was layered, its heart deeper than the first impression it gave, and he wanted to find it. He stepped out into the pale, muted light of its endless twilight, determined to follow the paths that wound downward, toward whatever truths might be hiding there.

As Clark walks through windy lanes and crooked alleys, he notices the stalls draped in weathered canvas dyed in shades of slate, moss, navy, and muted wine. The air was cool here, carrying the faint tang of mineral-rich water from the river that cut through the city and the smell of fresh food from the stalls. Overhead, the sky hung in a perpetual twilight — not quite night, but with a depth that swallowed the horizon.

The people he passed moved with unhurried ease, their laughter and conversation drifting between the clatter of pottery and the muted clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Their skin carried a faint blue tint, as if the memory of moonlight had settled into them, but their eyes were bright and curious. A woman with translucent hair haggled good-naturedly over the price of fabric; two children darted past with armfuls of candied fruit, their giggles echoing through the stalls. Clark couldn’t help but notice that once again, their fingers were free of any staining. 

Clark had expected the dead to look… mournful. Hollow. Instead, the marketplace felt alive in its subdued way — the way winter might be alive, quiet and slow but no less full of motion. The Underworld was not Olympus’s polished marble or the wild greens of his home Above. Here, color bloomed in careful pockets: a pile of pale violet roots, the burnished gleam of bronze trinkets, the faint phosphorescent glow from jars of preserved river moss.

It wasn’t the realm of endless despair Olympus whispered about. It was… a place people lived, even after life. Olympus described the Underworld as an empty, heated place where people languished in despair. They rumble about beings with mottled skin and stenches so atrocious that people cry. 

The Underworld is nothing like that. He’s seen small schools, factories, apartments, and stores. There’s even a University here with libraries, multiple buildings, and dorms. The city is vast and is alive in a multitude of ways. Walking further down this path, Clark feels excitement starting to flood through him. He loved to be moving, to be helpful, and finding what the Underworld holds has his heart racing in a positive way that he hasn’t experienced in a while. 

Clark’s home above had always been his sanctuary — a stretch of land carved into rolling meadows and sun-soaked fields, framed by dense groves that whispered with the wind. The main house was built from pale stone and warm wood, its expansive windows thrown open to let in the scent of wildflowers and ripening grain. Beyond the back porch, an orchard spilled in gentle tiers toward a clear stream, where the sun caught in the water until it looked like molten gold.

He’d kept the fields himself, hands deep in the soil when no summons from Olympus dragged him away. Rows of herbs, fruit trees, and bright flowers grew in careful harmony, a quiet rebellion against the marble-and-bronze grandeur of the gods. Vines crept along trellises, heavy with blossoms; bees moved lazily in the summer air. Every corner of the place had something alive in it, and he knew each leaf and petal by heart.

When he wasn’t tending the land, he was in the sunlight — sprawled in the grass with a book, or lying in the orchard with the warmth soaking into his skin until he felt it in his bones. Clark was busy often enough, but here in the sun and soil, Clark had been content, unguarded.

The sound of children’s laughter carried across the square, sharp and bright against the low hum of the marketplace. Clark slowed instinctively, following it toward a squat, slate-roofed building tucked between two taller structures. The carved lintel above its door was worn smooth, but the mark etched there — three spirals woven together — still held a faint shimmer. And then he saw you.

You were kneeling in the open doorway, a child tucked under each arm, listening with exaggerated seriousness to their rapid-fire retelling of something that had been the funniest thing in the world five minutes ago. When you laughed, the sound was softer than the children’s but carried farther, pulling more of them in like moths to flame.

Clark lingered at the corner of the building, half-hidden behind a carved pillar. He told himself he was observing — learning about the ruler he’d been sent to live under. But he couldn’t seem to look away. You moved through the group with practiced ease, adjusting a crooked scarf here, smoothing the back of a tangled braid there. When one boy barreled into you, you caught him without flinching, spun him in a playful circle, and deposited him neatly onto a low step. 

“Lady, that was incredible! Let’s do it again, but this time I’ll run at you from further back, okay?” The blond boy you had spun excitedly yelled back at you, with a massive smile on his face. There’s that laugh of yours again, grabbing everyone’s attention. Paired with your smile in that moment, unguarded and bright — it was nothing like the measured politeness you’d worn in the throne room. Clark couldn’t help but be a bit mesmerized, along with all the kids around you. How is it that you’re so kind?

Lost in the view and his thoughts, he didn’t notice your eyes flick toward him until it was too late. Instantly, you dropped your smile and tensed your muscles lightly. You subtly straightened your shoulders, brushed dust from your hands, and crossed the small yard. “This is certainly a surprise,” you start lightly, leaning against the near wall towards the Prince of Spring, “What are you doing out here, Clark?”

The gentleness in your tone wrong-footed him. He’d braced for annoyance, maybe even a cutting remark about spying. Upper Olympus would have snapped at him for intruding without an invitation — even over something so small. Clark has learned from his mistakes in the past one too many times to count. He opened his mouth, and before he could stop himself, the excuses started spilling out. “I was just walking, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything — it’s not like I was watching you, I just heard the kids laughing and—”

You tilted your head slightly, listening, but your gaze shifted past him as a small hand tugged insistently on your own. Without hesitation, you bent at the waist, lowering yourself to the brunette girl’s height. She cupped her hands around her mouth and stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a lightning strike, “Who’s the handsome glowy guy? Is he our future king?”

Clark blinked, his ears warming. You bit back a laugh, managing only a faint twitch at the corner of your mouth before straightening again. “This,” you told the girl, “is my new friend, the Prince of Spring, Clark. And he was just about to join us, wasn’t he?”

“Wow, a real prince?!” The girl exclaimed, gaining the attention of the other children in the courtyard. Whispers broke out amongst the children, along with pointing and growing excitement. Clark hesitated — he wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the invitation or the fact that you’d made it sound like his idea. However, once he glanced at you, he saw a smile on your lips, and gained an uneasy feeling. 

“Come on,” you added, a spark of mischief in your eyes. “Unless you’re afraid you’ll lose a game of tag to someone half your height.”

Instantly, cheers erupted from the children and the workers alike. Well, that did it. Clark huffed a quiet laugh and stepped forward, letting himself be tugged into the little whirlwind of warmth you’d built here.

—

After an exhausting game of tag — where Clark could proudly say he won one match before losing the next four — you finally called a halt. The courtyard was littered with giggling, breathless children, and Clark, to his surprise, was one of them. His hair was mussed, his shirt wrinkled, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness across his shoulders had eased.

Somehow, the next activity became flower crown–making, a hobby you’d done with them before, judging by the quick, eager way the children fetched baskets of blooms from the garden beds. Clark found himself seated cross-legged in the grass, the brunette girl from earlier — Yuki — plopping herself right in front of him with a determined, “You’re helping me. You can pick the best flowers.” He laughed and obeyed, his large hands delicately selecting the best flowers before weaving them into the desired pattern quickly. Gently holding it, Clark extended his offering to her great pleasure, before he was quickly put back to work by one of the other little girls. 

Every so often, his eyes betrayed him, drifting over to where you sat among a cluster of children. The late light caught the faint shimmer that marked your divinity, gilding you in a way that stole his breath. You weren’t posing or performing, yet there was something about the way you leaned in to listen to the children’s stories, smiling like every word mattered, that made his chest feel strangely full. Peace radiated from you in waves, and even here, surrounded by the dead, you looked so very alive.

He ducked his head quickly when Yuki caught him not paying attention, muttering something about “just checking the flowers,” but his gaze kept wandering back.

Across the courtyard, you were having a similar problem. You were busy weaving flowers into Shika’s hair as he took a nap on your lap, but you couldn’t seem to stray away from the beautiful sight of Clark seemingly in his element with the plants and children. The blond boy from earlier, Naruto, had sidled up beside you and followed your line of sight for a moment before loudly blurting, “Why do you keep looking at the glowy prince guy? You like him or something?”

A faint flush crept into your cheeks before you schooled your expression into something neutral. “That’s a very big question for such a small crown,” you said smoothly, plucking a blossom from his hand and tucking it into the weaving. Then, with a deft pivot because you were not about to answer that question, you called over a few other children and launched them all into an animated debate over whether or not purple flowers were superior to white ones.

It was a clean deflection, one you’d probably done a thousand times before. But it didn’t erase the fact that Clark had heard every word. Nor did it stop the slow warmth from curling in his chest, a mirror to the faint color now touching his own cheeks.

Leaving the orphanage took longer than either of you anticipated. Every time you tried to say goodbye, one child would remember something else they needed to tell you — or him — and the conversation would loop back around. Clark didn’t mind. There was a gravity to this place, the kind of pull that made you want to linger.

Now, he stood outside in the cool courtyard air, hands tucked loosely into his pockets as he waited for you to finish speaking with the staff. From where he stood, he could hear the soft murmur of your voice, occasionally interrupted by low laughter from the women you talked to.

Today had given him a glimpse he hadn’t expected. Not from the ruler who, by all accounts, kept the dead in their place with an iron will. There had been no performance in your smile, no carefully calculated move to impress anyone. Just… a quiet, unshakable joy that clung to you and radiated outward. And as he stood there, Clark recognized it for what it was: warmth. Life.

How in the hell had everyone gotten it so wrong?

When you noticed him lingering, you finished your conversation and crossed the courtyard toward him. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to wait,” you said lightly, falling into step beside him. “You don’t know what my next plans are.”

Clark nodded sheepishly. “Yes, that’s true. I guess I was hoping you were on your way back to the castle as well.”

A small laugh escaped you, warm and genuine. “You’re lucky, because that is where I’m going. Unfortunately for me, it’s to face a mountain of paperwork. Were you exploring before we commandeered your day?”

“Trying to,” he admitted. “I’ve kept to the upper streets so far.”

“Good to see you venturing further,” you said, your gaze flicking over the market road ahead. “Just watch your step near the west quarter. Not dangerous — just easy to get lost. Plenty of winding alleys and overlapping stairways. The kids use them for hide and seek.”

Clark chuckled softly, perfectly picturing the orphans wreaking havoc in the twisting streets. “Sounds like they’ve claimed it as their own.”

“They’ve earned the right,” you replied, a faint smile touching your lips. “Too many of them were cheated out of their first chance at life. I’ll be damned if they don’t have one here.”

He glanced sideways at you. It wasn’t the sort of statement he’d ever heard from someone in power above. It carried no grand speech, no claim to selflessness — just certainty.

The road narrowed, guiding you both into a smaller square. Here, a modest fenced garden sat in stubborn defiance of the dim sky. The plants were hardy but muted, their leaves shadowed and their blossoms small. You paused at the gate, with a bit of a bitter smile at the greenery. “My attempt,” you said. “I can make things grow, but not truly alive. Not like above.”

Clark stepped inside without asking, crouching near a bare patch of soil. He pressed his palm to the earth, letting his energy seep downward. Warmth radiated through the dirt, coaxing green upward until a stalk twisted into bloom far too quickly. The stem leaned awkwardly; the petals layered unevenly in deep red and burnished gold. He frowned at it, a bit embarrassed by his creation. “It’s… not very good.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside him. The faint shimmer around you bent toward the flower, as if curious. “Oh, Clark. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen here in centuries.”

Clark looked at you, startled, but you were already tracing the edge of a petal with the tip of your finger. “Life doesn’t have to be perfect to matter.”

The words struck somewhere deep — into the hollow place he’d been ignoring since Olympus had sent him here. When you asked, almost shyly, if he might plant a few more in the castle’s garden, Clark heard himself agree before he’d even thought about it. Something about the spark in your eyes made it impossible to refuse.

You both lingered in the garden a while longer. You pointed out the few plants that managed to thrive here, telling him their Underworld names and some practical uses. He told you about his fields above — how certain flowers followed the sun through the day, how some plants could grow stronger when paired with others. You listened, not politely but attentively, asking questions that made him want to keep talking. By the time you reached the castle gates, the sky above had shifted to deeper twilight, the ever-present stars beginning to pierce through.

“I enjoyed today,” you said simply as you stepped ahead to open the gate. “It’s… been a while since I laughed like that.”

Clark felt the corner of his mouth lift. “I did too. I hope now that you’ve seen we can have fun together, you won’t go back to avoiding me around the castle.” He teases lightly, a smile already on his lips. 

“I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been very busy, being a ruler of the Underworld and everything. Plus, I don’t know if you’ve heard,” You lower your voice slightly, leaning in closer to convey the need for secrecy between the two. Clark finds himself eagerly leaning in to hear more. 

“There’s been a new guest in the Underworld. Has stirred up quite the fanbase within the castle, especially with the kitchen staff proudly stating they’ve found their muse.” You continue on with your own smile. 

Clark bites into his lower lip in an attempt to stop the large smile that threatens to overtake his face. Who knew Hades could tease and would be doing so with him? His voice is a bit gruffer, from holding his laughter, but he continues with this joke between you two, leaning closer unconsciously to be more face-to-face with you.

“Oh, that guest seems like a troublemaker. Maybe you’d be better off cutting him loose. It would free up some of your time.” 

There was something about the way Clark said the words that had you tilting your head and your eyes considering him. You let there be a pause, so that Clark understood that whatever you were about to say next had meaning and feeling behind it. 

“I don’t know about that,” you said at last, your voice carrying a quiet conviction that made Clark straighten almost imperceptibly. “I think he’s something special. The kind of presence that changes the air in a room… and makes you wonder how you ever went without it.”

You didn’t break his gaze, and in that stillness, the words seemed to settle somewhere deep in him — somewhere untouched by the polite praises and rehearsed compliments Olympus had continuously fed him. There was no flattery here, no political motive — just truth, offered freely.

For a moment, Clark found himself struggling to find his voice. His pulse thrummed in his ears, his earlier grin fading into something more uncertain, more vulnerable.

“That’s… quite the endorsement,” he managed, though it sounded weaker than he intended. 

You simply smiled, stepping past him to push open the heavy iron gate. The soft shimmer of your halo caught in the deepening twilight, and for one disarming moment, Clark’s first thought wasn’t of titles, realms, or obligations — it was of how your words had felt like an anchor and a promise all at once.

As you disappeared into the inner halls, Clark found himself standing there longer than necessary, replaying the curve of your smile, the softness of your voice. He wasn’t any closer to understanding why you’d kept your distance all these weeks. But he knew one thing: the picture Olympus had painted of you — cold, detached, severe — was wrong. And maybe, he thought, he wanted to learn just how wrong it was.

a/n: here's part two! i thought i had it done yesterday, but when i looked it over before i posted today i had to add the flower crown scene and our little flirtation with clark. and then, i almost posted the unfinished part 3 instead of part 2, so that would have been confusing.

thank you for your support, and i hope you enjoy this chapter! like, comment, reblog if you liked it! comment below if you would like to be added to the 'equinox' tag list! let me know if i missed somebody!

after posting i'll be eating an acai bowl, smoking, and watching our mans Superman at home since I immediately bought it when it was available. then let the thoughts take over!

my asks are open so feel free to reach out!

taglist: @sunsethw4 @disillusioniary @marshymallo @yiiiikesmish

[yiiiikesmish]

ahhhhh i'm obsessed. i LOVE hades x persephone aus and if this first chapter is the benchmark for the rest of the series this story is going to eat. so excited to read more!!

(also if possible, i would love to be on the tag list)

equinox part one

afab!hades!reader x persephone!clark kent

summary: When Clark, the God of Spring, is punished to the Underworld for 6 months as part of a scheme set by the Upper Olympians, he is expecting the months to go by like torture. So, of course, you go against his and every other mortal's assumptions.

wordcount: 2.5k

content: inaccurate depictions of greek stories, afab reader, clark is still male, genderbent!hades x persephone, cursing, past trauma discussions, eventual angst, comfort, discussion of death, tags still being added

a/n: had this beautiful thought and have not been able to get it out of my head. this will be a series, around 6 parts. 5+1 times with Clark Kent, our beautiful sunshine boy, as the God of Spring, and reader being Hades. featuring a traumatized clark and a patient reader who shows clark that not everybody is out to get him. note: this is not accurate greek lore, nor will it be comic book accurate, as this is fanfiction and an au. if things don't make sense, pretend it does, and i'll give ya a smooch.

masterlist

ongoing series; part two release date is Friday August, 15th at 3:00 pm EST.

Clark was, pardon his language, pissed off. He’s good at his job as the God of Spring and a Protector of Mortals, and yet he gets banished to the Underworld? All because some old Upper Olympians are too selfish and scared to lose their power.

So they made up a rumor, lower gods and demigods spread it to human lovers who spread it further, and alas! People, we have a scandal!

He rolls his shoulders back and gives his Underworld welcoming crew his best attempt at a warm smile for now. Regardless of how he’s feeling, he knows that he has a job to complete. That’s how he’ll think of this; it’s another job that Olympus needs him to complete. 

"Wow, they must have really pissed you off if you're quiet now. That's not really like you, Supes." Barry says from further ahead of the group. He's been zooming ahead and coming back at random times due to his impatience with the group's slow pace. 

Clark clenches his jaw, but manages another terse smile towards Barry. "I'm fine. And you would stop calling me that? Look at where being a "super god" got me." Barry purses his lips but wisely says nothing. Even he knew the truth, and not what Olympus was passing off as it. 

Lost back in his thoughts, Clark turns over the events again in his head. It’s just that they must honestly think he’s dumb if they think he doesn’t see the political moves happening. Like he said, he’s good at his job, at frankly any task you put him at.

He’s heard the rumors, the whisperings between both mortals and gods alike about the blatant favoritism the mortals had for Clark, as well as the petition for Clark to secure a more prestigious position. 

But if anyone asked Clark, he would have gladly told them that he was fine with his roles; he was content. He’s not actively striving for more, and truly, he doesn’t pose a threat to them or the order of things. He just wanted to bring life to the mortals and protect them from battles they can’t handle. 

Somehow along the way, his message and purpose got twisted, and Upper Olympus had bigger plans for Clark, more delicate missions that they insisted only Clark could handle. And that wasn’t true, now was it? Because Clark knows that —

“We’ve arrived.” Tory chirps from in front. Clark quickly focuses on his guides, two small gremlin creatures that are escorting Barry and Clark to meet you.

"Finally! Let's get this going!" Barry exclaims. 

It’s sooner than he thought the meeting would occur. You know, really, for small creatures, they are surprisingly fast walkers. He should have slowed down and admired the scenery more. Maybe even ask a few questions to prolong this moment. As if knowing Clarke’s internal questioning, Tory grants him a small smile, delicate eyes smiling back at him. That was enough to give Clark the courage he needed. Taking in a deep breath, Clark looked up, coming face to face with an immense obsidian door carved with constellations.

“This way,” Ogni, the other gremlin guide, murmured. The doors swung open on soundless hinges, and Clark stepped into the chamber.

He expected darkness — oppressive, choking, the kind that swallows every trace of light. Instead, the room breathed shadows and gold. Shafts of illumination cut down from high, narrow windows set with stained glass, painting the black stone in fractured reds and ambers. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, catching the light like embers suspended in water. The vaulted ceiling rose impossibly high above, its ribbed arches drawing the eye toward a carved structure at the far end — part throne, part altar, and wholly regal. The space hummed, as if every stone had been placed with purpose, carrying the weight of centuries.

It was… beautiful. And then there was you.

He felt you before he truly saw you — a presence that filled the room more completely than the light itself. Grace wrapped in quiet authority, the kind of stillness that was not passive, but deliberate. Power radiated from you in waves: not loud, not showy, but undeniable. It was the power of deep waters, of roots that ran beneath every living thing. Every word you spoke carried the sense that it had been weighed, sharpened, and then set free.

You sat not on the high throne but at a broad table scattered with scrolls and obsidian tablets, advisors flanking you. A handful of underworld guards lined the walls. You did not look up immediately — your voice, calm and steady, carried as you gave quiet orders about border patrols and harvest rites. Despite your focus, your advisors started eyeing Clark with visiousness barely being restrained in their eyes. Ah, it seems like the Underworld isn’t exactly ecstatic about this arrangement either. They can join the club, maybe even have weekly meetings.

When it was clear you had finished your point, you adjourned the meeting, then finally turned to face Clark. 

Heart-stopping. 

In everyone’s talks regarding the infamous ruler of the Underworld, Hades, it seemed they forgot an important aspect: how stunning you are. An elegant grace that speaks of power within the posture and the measured steps you took to approach him. Clark’s been around Olympians for years and can confidently say none of them measures up to the absolutely devastating beauty that you seem to have in spades.

Power didn’t cling to you in restless sparks the way it did with the Olympians above; it flowed, deliberate and unhurried, in every measured step you took toward him. It was not the volatile grandeur of those who acted on whim, but something sharpened and intentional, as though every motion had weight and meaning. 

Gods had surrounded Clark for years, yet he couldn’t recall a single one who carried their authority with such quiet precision—and, to his reluctant amazement, such devastating allure. Being attracted to Hades was certainly not in his 6-month plan.

“Hello, Clark, God of Spring. I hope your journey here was pleasant, considering the circumstances.” Your voice travels out melodically. You extend your hand, and it’s a nod to Clark’s training that stops the instinctual gasp that nearly pops out when he sees the black stained fingertips you have. The stain seems to go till the middle of your hand before it blends with the rest of your flesh.

It was his hesitation and confusion that lasted a moment too long, making everything awkward. You slowly start retracting your hand, before Clark shoots his out quickly to grab and shake it. 

“Hello, Hades, Goddess of the Underworld. Thank you for your hospitality for the upcoming 6 months. I hope not to be too much of a hassle.”

Before you could open your lovely mouth, and truly, had there been better lips? A sharp laugh cuts through the room. 

One advisor — older, with a mouth like a knife — finally turned to regard Clark. “Olympus moves quickly when a golden boy outlives his use. I guess we can try our best to find something you can do. Gotta earn your keep, right, boy?”

Booming laughter from the advisors who were left in the room. Some were smart and left immediately after the meeting. Why stay longer and risk annoying Hades? A warning, the others would soon wish they had heeded.

The words were smooth, but the cut was deep. Clark froze, jaw tightening before he forced a polite, non-committal smile — the kind Olympus had trained into him. But there was no missing the shadow in his eyes.

You turned directly to the advisor, with a gaze that was sharp enough to pin the advisor in place. “Careful, Sergio,” you said, your voice as cool as the stone beneath your feet. “You speak of a guest under my roof. Not to mention one who is significantly ranked higher in terms of importance.”

The room stilled. Even Clark glanced at you, surprised. You return your gaze to Clark, and for the second time, he is taken aback by the full weight of your power wrapped in poise, a crown that seems less worn than welded into place. 

A low whistle cuts through the room. "Wow, what a start to these 6 months. I can already tell it's gonna be interesting. Well, what fun! Nice to see you, Hades, truly, but I do have to go. Errands to run, messages to deliver, people to see, food to eat. You know how it is! Best not to overextend my stay anyway, you look plenty busy. Maybe I'll see you around, Clark, but if not, definitely when you come back to the Upper! Alright, see ya!” And with a gust of wind, Barry was gone. He did complete his mission. What else was there left for him here? Besides, maybe someone who thought they were somewhat friends — something you determine by the brief look of shock on Clark’s face. 

You could sense it — the way he was holding himself together for the audience in the room, the polite mask hiding the raw sting of abandonment. He needed to be alone, not to perform. A part of you, thought long dead and buried, tosses around at that familiar feeling. And it’s even more heartbreaking to see it on a face as handsome as the Spring God.  You moved toward the doors and inclined your head for him to follow. “Shall I show you your quarters?”

With another tight smile, a polite thank you to Tony and Ongi for safely guiding him here, and a surprising slight head nod of acknowledgment to the other advisors, Clarke followed Hades out the door. Before you followed Clark, you turned back and gave a scathing look to the other advisors. One that told them to be cautious, as you were not done with them. 

The corridors of the palace were long and hushed, their walls carved from the same dark stone as the throne room but softened here by low-burning sconces and intricate reliefs depicting the history of the Underworld. You walked a pace ahead, the sound of your steps echoing faintly. The walk to his chambers was quiet, your steps echoing through the long hall. It was a comfortable silence, but maybe you’re biased; you’ve never minded the silence. You never had a choice to. 

Slightly tilting your head to the right, you glance at your new… roommate for 6 months? He radiates warmth, even now, as his emotions are fragile, a bit worn down; he’s equivalent to sitting next to the fireplace. Due to Clarke being such a light-hearted and loving god, he even radiates a bit of a glow around him, barely noticeable - if you weren’t a thousand-year-old goddess. 

Even in your age, you’ve seen plenty of beauty, from other Gods and Goddesses, to nymphs, sirens, and humans, plenty have been described as beautiful. Even the newspapers written by both mortals and Gods alike name him as “a handsome benefactor for humanity”. Screw them all. 

None of them did any justice to the ethereal being that is the Clark, the God of Spring. With broad shoulders, and wide arms, and frankly wide everything, (everything?) this God was structured in the ways of old. In the ways that humans made statues of, but real Gods and Goddesses hardly live up to that potential. 

“I trust the accommodations will be… sufficient,” you said, voice light but precise. “You have free roam of the castle. The gardens, the library, and even the training halls, if you need them. If you require anything, speak my name, and it will reach me.”

His eyes lingered on the carvings, but you could feel his attention split between the space and you. “And if I… roam too far?” Clark asked carefully. There had to be some kind of drawback; he'd heard the tales of the Underworld.

“Then you may find yourself face-to-face with Cerberus,” you replied, a faint curl at the corner of your mouth. “He’s harmless if you’re me. Less so if you’re not.”

Clark’s brow lifted slightly, as though he wasn’t entirely convinced of the ‘harmless’ part.

You continued, “And there are the lost souls, of course. They won’t harm you — not physically — but some have… ambitions. It’s rare, but every few centuries, one gets bold enough to try to escape. They become cautionary tales for mortals.” You glanced at him sidelong. “It’s very embarrassing for them, really. But you have to admire their dedication to new tales.”

It earned you a small, reluctant smile. Brief, but there. You didn’t let your expression change, but internally, you were assessing him. The golden aura that haloed his form was impossible to ignore — warm, steady, alive in a way the Underworld rarely saw.

Gods and goddesses all shimmered, but his was… different. Larger. Brighter. That telltale mark of power only the Big Three could truly measure, and you didn’t need to measure to know it was formidable. It wasn’t just strength — it was goodness, threaded through every strand of that light.

No wonder your sisters and the other Upper Olympians were so adamant about Clark's temporary relocation. They had to have panicked at his potential, for surely even now, he already eclipses some of the lower Olympians' power.

And heat. You could feel it even from a step away — the deep, life-born warmth that clung to him like sunlight against your skin after centuries in shadow. You stopped at a door inlaid with gold sigils. 

“Here,” you said, pushing it open to reveal the room within. His breath caught.

His room was spacious, surrounded by obsidian walls and floor, with a gold marble pattern weaving throughout, catching sparkles of the dimming light outside. The bed was on the left wall, massive and filled with pillows and other soft, luxurious textiles, even though the God of Spring might need to remove some pillows to sleep comfortably with his large frame. 

To the right of the room were two doors. One he could see as the bathroom, and from the open door frame, it appeared to be as luxurious as the rest of the room. Clark walks towards the second door and slowly opens it, revealing a large walk-in closet with ample space for clothing for three people.

Clark couldn’t wait to get a look at the absolute stunner of the room: the balcony. The balcony stretched outward in a graceful arc, framed by towering Gothic pillars draped in thick, dark-green vines that climbed toward the carved stone arches above. Two wrought-iron chairs sat side by side, angled just enough to invite conversation or quiet observation of the Underworld’s strange, haunting beauty.

Beyond the balcony stretched a sprawling garden — nothing like the manicured perfection of Olympus. This was wilder, stranger. Black-petaled roses shimmered faintly under the dim sky, ghostly vines glowed along trellises, and flowers bloomed in impossible colors, each one alive in a way that defied sunlight.

It was a mess, to be honest. But in a way that there’s beauty in its refusal to be tamed and its perseverance to continue growing. The urge to create was massive, sparks flying out of his hands as he considered all the possibilities at his fingertips.

You saw it — the way his eyes widened in pure wonder. Without meaning to, you smiled. He reminds me a bit of Ceberus — with puppy-like excitement, he suddenly displayed. 

Clearing your throat softly, you said, “You are free to roam the castle. If you prefer, you may dine here tonight. Speak to the ones who brought you, and the kitchens will know.”

His gaze snapped back to you, a little dazed. This is nothing like how he thought his first day here would go. Nothing like he thought his interactions with you would go. This is beyond a pleasant surprise. His emotions are heightened and frazzled, seemingly everywhere, with only one evident emotion he can name: gratitude. For the first time since he was told of his future, Clarke gave a genuine smile. 

Holy fuck, he’s beautiful. Desperate to maintain decorum, you clear your throat slightly and incline your head, formal once more. “Rest well, God of Spring.”

“Clark, please. This is… everything. Thank you, truly.” 

A genuine smile, and then you were gone, leaving him in the doorway — still watching the garden, wondering why the Queen of the Underworld was nothing like he’d been told.

a/n: there we go! part one of equinox has been released! like, comment, reblog if you liked it! comment below if you would like to be added to the 'equinox' tag list. the first post i created will serve as the masterlist for this series!

part two will be posted Friday, Aug 15 @ 3:00 pm.

taglist: @sunsethw4

[yiiiikesmish]

ahhhhhhh what a way to end this story. this was fantastic!!

Match Made (Part Two)

Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Clark goes on dates not with reader lol, hurt/comfort rather than angst?, some talks about insecurities ▸ WORD COUNT: 9.0K ▸ A/N: thank you so so much for the wonderful response for part one TT i had lots of fun writing this thing and exploring clark's character a little more. hope you enjoy this final part of him with miss matchmaker!

↤ Part One

Clark nearly forgets that the whole point of engaging you is for his article. He makes progress on his other pieces, simpler ones that do not require him to go on dates or being constantly distracted by a certain matchmaker. 

After that night in your apartment, the two of you have become friends. At least, that’s how Clark considers it. It starts with a text from you the following night of your mediocre dinner. He replies with his own spread and offers to share some with you. He runs some of his ideas by you and texts you boring details about his work out on the field, you send him angry emojis with a full block of text whenever you’re talking about one of your more insufferable clients. Then there are days when you send him a picture of your breakfast and tell him “yours was better, let’s do a repeat” and Clark allows himself to hope a little.

His curiosity has transformed into something more tangible, something that makes his heart ache and his cheeks sore when he smiles a little too wide at your messages. He likes hearing about your day, the little things that he thinks not everyone has a glimpse of.

With no mention of his third date, he wonders if something has changed with you too. If you’re delaying arranging this last one for him to prolong the time you have with him. It’s likely wishful thinking, but Clark lets himself have it. 

He is doing his best not to overthink the situation. All he knows is that he is enjoying this time with you and he is hoping that it will last. 

Luckily, he always has his coworkers to keep him occupied. 

“Clark, did you get photographs yet for your matchmaking article?” Jimmy tosses over his shoulder.

Ah, crap. That’s right. He probably does need this. It’s not as if he can take pictures of the date to include. Perhaps it may merit a visit to ADORE offices and even getting quick quotes and interviews from other matchmakers.

The bonus is that he gets to see you.

“I have not, should I set up some time? I think it would be good to go to their offices.”

“Yeah, you can ask your girlfriend that.”

Clark has never reddened so fast as he immediately denies this. “She’s not my girlfriend!”

Jimmy smirks, rolling his eyes. “Sure, man. I’m available this week unless some natural or manmade disaster calls for my attention.”

“You know it’s because we’ve never seen you smile so much, not like this. Not until recently,” Lois grins from across the hall. Clark doesn’t look up; he can’t, especially when his face feels like it’s about to explode. Lois will never let him live it down. 

“I’m pleased with my article.”

“Mhmm, okay.” She strolls over to his desk, planting herself on his desk again. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Clark sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s the biggest cliché, isn’t it? Falling for my subject,” Clark groans, rubbing his face furiously under his glasses. He presses his fingertips against his eyes.

“Technically, the subject itself is the matchmaking process, so it’s not as if it’s a problem. I wouldn’t stress too much about it,” Lois reassures him, but he almost feels pitied.

“But it’ll definitely bias my article,” he says, rolling around the pen on the table.

Lois places her hand over his to stop his movements. “It will give it a personal touch, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” She gives him one last reassuring pat on his back before returning to work. 

He turns back to his desk and picks up his phone, pulling up his message thread with you. He smiles when he sees the most recent picture you sent, which is of your comparatively healthier dinner of fried chicken and fries. Nothing like dinner for dinner. At least you were eating somewhat proper food. 

Maybe he should ask you out to dinner. 

The thought goes as quickly as it comes. He is still working with you, he should be professional. Nothing that would risk you becoming uncomfortable with him. 

Are you free anytime this week to take pictures?

The reply comes almost immediately. Pictures?

We need photographs for the article so I was thinking me and Jimmy could stop by the office. Maybe even get photos of the matchmakers :-)

The bouncing three dots appear then disappear. A minute goes by before they reappear and your reply pings his phone. Thursday? The entire team will be in.

Perfect. See you then!

I’ll make sure we get the entire office catered lunch ;) maybe breakfast foods?

You know the way to my heart :-)

He contemplates whether the message is too cheesy, and ultimately decides that maybe a little bit of cheese can be nice. “Jimmy, Thursday,” Clark calls out.

Jimmy makes kissy faces. “It’s a date.”

Clark fruitlessly tries not to flush again, and chooses to duck his face into his notebook instead.

Thursday rolls around quick, and Clark and Jimmy make their way to the ADORE offices only a few blocks away from The Daily Planet. He is dressed in one of his better shirts, hoping to appear put together in front of your colleagues.

He hasn’t seen you in quite some time, so the nervous energy thrums quietly in his veins. He rocks on the balls of his feet as he and Jimmy stand in the elevator.

“You’re down so bad, dude,” Jimmy chuckles.

Clark doesn’t deny it. He can’t. He just bites his bottom lip and nudges his glasses up, praying that the heat on his face dissipates by the time he sees you.

You are there waiting at the front desk when the two of them arrive. His heart skips a beat. You look as beautiful as ever. Your hair is done differently today, Clark wonders if you had done it for the pictures. The sunlight streaming through the sheer curtains casts a golden glow on you, brightening the smile on your face even more.

“Clark, it’s been a while,” you say politely. Your eyes are sparkling with mischief, which makes him grin, before they flick over to Jimmy. “Jimmy, right? Good seeing you again.”

“You too, thanks for having us.”

Your eyes shift back to Clark as you tilt your head warily at him. “You okay? Looks like it’s pretty hot out today. Hope you don't get heat stroke.”

His body betrays him when he proceeds to blush even harder. Jimmy muffles his laughter behind his camera and pretends to take pictures of the entrance as Clark waves off your concern. 

You lead the way through the spacious office. The layout is not a far cry from The Daily Planet with the open desks, but it certainly looks brighter and more beautiful. Less death and depression from reporting terrible things that happen, more happily-ever-after sunshine draped across the room in bright colors and pastels. You quickly introduce them to the rest of the team, all of them particularly eager to say hi to Jimmy, who just shifts away from them uncomfortably.

While Jimmy takes candid shots of the office, Clark lurks nearby and asks some of them for quotes about their experience, but his eyes are constantly wandering over to you in the distance. He has to ask a few people to repeat what they said, apologizing profusely. He sees Jimmy smirk from the corner of his eye.

“He’s so cute.” Clark’s ears perk up and he sneaks a glance at the other side of the room. You’re standing with another one of the matchmakers, whispering in the distance. The words came from your coworker but both their gazes are locked in his and Jimmy’s general direction.

“Yeah, he is,” you murmur softly, eyes meeting his before you swiftly look away. He sees you nip your bottom lip to stop a smile. He quietly does the same, but he can’t help looking at you again. He drinks you in, appreciates the way you shyly avoid his stare.

“Do you think he’s single? I didn’t think I would be into redheads but I could make an exception for him.”

You look at her puzzled. “Who are you talking about?”

“That photographer obviously! Who are you talking about?”

Your lips part in realization before you grow a little flustered, waving it off. Clark tries not to smile too hard. 

Everyone eventually crowds the open kitchen to get their fill of free office lunch. Jimmy tries to hide in a corner with his plate, which is a mistake because then at least three women are crowding around him. He sends desperate looks Clark’s way but Clark spots you walking towards him. Sorry, Jimmy.

“He’s a popular one,” you note in amusement.

Clark chuckles. “He hates the attention, but gets it anyway.”

“Maybe I should sic him on some of my tougher-to-please clients,” you smirk.

“He would absolutely hate that so yes, you should.”

Laughter spills from your lips — light, effortless, intoxicating. He’s memorized the sound by now, tucked its melody into the corners of his mind like a song he never wants to forget. It’s addictive, the kind of sound that lingers long after it’s gone.

“How’ve you been?” Clark asks.

“Good, busy.”

“No more roaches in the apartment?”

You snort. “Thank god no. Otherwise, I already know the first person I’ll be calling to exterminate it.”

“Maybe you should put that on my list of strengths.”

“Top of the list,” you smile.

Comfortable silence wraps around the two of you. It’s as if you’re in your own little bubble, just you and Clark. Everyone else fades into the background. Clark is standing so close to you, he could feel the brush of the back of your hand against his. It’s a light touch, but it still sends electricity coursing through his body.

Chemistry. Sparks. The usual clichés. He used to only consider them a fantasy, a figment of imagination for people to describe the feeling of falling in love. And he doesn’t know if he’s falling in love with you, it’s a terrifying thought, but he knows that there is something here. A chemical reaction that has his stomach fluttering and his heart racing.

With the last date on the table, he wonders — hopes — if he should take his chance. If he should take the first leap.

“You know you still owe me one more date,” Clark tries to joke, clearing his throat.

He’s hoping that you get the hint. The last date he wants — the only one he wants — is with you. He doesn’t care if the two of you end up at a fancy restaurant or doing something expensive, or if you want something more casual like cooking dinner at home. He’s a great chef. He’ll whip up your favorite foods, light some candles, play some jazz. As long as he’s with you.

A look flickers in your eyes, one that he cannot name. You move towards your desk, shuffling around some of the documents. “I do, yes. Um, I actually have a new client — the one I mentioned the other day. Let me know when you’re free.”

He hears glass breaking and he wonders if that’s the sound of his heart shattering.

Clark doesn’t think he has ever been turned down without even getting the chance to ask. The rejection is quiet. Implied. It’s worse than a blatant ‘no’. His hoping has been fruitless. If you were finally organizing his last date, it means that, not only is his time with you coming to an end, but you are also still set on connecting him with someone else. 

Someone else. Not you.

While he stews in the realization that you don’t have feelings for him the same way he does for you, you don’t even notice the silence that falls between you as you turn away.

You don’t notice how his fingers tremble, twisting together behind him as he watches you pull up notes about your client in your notebook. You’re still speaking, saying something about compatibility and interests, but all he can hear is a dull ringing, a faraway hum that muffles the noise around him except the thundering of his own heartbeat.

He swallows hard, trying to push past the tightness in his throat. He wills himself to smile, to nod, to do anything other than focus on the sting of rejection that clings onto his skin.

He should’ve known better. You told him you don’t date. He heard you and he respected your decision. But he has always been foolishly hopeful, thinking that maybe he could be the exception. That maybe he had shown you how wonderful he thinks you are and changed your mind about it. About him. About the two of you.

It’s naive, he knows. Now, watching you so easily working to match him with someone else, hope slips through his fingers like water. It hurts in a way that is unfamiliar to him. It’s not a sucker punch to the gut that he’s used to handling. It’s tiny little slices and he doesn’t realize the magnitude of his feelings until he’s sitting there, bleeding.

“Clark?”

Your soft voice cuts through the fog of his thoughts and he looks at you, worry clouding your gaze. His throat feels tight. “Sorry, yeah. You mentioned a new client.”

“Yes, are you interested?”

He isn’t. He wants to tell you that he would rather take his last date with you. However, the last thing he wants to do is drive you away or make you uncomfortable. You're only doing your job, and this is your last task. He would rather have you as a friend than nothing at all.

For this article, all he needs to do is complete one more date. One more date and then he can go back to his life before all this. Before the dates. Before falling for you. 

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

–

His third date, Wendy, is surprisingly nice. She is no less wealthy, judging by the blinding jewelry that adorns her wrists and fingers. However, unlike the first two, she seems almost… normal. It’s a little frightening. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She’s a little shy like Clark, stumbling over some of her words and accidentally biting her tongue. Clark finds it somewhat endearing. The conversation flows rather easily. She seems kind and she seems genuinely interested in him. She asks questions and listens intently to his answers, going as far as to ask relevant follow-ups.

He finds himself laughing over some of her stories. His eyes trail over her features carefully and he notes that she is pretty. He could see how people could be attracted to her. He thinks that maybe he could be attracted to her.

For a while, he doesn’t think of you. He thinks that maybe he has a chance with this woman. But then he freezes. He gets a whiff of something, perfume that reminds him of you. He watches the table next to him slurp a noodle soup and he thinks of the puddle of ramen on your floor. Someone breezes past him in blue and he remembers the night the two of you first met.

At that time, Clark never would have guessed the sizable imprint you would leave in his mind.

It’s harder to focus now when he’s thinking of you again. He’s wondering if you’re at home or if you’re still in the office. He wonders if you’re eating a proper dinner or if you opted for cheese and crackers again. He wonders if you’re curled up on your couch with your notebook, humming a tune from that one band you like.

Movement in his periphery draws his gaze outside. For a moment, he swears he sees you standing there, looking right at him. He pictures you in a nice yellow dress, the very definition of summer. He pictures you bright, wonderful, and breathtakingly beautiful.

But then he blinks and the mirage is gone.

He squeezes his eyes shut, wills you out of his mind. He has gotten to a point where he’s clearly seeing things.

“Clark? Are you okay?” Wendy asks, a frown marring her face.

Forcing a smile, he squeezes her hand across the table to ease her worries. “Yes, sorry. It was a long day at work. What were you saying?”

“We could call it a night early,” she offers with a sweet lilt to her voice. Then she blushes, shifting in her seat as she quietly suggests, “We could always pick this up on a second date?”

And Clark thinks of you again. He can be friends. To be friends, he needs to move on. With Wendy, he can see himself doing just that.

So he smiles at her. “I’d love that.”

The call from you is expected. It comes later in the day when Clark is in the break room, absently picking at the edges of his sandwich. The pieces shred and crumble under his fingertips.

“Hey, Clark.” Your voice is soft, comforting in a way that is uniquely you.

He says your name under his breath. He says it like a secret. His coworkers shuffle around him, loud and unaware. He would prefer for them not to know that he’s speaking with you, otherwise he wouldn’t hear the end of it. The last thing he wants to hear is their relentless teasing about his “crush” when you have virtually turned him down.

Clark slips into the hallway, phone still pressed to his ear and his shoulders against the wall. The surface is cool even through the fabric of his clothes. It helps ease the way his heart beats a crescendo.

“How’d the date go?” You ask.

He draws in a breath, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. “It went fine, I think. Better than the first two. She’s—” he hesitates, the right word hanging on the edges of his vocabulary before he manages out, “—nice.”

For a moment, he thinks the line went cold, but Clark hears the distant clicks of keyboards. “She’s interested in seeing you again,” you finally say, and it almost sounds like a question.

Clark thinks back to Wendy, her reddened cheeks, the way she lingered when she asked him. She was thoughtful. It was a nice gesture. “Yeah, she mentioned it last night.”

“Oh, did she?” There is surprise in your voice, unguarded for half a second. “What did you say?”

He wishes he could lie, but he doesn’t think he has the strength or will to do that, especially not with you. So he confesses. “I said yes.”

He hears it, your breath catching. The sound is soft, involuntary, like you weren’t ready for his answer. For a second, Clark ponders your reaction. Are you pleased? Worried? Disappointed?

But Wendy is nice and safe and thoughtful. She is a future that he can almost see, if he squints hard enough. She is his opportunity to move on. He thinks that maybe it is time to stop chasing something he doesn’t even quite understand.

He wants to hear it from your lips. He wants you to confirm to him that he chose correctly. “Did you think that was the right call?” He asks, barely above a whisper, as his head thuds gently back against the wall.

“Honestly?”

“Always.”

“It’s probably your best call yet, Clark.” Your voice is gentle but detached. It feels far from him, but it also doesn’t settle comfortably. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to the version of you he knows best — the one who laughs when he says something funny and sends you shy smiles when he does the same.

This version of you sounds like goodbye.

I don’t date.

Maybe you meant it. Maybe it was always going to end this way — quiet but painful in a way that throbs dully in his chest. You’ve done your job. A match made. A love created, or at least the seedlings of one.

With that, Clark has a chance. When one door opens, another closes. This one is simpler. Safer. And that should be enough.

Maybe, someday, it will be. 

–

His nerves are practically vibrating underneath his skin. Every sound feels like it triggers another jump in his pulse. The ticking of the clock, the click-clacking of typing around him, the scrape of paper flipping and shifting. He chances a glance across the room where Lois sits at her desk, chewing that pen within an inch of its life as her eyes rapidly scan across the pages. It’s not how quickly she’s reading it that is making him anxious; it’s the way her brows are furrowed in deep concentration.

Clark’s experience has mostly been in typical news. Bank robberies, superhero work, and the occasional coverage of someone’s cat in a tree (metaphorically and literally). He knows how to write the grittier type of stories, the ones that are very much a redistribution of facts. It’s easier, simpler.

This lighter and more experimental piece, exploring a topic far outside his comfort zone, has Clark on edge. The initial plan was to write a story about the reality of the matchmaking industry; if he was lucky, he could potentially turn it into a more interesting exposé.

However, as he started noting down the most interesting parts of his investigation, he found that the story is more personal. More focused on love as an experience. It examines the intricacy of human intimacy — or even lack thereof — in the modern dating world. It’s not unsurprising that his writing took a turn.

After all, the entire time he writes, he thinks of you.

But now that it is completed, the result of his blood, sweat, and tears over the last month, he isn’t sure if it’s something The Daily Planet can even publish. Who other than Lois Lane — writer extraordinaire — to give him the brutal, honest truth?

Clark has reorganized his pens five times over, ensured everything on his desk is spick and span, and perfectly aligned. He peeks at Lois again and finds that she’s on the last page. He may need a defibrillator soon.

When he hears the rustling of pages land on her desk, he fearfully turns over to her.

What he sees is… surprising to say the least.

Lois is smiling at him. Smiling. Not even in a snarky, sassy way that shames him. It’s a genuine smile, like a parent proud of their child. He can’t tell if he should be flattered or offended.

“Clark. Dear Clark,” Lois says as she moves towards him, papers in hand.

He is hesitant when he responds with a quiet, “Yes?”

“I think you’re finally a real writer.”

Pride is quick to spread across his chest, spreading a warm, tingly feeling. Clark huffs a laugh, “I feel like there is an insult hidden in there somewhere.”

“No, this is fantastic, Clark. I don’t write or read a lot of stuff like this, but it’s got a lot of heart.”

He worries his bottom lip. “Think Perry will still publish it?”

Lois smiles, “He would be an idiot not to.”

Rarely is Lois ever wrong, and this is another example of such instance. Having Perry review the piece after Lois is significantly less stressful. The man looks through it quickly, scribbling down a couple of things, and then hands the papers back to him. Without even looking up, he says, “Fix those and we print tomorrow. Send it over to Benji.”

It is always a nice boost to his self-esteem when he sees his work in print. His article is not on the front page, but it’s a decent-sized spread in the lifestyle section. While his parents don’t technically read The Daily Planet — most of it is irrelevant to them as they are in Kansas, they never fail to get a copy when he gets printed. 

“Oh, Clark, honey, the writing is lovely,” his mother starts, crooning about how proud she is of her boy. 

His father in the background also calls out, “It’s gorgeous, son. Beautiful story.”

“Did you hear that, your dad said it’s gorgeous and beautiful!”

He chuckles, leaning back on his seat and smiling up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Ma, Pa. It was a little stressful to write but I’m glad you both enjoyed it.”

“So who’s the lucky person?” His dad chirps in the background.

Clark nearly tumbles out of his seat, drawing the attention of his colleagues when he has to rattle himself back into place. Clearing his throat, he quickly sits back up and leans down to his desk. “What do you mean?”

“These are the words of a man in love, son. You know better than to sneak something like this past your parents,” his dad softly says. His dad has always been the softie of the family, the one who notices his emotions before he does. 

This time is no different.

“There is no gal, Pa,” Clark sighs. Because it’s the truth. There is Wendy but he doesn’t think what they have has any legs right now for him to be sharing with his parents. 

Not when he didn’t think of her when he completed the article. 

“Alright, you tell us when you’re ready, Clark,” his dad responds with a gentle lilt. He can imagine his parents in the living room. His mom’s phone on speaker as they lean close into it. He thinks about the worn-out fabric of the couch and the sunlight seeping through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the farmhouse. 

He thinks about what it would be like to bring you there. For his parents to cook you something real nice for dinner, something that you will teasingly say is much better than his cooking just to flatter them. 

Clark closes his eyes and swallows thickly. “Right. Okay, I have to get back to work. I’ll talk to you later.”

A few colleagues give him pats on the back when he comes in the next day, telling him he did a great job with the article. One of the mailroom girls even comes up to him, batting her eyelashes in a way that Clark has never experienced. "I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Clark.”

He understands why Jimmy is so uncomfortable with the attention now.

When he looks at his phone, he sees a few messages. Your name on that list makes his heart stop and his finger involuntarily, immediately swipes to open the message.

It’s a selfie of you with the article. A huge smile spread across your face right next to the half-page dedicated to his work. The familiarity of your features strikes his heart with a slight sting. He hasn’t seen you in a while. With the growing number of clients you are managing and Clark swept up in the chaos of Metropolis, the two of you haven’t had a chance to properly catch up.

Neither of you also have the excuse of the article to meet. 

He absentmindedly finds himself tracing his screen, like a lovesick fool. He’s lucky his team isn’t looking at him otherwise he would never live it down. 

Great work, Kent. Team is loving it :-)

He misses you. He misses you so, very much. He didn’t think that you’ve carved such a big place in his life that he would feel the gaping hole so meaningfully. Your texts have been sparse and in between. He isn’t sure if you’re avoiding him, but it wouldn’t be surprising if you were.

Disappointment sinks deep into the pit of his gut. He likes to think that the two of you have become friends. More than colleagues or acquaintances. There are moments where even those lines are blurred and he thinks that there could be something even greater there. Those are moments that have Clark’s pulse spiking, his imagination conjuring up creative thoughts that are dangerous for his heart.

But given the limited contact you’ve given him the last week, he wonders if it has always been about the work for you. You promised him three dates and you delivered. Wendy asking for a second date is a sign of success. You’ve done your job and you could wipe your hands clean of him.

Regardless of whether he wants that.

He releases a deep, desolate sigh as he thinks about his response.

Thanks! Should we grab coffee to catch up?

Awesome to hear. How are you doing? Any bugs you need me to help you with?

I miss you, can I see you?

He feels ready to fling his phone out the window with how pathetic he sounds, begging for scraps. Your clients are probably much more suave than this. As he continues to type, erase, and retype a response, someone calls his name from the front desk. “Kent, someone’s here for you!”

Perking up, he rolls around to look towards the entrance. Some silly part of him is hoping that it’s you dropping by for a surprise visit, maybe to give him kudos on his article in person. But that hope is quickly quashed when he spots Wendy walking shyly towards him, her face lighting up like Christmas lights when her eyes land on him.

He’s a real jerk.

Guilt socks him right in the stomach. What a despicable reaction to the sight of a woman who has been nothing but gracious with him. He went on his second date with Wendy a few days ago. It was fine. It’s always fine with Wendy. There is no blinding passion or mind-numbing fireworks like the ones in the movies, or even the kind of warm, steady love that he sees with his parents. But he will have affection in that quiet, subtle, comfortable way. And maybe that is enough.

He rises to his feet when Wendy approaches him. “Clark, sorry for dropping by unannounced. You weren’t responding but I was in the area,” she bashfully says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The moment he saw your text, he completely disregarded all other messages. Including Wendy’s. Another stab of guilt hits him. “No, don’t apologize. Did you need something?”

She flushes a little and smiles up at him, holding out a paper bag. “I got you lunch. I wasn’t sure if you ate already.”

He opens his mouth to tell her that he did but Lois shoots him a look that says absolutely not. So he quickly switches his response. “No, I haven’t. Thank you, this is very kind of you,” he says as he accepts the bag. “Did you eat yet?”

Clark was going to suggest eating together, but bites his tongue when he realizes he isn’t even sure if he wants that. Talking with Wendy is fine. They maintain polite conversation and small talk. He doesn’t think he has the social battery for that today.

“Yes, I was having lunch with my parents.” Clark distinctly remembers her talking about her parents. Her extremely wealthy parents. Extremely protective of their one and only daughter. “I mentioned you to them.”

He can feel his heart stammer behind his ribs. It’s not out of excitement, but fear. “Oh?” is all he manages to weakly say.

“They said they want to meet you,” Wendy carefully says. He knows it is more of a suggestion, a question. Clark tries not to squeak out so soon? But apparently he does not try hard enough because, judging by Lois smacking her forehead in his periphery, he likely said it out loud. Wendy’s reaction only confirms it when she becomes flustered, face turning a deeper shade of pink. “Not now, of course! We can give it some time. I think they’re just excited I’ve finally found someone I like.”

Remorse chips away at the shell of his heart. The right thing to say would be to tell her that he also likes her, that he is equally enthralled by her as she is by him. However, it is not the right thing to say if it is not the truth.

Before he can manage a poor attempt at a kind reply, Lois swings in to save the day. She plops down on his desk, puts on her most charming smile, and sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois. So nice to meet you.”

Wendy is momentarily alarmed by the addition to the conversation but quickly recomposes herself. She simpers sweetly at Lois. “Oh, so nice to meet you too. I’ve read a lot of your work. Clark speaks very highly of you.” Clark doesn't think he has mentioned Lois to her, and he has a feeling she has read zero of Lois' articles, but Wendy is a socialite through and through. She knows how to work people.

But Lois isn’t people. “How wonderful,” she replies kindly, and Clark knows better than to take that at face value. She has her judging goggles on, carefully evaluating Wendy. By the look on Wendy’s face, he has a feeling she is also aware when she is being analyzed.

Clark wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Awkward silence wraps around them when they all appear at a loss on what to say. This is the kind of atmosphere that Clark wants to avoid. Thankfully, Wendy chooses that moment to eliminate that tension. “I should get going. I have to meet a few friends. Shall we do dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Clark agrees, the word leaves his mouth before his brain could catch up. “Tomorrow.”

“Perfect.” She nods and looks at him. There is brief hesitation as she stares at him with earnest eyes, and then she reaches up on her toes and kisses him on the cheek. The color that unrolls across her face is fast, but Clark doesn’t get a chance to reply when she scurries out the door.

Clark releases his second extremely deep sigh of the day.

Lois looks at him, quirking a brow. “She’s nice.”

He knows there is an unsaid but there, but he chooses not to address it. He doesn’t have the energy to. “She is,” he simply affirms.

She studies him briefly, seeming to contemplate her next words. “Clark, I think you deserve a little better than nice.” He turns to her. “You should be with someone you’re actually thrilled to see. Someone who gets you excited to go on a date, not sigh like you’ve just been given a death sentence. Someone who makes your heart race.”

He knows that. Deep down, he knows that. He wants that. For a while, he thought he could have it with you, but he had been in over his head. Someone as fantastic and brilliant as you probably has suitors lining up around the block. Not to mention, you don’t date so the chance of anything happening between the two of you is close to nil.

In response to Lois, he can only nod. He instead opens his phone again to the message from you. Your face lights a small fire within him, the kind of heat that expands rapidly throughout the rest of him. He thinks of the night you spent together. Intimacy that goes beyond words, beyond predictable actions. It’s the kind of affection that science cannot predict but the chemistry is there all the same.

He knows the right thing to do by Wendy. No one should be caught in a loveless relationship for the sake of not being alone. Clark thinks that he is perhaps also Wendy’s safety net, the same way she is with him. She is kind and she deserves better. Someone who makes your heart race.

Clark isn’t perfect but he knows the one good thing he can do. 

–

Dinner with Wendy is the same as the first two times. She has selected a nicer place this time so Clark does put on a suit and tie for it. He tugs on the collar of his shirt lightly. Sometimes, he feels like he is playing dress-up with her. Trying to be — or at least act like — someone different to keep up with her. 

The nice thing about Wendy is that he has been honest with her from the start. Well, to an extent. He certainly does not mention his feelings about you. However, he does make it clear to her that his Daily Planet salary cannot support the perhaps overly affluent lifestyle that she is used to having. 

Wendy being Wendy had taken it in stride. She smiled and told him she didn’t mind that in the least. She knows what she wants — if they are doing something more casual, he covers the date, but if she picks a more upscale location, she picks up the bill. She shrugs, telling him that she doesn’t mind it as her parents fund most of her spending habits anyway. 

He likes that she says this confidently. There is no shame in her words; she was born lucky and she leverages that to her advantage. She doesn’t try to shove the way she spends on others, and instead prefers to lavish them with her luck. He has to respect her for that. 

The one thing about tonight that he does find odd is that she is particularly talkative. 

She is not chatty in a way that is meant to ask and respond like their usual conversations, but seems to be an attempt to constantly fill the silence with noise. It is the kind of dialogue that his brain struggles to focus and track. Neither of them has ever felt the need for it before, so he wonders what brought about this change. She goes on and on about her family’s foundation and their most recent giving cycle, stories shared from her friend at dinner yesterday, the fact that she’s so grateful for you and you’re finally on a date—

Clark has to do a double-take as his brain works to catch up. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

Wendy halts, equally alarmed. “About what?”

“About the date thing.”

She brightens, repeating her words to confirm that he in fact did not mishear anything.

You are on a date. You’re on a date. You’re on a date with someone. You’re not setting up a date. You yourself are on a date.

The words circle his mind like vultures, ready to prey on his bare emotions. He turns the words, reorganizes them, shifts them around to ensure he understands the situation clearly.

Wendy doesn’t seem to notice the mini crisis he is currently experiencing. Instead, she keeps going, “I’m so grateful to her, you know. I’ve met so many wonderful people, including you. I’m just so thrilled that she found someone she’s interested in.”

Clark can barely comprehend the words. He is still struggling to connect the you that is on that date with the you that had told him that you do not date. Ever. There is a chasm between these two truths that he is attempting to bridge.

The bigger question is: what changed?

What — or who — could’ve changed your mind? A smaller part of him, the one that fears the answer to this, forces him to reckon with the matter that he wasn’t enough. He isn’t enough. Not to date, not to change your mind. But someone else is.

And he has to learn to live with that. Maybe one day, he will learn to let you go for good. He will learn that there are other people out there for both you and him. He will find others that he will fall in love with, and maybe they will break his heart, or he will break theirs.

One day.

Not today.

Today, he wants to make sure he has no regrets. His feelings for you are real. Tangible. His heart has been in your hands from the day you met for dinner, and then for coffee. It has been with you since that evening in your apartment, the unshed tears in your eyes that he aches to wipe away. It has been with you through the multitude of messages you shared, the most tedious parts of both your days are interesting when he views them through rose-colored glasses. 

Even if you turn him down, he will at least have an answer to his feelings. His satisfaction will be in having had the courage to be vulnerable with you. The last thing he wants to do is regret his first go at love.

“Do you know where they are?” He breathlessly blurts out. His feet are itching to move, but he has no direction. Not yet.

Wendy’s brows knit together as she looks at him in confusion. “Um, it’s at that swanky new steakhouse a few minutes from here. Benjamin’s?”

He has a name. He has a direction. He has a path to you.

But first, he needs to get the words that have been hanging on the tip of his tongue all night out. It’s the right thing to do. “Wendy, listen.” Her expression falters ever so slightly.

She knows. Clark winces. He wishes he could’ve been more sensitive. He wishes that things could have worked out with Wendy. It would’ve been so much easier for both him and her. But, as they say, the heart wants what it wants.

“I’m so sorry. I promise I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with her and— you’re great. You’re fantastic. I’m happy we met, but you deserve someone who adores you with the same fervor you adore them. It’s not you—”

“It’s me, I get it,” Wendy smiles. It’s a little sad, it’s kind. He wonders if she gets tired of being nice. He doesn’t think he would say anything if she hit him real hard right now; he deserves it for having led her on for three dates. Time and money wasted. “I get it. I had a feeling you had someone on your mind anyway. I was hoping a little too hard, I guess. I just didn’t realize it was her.”

Clark swallows thickly, toying with the napkin in his lap. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Don’t ever apologize for love, Clark. I wouldn’t. I’m not one to stand in the way of true love.”

“Thank you,” he whispers, rising to his feet. “I’ll pay on my way out. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“You were cute while you lasted, Clark Kent,” Wendy sighs and flashes a smirk his way, rolling her eyes as she shoos him with a flick of her wrist. Clark wonders if he has misjudged her, if there is another side to her he has yet to see. “I’ve got the tab. Go get your girl.”

Clark leans down, quickly ducking to kiss her on the cheek. “You’re an angel.”

“Let me know how it goes!”

His long legs are already taking him far. He reaches the door in a blink of an eye and his feet carry him in the direction of the restaurant. It’s a place he has passed many times in the last few weeks. The name is imprinted on the back of his mind, burning it to his memory, along with the image of you with someone else.

He shakes the thought away as he weaves through the evening crowd.

—

Clark’s gaze darts through the tables, rapidly scanning each face for yours. The host says something, tries to tell him that he has to explain what he’s doing there, but he isn’t exactly listening. Not when his eyes finally land on you.

You’re sitting in the middle of the room, a man across from you with his back turned towards Clark. You’re laughing, your hand raised to respectfully cover your mouth. He thinks of the way you usually throw your head back in a genuine laugh, the sound ringing clear in his ear like the delightful tingling of bells. 

Before the host can argue, Clark makes a beeline in your direction. He doesn’t exactly think. He just does. One foot in front of the other, one step after another. He sees the moment you spot him from the corner of your eye. Your eyes widen a fraction, enough to send electricity jolting through him. There is a sharpness to your gaze that lights a fire inside his chest. You squint ever so slightly, trying your best to disregard him and focus on the man across from you.

But Clark knows better. He has your attention. He’s not about to lose it now.

When he finally reaches your table, your name escapes his lips. It comes as a desperate whisper.

“Clark, what are you doing here?” You ask, frowning as your eyes flick between him and your date in concern.

He purses his lips as he rights his crooked glasses and adjusts his tie. In his rush to get here, he feels and looks somewhat disheveled. His curls are looser than normal, falling against his forehead. His shirt slightly untucked and his tie shifted to the side. “Hi. Hi. Sorry to interrupt—”

You’re suddenly on your feet, napkin falling to the table as you speak quietly to him. “What are you doing here? Wendy mentioned she had a date with you today.” You glance at your watch. It’s still peak dinnertime.

“No, um, well, I was. I was at the date, I mean.” He takes your bewildered look as your response. “But then— listen, I’m so sorry to interrupt.” He turns to your date, feeling the guilt sink in now that the man is looking at him in utter confusion. “I’m so sorry, man. I just need to talk to this lovely lady right here. If I could borrow her for a second—”

“Get your own date, dude,” the guy spits out venomously. Confusion gone, replaced by pure irritation.

Your lips tighten into a small smile at the man. “Sorry, Evan. He’s a client. Would you give me a second? Work calls.” Then you are ushering Clark out into the street, pinning him with a combined look of uncertainty and mild exasperation. He tries not to smile at the fact that you can’t even be really upset with him. “Okay, Clark. What’s up? I’m a little lost here.”

“Wendy told me you were on a date,” he says. With a hand on your hip, you cock to the side as if to question so? “You told me you don’t date.” A raise of your eyebrow. He feels the shame and panic settling in, so he has to get his words out fast. “So why are you on one now?”

You blink at him, clearly caught off guard by his question. “Uh, I’m— I don’t know. I mean, he’s a potential client.”

“Do you date all of your clients?”

“No! Of course not!” You scoff.

“Or was I the only one you never considered?”

Your head jerks back, the puzzled look returning. “Clark, what? Why would you ask me that? What kind of question is that?”

He drags his fingers through his mop of hair. He looks up to the sky, throat moving as he tries to swallow the dryness in his throat. “Is it because I don’t make as much money as your clients? I know I can’t always take you to the nicest places, but I could. Sometimes. I’ll try. I have enough saved up.”

“Clark, hold on—”

“Or do you not think I’m attractive enough? You mentioned in the beginning that you thought I was good looking. I can clean up, you know that. You’ve seen it. Am I just not your type? Because if that’s the case, tell me what it is—”

“Clark, you’re perfect,” you interrupt him, hands latching onto his biceps to stop his rambling. You look a little winded too, breaths heavy in your chest as you look up at him. Your eyes are blown wide as you look directly into his crystal blue eyes. “Christ, you’re perfect, okay, I’m— I’m just not sure where all of this is coming from.”

Clark pinches his lips together, almost pouting in a sulk. “You told me you didn’t date, but here you are,” he repeats.

For a brief moment in time, the two of you are at a standstill. The only noises around you are the rush of cars and the pattering of shoes against the pavement. You avoid his eyes, preferring to focus on the flashing red lights. Clark takes a breath and you do the same.

“It’s what you wrote in your article,” you say quietly, shifting your heels on the pavement and tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Clark’s fingers crave to do the same. “That love is not something unattainable, but something everyone deserves.” Of course, he remembers that line. It’s one of his favorites from the piece. You wet your lips, arms wrapping around yourself protectively. “It made me think. I wanted to try it again, to see if I deserve love too.”

Clark’s lips form a circle as he lets out a little oh.

“And honestly, I thought you were really happy with Wendy,” you clear your throat. “She spoke very highly of you, and you’re on your third date. So I thought my job was done. I thought it’s what you wanted. That she is what you wanted.”

“She’s… fine,” Clark mutters dumbly. He can’t seem to find the right words to say now. His giant vocabulary sits at the bottom of his feet along with his brain.

“You wrote about walking through those doors and meeting her and feeling love, which — don’t get me wrong — I’m so happy for you. I was so thrilled that it was a successful match. It’s my job after all to bring you someone you could one day love. I just—” you take in a sharp breath, “—I didn’t realize how much I would care. About you. About you with her.”

His lips twitch as he ducks his head in part embarrassment, and something akin to hope soaring in his chest. He can feel his giddiness radiate off him in waves. It does not go unnoticed by you. 

The expression seems to irritate you, which is fair. It’s not the most appropriate reaction to your words. “Why are you smiling?”

A laugh slips past his lips this time. “That wasn’t about Wendy.” You tilt your head with a frown. “It was about you. It was about the first time we really talked. When I was pitching you the article. The narrative is obviously a little dramatized but the point still stands.”

“What?”

“I was talking about you,” he admits with a grin, taking a step closer towards you. He can see your pupils dilate, your heart rate picking up, your breath hitching. “I feel… alive when I’m with you. You make me feel like someone different, someone better. Desirable. Valuable. Someone who deserves you.”

He can hear your heart skip a beat, the nervous energy pulsing through your veins. “You are all those things on your own already,” you murmur, stepping towards him to close the distance. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I think you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’re not awful. You’re so incredibly wonderful and I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with you.”

Your gaze falters, your face twisting slightly. “Clark, I don’t know if I can…”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust myself with you. The thought of inevitably hurting you, or pushing you away. Or maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize that I’m really not all that. I don’t know if I could do that.”

Clark senses you drifting away, your body angling further away from him, so he quickly takes your hand and leans down. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dating is a marathon, not a sprint, right? We’ll learn to jump and tackle the highest hurdles, the worst parts of ourselves. I’m not perfect, but I want to be the best version of myself for you. I want to be better for you.”

A giggle bubbles up your throat. Light. Genuine. Music to his ears. “You’re more than great already, you know that, right?”

“Well, the only way I would know that is because of you. Because I can see myself through your eyes. You see the best version of me even when I can’t.”

Another laugh. Clark thinks he could pass out happy right here, right now. You grin at him, “Christ, I can’t believe you just deliver those lines like nothing. Did you rehearse this speech or did you pull that out of thin air? You’re straight out of a novel.”

Clark doesn’t waste a second. His arm slides around you as he pulls you against him. Chest to chest, heart to heart. He closes the distance between you and captures your lips with his. He tastes the sweetness of your gloss, smells the slight spice in your perfume, and feels the warmth of your skin.

He tastes the memories you’ve shared, and the memories you’ll create together. He tastes the smiles, the laughter, the tears, the ache, and everything in between. He tastes love because it’s you.

In this journey, this marathon, Clark knows that — when he eventually gets down on one knee, he still wouldn’t have reached the finish line.

Because it’s only the beginning with you.

—

There are people who make you believe in love — that it’s not something unattainable, but something everyone deserves.

This kind of love is something this writer has considered but did not think he could experience until he walked through those doors and met her.

Sometimes, it doesn’t take much. Only a leap of faith, and this writer has taken the first step. Will you?

Tag List: @sflame15-blog @kissmxcheek @ticklish-leafy-plant @qardasngan @fox-saturn @the-fairy-anon @sofia-1d @itmekelpy @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @nuhveah

[yiiiikesmish]

crying. cardboard clark is a true hero

The Replacement

Clark kent x reader

In which your boyfriend has to leave for work and leaves you alone for three whole days

Clark had only been gone for twelve hours, but you were already staring at your phone like a Victorian widow gazing out to sea.

He was on assignment — something about following a political trail three states over — and wouldn’t be back for three days. Three days of sleeping alone, eating dinner alone, and not having anyone to dramatically interrupt while they buttered toast.

You sprawled on the couch with a sigh so theatrical it deserved an audience.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself. “Normal people don’t crumble after half a day.”

Still, your eyes kept drifting to the empty armchair where Clark usually sat reading in the evenings. It was tragic. Pathetic, even. And you decided you weren’t going to sit around moping.

No. You were going to fix this.

Which is how you ended up spending two hours on a deeply questionable arts-and-crafts project.

By the time you was finished, your living room contained a life-sized cardboard Clark Kent, painstakingly printed from a high-res photo you found online. You’d even propped him up with a broom handle so he wouldn’t collapse. His glasses were real — an old spare pair Clark had left behind — and his expression was the perfect blend of professional seriousness and mild confusion.

He was… perfect. And also a little unsettling if you caught him in your peripheral vision.

You sat on the couch, sipping tea, staring at your creation. “Well, Clark 2.0, I think you and I are going to get along just fine.”

That’s when inspiration struck.

You grabbed your phone and composed a text to the real Clark:

Got a new boyfriend. He doesn’t drop me for work. We’re done.

You attached a photo of your cardboard masterpiece — careful to crop it so the edges weren’t visible — and sent it as a file rather than just an image. That way, he’d have to click it to see.

Then you sat back and waited.

~~~~~~~

Meanwhile, Three States Away

~~~~~~~

Clark was sitting in a motel room typing up notes when his phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the screen. The message preview alone nearly made his heart stop.

Got a new boyfriend. He doesn’t drop me for work. We’re done.

His pulse spiked. The world blurred at the edges for a second. Then he saw there was an attachment.

Oh no…

He tapped it.

The image loaded.

And there you were, smiling like the cat that caught the canary, tucked under the arm of… himself. A perfectly upright, slightly pixelated, suspiciously two-dimensional version of himself.

Clark blinked. Twice. Then the corners of his mouth began to pull upward despite his best efforts.

~~~~~~

Your Apartment — Three Seconds Later

~~~~~~

Your phone buzzed.

…Is that a broom holding me up?

You grinned, typing back: Don’t talk about my boyfriend like that.

Another buzz.

You are impossible.

He listens to me, Clark. He doesn’t run off chasing interviews.

He can’t move.

Small details.

By the time you were done, you were laughing so hard you had to set the phone down. Clark sent one last message:

Just wait until I get home. We’ll see who’s replaceable.

You smiled, glancing over at Cardboard Clark standing proud in the corner. “Don’t listen to him,” you whispered conspiratorially. “You’re doing great.”

Three days later, you were curled up on the couch, binging old sitcoms with Cardboard Clark standing faithfully by the bookshelf.

He’d become a fixture in your apartment — a silent, watchful presence. You’d even caught yourself chatting to him once or twice when the loneliness got too much.

So when you heard the sound of keys in the lock, you instinctively looked toward Cardboard Clark.

“Well,” you whispered, “this is awkward.”

The door swung open, and the real Clark stepped inside, dropping his overnight bag by the door. He looked tired from travel, hair slightly mussed, but still frustratingly handsome.

His eyes swept the room. Landed on you. Then shifted.

And there it was — that slow, incredulous double take.

“…You kept him?” Clark asked, voice hovering somewhere between disbelief and laughter.

You folded your arms. “Of course I kept him. He’s been here for me, Clark.”

Clark closed the door behind him, his gaze returning to his cardboard twin. “You do realize he’s literally a piece of cardboard, right?”

“He’s more than that,” you said defensively. “He’s supportive. Reliable. And he doesn’t run off chasing articles in other states.”

Real Clark took a slow step toward Cardboard Clark, expression shifting into mock seriousness. “So this is the guy?”

You nodded gravely. “This is the guy.”

Clark planted himself in front of his doppelgänger, crossing his arms. “Listen, pal. I appreciate you holding down the fort while I was gone, but I’m back now. You’ve had your fun. Time to pack it up.”

Cardboard Clark said nothing.

Real Clark tilted his head. “Not talking to me? That’s fine. But she’s mine.”

You were biting your lip so hard to keep from laughing you thought you might burst.

Clark finally turned toward you, narrowing his eyes playfully. “You’re laughing now, but when I toss this guy in the recycling, you’re going to miss him.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasped.

“Oh, I would,” he said, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. “Unless you can convince me otherwise.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Convince you how?”

His smile was slow and knowing. “Surprise me.”

It took less than three seconds for you to fling your arms around his neck and kiss him like he’d been gone for a month instead of three days. Clark kissed you back with equal enthusiasm, his hands sliding to your waist.

When you finally broke apart, you were both a little breathless.

Clark glanced toward his cardboard rival one last time. “He can stay. For now.”

You smirked. “Good. He was starting to grow on me.”

Clark groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you said sweetly. “But admit it — you missed me.”

His answer was another kiss. And this time, you were pretty sure Cardboard Clark was looking the other way heartbroken.

°♡°♡°♡°♡°

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon when Jimmy Olsen swung by your apartment to pick Clark up for a quick lunch.

You were out running errands, leaving the two of them free to hang out without you interrupting every ten minutes with “just one more kiss.”

Clark was just grabbing his coat when Jimmy froze mid-step in the living room.

“Uh…” he said slowly. “Clark?”

Clark turned. “Yeah?”

Jimmy pointed. “Why… is there… you in your apartment?”

Clark followed his gaze to the bookshelf, where Cardboard Clark stood in all his pixelated glory, wearing his spare glasses and looking just slightly off-kilter.

“Oh. That,” Clark said with the resigned tone of a man who had accepted his life was absurd. “That’s… my competition.”

Jimmy blinked. “Your what?”

“She made it while I was out of town,” Clark explained, pulling on his coat like this was perfectly normal. “Apparently he’s more reliable than me.”

Jimmy walked over cautiously, inspecting the cutout. “Man, this is… weird. And kind of flattering. But mostly weird.”

“Tell me about it,” Clark muttered.

Jimmy grinned. “I’m taking a picture. Lois is never going to believe this.”

Clark groaned. “Please don’t—”

Click.

Too late.

Jimmy looked at the photo, chuckling to himself. “You know, I can’t decide if this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen or the creepiest. Probably both.”

Clark sighed, grabbing his keys. “Let’s just go to lunch before you start asking him for quotes.”

As they stepped out into the hallway, Jimmy glanced back one last time at Cardboard Clark.

°♡°♡°♡°♡°♡°

Jimmy was practically vibrating with excitement when he walked into the bullpen at the Daily Planet.

“Lois, you are not going to believe this.”

She didn’t even look up from her computer. “Jimmy, if this is another blurry photo of a guy you swear is Bigfoot—”

“No, no, no,” he interrupted, waving his phone like it was the Rosetta Stone. “This is way better.”

Finally, she glanced up, eyes narrowing. “Better than Bigfoot?”

Jimmy grinned and tapped the screen. “Behold: Clark Kent… and Clark Kent.”

Lois took the phone, squinting at the image. Her face went still for exactly three seconds before she burst into loud, unrestrained laughter.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. She made a cardboard cutout of him?”

“Life-sized,” Jimmy confirmed. “With glasses. And it’s wearing his spare pair.”

Lois covered her mouth, shaking her head. “I knew she was funny, but this is next-level commitment. How long was he gone?”

“Three days.”

Lois slapped the desk, laughing harder. “Three days?! And she replaced him with this? Oh, I love her. I officially love her.”

Clark walked in just in time to hear that. “I’m right here, you know.”

Lois turned the phone so he could see the picture. “Kent, if you ever break up with her, I’m taking her side. She has taste, talent, and apparently a much better sense of humor than you.”

Clark sighed. “You’re all enjoying this way too much.”

Jimmy smirked. “Hey, man, at least you know she missed you.”

Lois handed Jimmy back the phone, still chuckling. “No, Olsen, this wasn’t about missing him. This was about trolling him. And she nailed it.”

Clark muttered something about “conspiracies” and “getting rid of the cutout,” but Lois just called after him:

“Don’t you dare! That thing is a national treasure!”

----

@animegamerfox @sapphichotmess

[yiiiikesmish]

STZIGSITDKVCIRAUESOHCPHF I LOVED THIS. The smut and their conversation after were perfect. i love them so much 😭😭 also random but ty for reminding me yo do my wordle today lol. almost forgot and killed my streak (which would've been disastrous). I would love to be added to your tag list if that's ok.

the edge of tenderness

golden retriever bf!Clark Kent x black cat gf!reader

chapter 2 to "sharp edges and warm hands" (can be read as standalone)

word count (chapter two): 8k of virtually just pure smut  Pairing: golden retriever bf!Clark Kent x black cat gf!reader (Superman 2025) synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can’t help but wonder if he’s keeping secrets from you. rating (chapter one): E (Explicit) ***18+ only. Minors DNI or you will be blocked. This is basically just pure filth lol content (chapter two): sunshine x grumpy trope, coworkers, next door neighbors, slow burn, smut, oral sex (female receiving and male receiving), cursing, unprotected sex, mildly dom!Clark, mild degradation, mild humiliation author’s note: This is chapter 2 to my series "soft edges and warm hands" but either can be read as standalones! I hope you like it ❤︎ If you do and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i’ll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!)) Previous chapter(s): chapter one ("sharp edges and warm hands")

✧⋆.˚⟡ ˖ chapter two: the edge of tenderness ˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

Clark presses you up against the elevator wall, his lips locked on yours, consuming your every breath.

His hands scoop up your back and pull you into him like he’s trying to eliminate every inch of space between you and him. You comply, wrapping your legs around his back, letting him suspend you off the ground between his body and the elevator wall. Then he kisses your neck, hard, leaving you gasping for breath and desperate for more. 

“Clark,” you breathe. He growls in response, low and heedless. “The button. Press the button.”

“The button? Is that what they call it these days?” Clark smirks against your neck. 

“No, the floor button for the elevator, you dork,” you laugh. 

He slaps the button for the third floor and goes back to you, his mouth on yours, his hands raking down your sides, following your curves. Touching nowhere else. You wish he would touch more of you, know by the feral look in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to move things along faster. But you also know he’s a man of restraint. He’s been perfectly gentlemanly with you for the past few weeks, taking things slow. Even if sometimes, you know he’d wanted nothing more than to put his hands all over you and take you how he wanted. But he’d been perfectly content taking things slow as you and he continued getting to know each other.

Dating Clark Kent is like basking in a sunbeam. He’s steady, warm, inviting, exciting. He softens all your edges without asking you to dull them. When you’re near him, it feels good, like you’re some kind of sun-starved plant stretching toward him, yearning to be near him. 

And Clark knows when you’ve had too much of that sun. He knows when you need to retreat, to be alone, to recharge in solitude. And he’s perfectly okay with it.

These past few weeks, he’s planned dates to match his energy and your energy alike. The first date after that day on the roof under the moon is a cute little picnic under the sun at Centennial Park the following Saturday, where he brought your favorite snacks and a new book he’d bought at the bookstore he thought you’d like. It’s a perfect sunny fall day, one of those days where the air is crisp but the sun warms your skin. The afternoon is spent alternating between listening to Clark tell stories, reading a book in perfect quietness, and kissing—lots and lots of kissing, as the autumn leaves fall all around you.

Going anywhere with him is exhilarating. You go together to a Meteors football game. To the grand opening of a new restaurant in Chinatown. To the Metropolis Museum of Art, where a couple of your colleagues are reporting on a community event there. As he waves at Lois and Jimmy from the crowd, he holds your hand unabashedly. And then he lets you peruse the exhibits in the museum for a solid two hours. It’s perfect.

And he lets you plan things that are more your speed, too. Like trying out a new recipe to try for dinner at home. (He just laughs when you poke fun at him for burning the chicken and setting off the smoke detectors.)

Or, in one instance, going to the movies on the opening weekend of a new horror movie you’d been anticipating. (He hides underneath your hoodie the whole time and complains about the plot being too dark.)

Or dragging him out on a Friday night to meet up with some friends to go clubbing. (He’s actually a great dancer.) Like tonight.

Tonight, though, you’re done with slow. It’ll just be a matter of convincing him to be on the same page as you about it.

And you want this, want him, more than anything.

…So why is there a pit of nervousness at the bottom of your stomach?

The elevator door opens. “Yours or mine?” Clark breathes, setting you back on the floor. 

“Yours.” Your knees are wobbly as you follow him out the elevator and into his apartment. 

You like his apartment. Your style is a bit quirkier, messier, but he keeps things pretty neat, orderly, simple, still lived in. The blinds to his huge windows are up, a looking glass into the glimmering city lights outside. But you pay that no heed as he shuts the door and attacks you again, pressing you up against the door. He embraces you against him like his life depends on it, and you have to pull away to breathe, laughing. 

“I’m so into you,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the hollow of your throat. You run your fingers through his dark hair, reveling in the softness of his curls. 

“Eager to please, are you, Kent?”

He hoists you up, letting you wrap your legs around his waist again, and gazes at you through his lashes. “Do you want to be pleased?”

Your stomach twists and tingles. That nervous feeling intensifies. Why am I so nervous? “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know how I taste.”

It’s a bold statement, and you’re expecting him to react by laughing and shoving you playfully or something. That’s how one of you have always reacted anytime the other says something suggestive.

But that’s not how he reacts. His handsome, flushed face grows serious. A shadow darkens his eyes, something more intense, more primal than you’d ever seen before.

“I’ve imagined it.” His arms around your ass squeeze you tighter to him. “You have no idea how many nights I’ve imagined it.”

You swallow, unable to control the shiver that comes this time. He notices, and caresses one warm hand across your short skirt, down to the bare skin of your thigh where your skirt is riding up your leg. He presses a kiss to your earlobe and says, “But I’d rather learn it for real.”

He wraps you fully around his torso and carries you to his bedroom like you weigh nothing. Your skin is like a live wire, and everywhere he touches you feels like the best kind of shock.

He places you gently on the edge of the bed. You wish he’d thrown you on it, treated you rougher. So you take the reins and pull him by the collar of his shirt to the bed, too, pushing him onto the mattress and straddling him.

His frame is so big pinned under you, all six-foot-four of him. He feels large, solid, eager beneath you, against you. His ocean eyes grow stormy, the pupils blown out, at the sight of you looming above him. You can only imagine what you look like: your hair mussed, your skirt hiking up your thighs, a crooked smile on your face. As though he can’t resist the latter, he pushes himself up so he’s sitting upright and hugs you against him. He kisses you, hard, and you’re kissing him back, like it’s the only language you both speak.

He’s prying your swollen lips apart with his own, his tongue seeking yours. You see stars. Every feeling is so intense. Desire, excitement, energy, so much more.

You pull back from him, just enough to breathe, your forehead pressed to the frame of his glasses. Both of you are panting, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, drunk on each other as much as whatever you’d been drinking earlier.

Clark studies you while he caresses your arms. “Are you okay?” he whispers. When you quickly nod, he says, “You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold, I think,” you say, glancing away.

“I can get you a blanket,” he offers. 

“No, no,” you say, shaking your head. He’s too goddamn sweet. You’re not even cold—you’re hot, feverish with lust. “Shit. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“We don’t have to do—“

“I want to, Clark,” you insist. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your hips deeper into his. The faster you get to the real action, the sooner you can ignore the nervous energy in your stomach.

He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, a sound of agreement and need. He presses his hands into you with his fingers splayed wide, as if he’s trying to hold as much of you as he can in his palms. Your back, your arms, your shoulders, your face. You want him touching more, need him. 

So you disentangle your arms from around his neck and grab for his hands. Guide them under your top, to your breasts. His mouth falls open wider as he traces the edge of your bra. Can he feel how taught your nipples already are beneath the fabric?

You take off your top. Start to take off the bra. Clark’s hands encircle your wrists, halting your efforts. “Slow down,” he purrs.

“I don’t want to slow down.”

“Let me take my time with you.”

Before you realize it, he grabs you by the waist and flips you onto your back. Now he’s the one pinning you down. He grins wickedly and kisses you senseless before moving his mouth to your neck. Slowly, excruciatingly, he kisses and licks his way down to your bra. You sigh, defeated, and let it play out as you grow wetter and wetter at his touch. At the feeling of his open-mouthed kiss to one of your nipples over the bra, you let out a frustrated, needy growl.

“Clark, please.”

“I want you to tell me what you’re thinking about,” he says, and then traces his tongue along the skin under your bra wire. Your heart thuds.

“You want me to tell you what I’m thinking about?” you repeat, your tone half-mocking.

He gives you an exasperated look, but he brings his hands along your bra strap to the hooks, pausing there. Waiting.

You gulp and speak again. “I’m thinking it’s been a while since I’ve… you know.”

“Is that why you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

He gives you a level look like he knows better. “For the record, it’s been a while for me, too.”

That surprised you. And yet, it didn’t surprise you at all. For one, he was a 6’4, sexy, respectful, kind, successful hunk of a man with a chiseled body and a perfect ass. On the other hand, he was a big, clueless fucking dork. 

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” he was saying.

The only thing you’re uncomfortable with right now is how wet your underwear are. “I want you, Clark. You. Now if you don’t hurry up and keep kissing me, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

He laughs, the sound husky, and continues to kiss your skin obediently. “If you say so,” he says against your skin. “But the second you tell me to stop, I stop. No questions, no pressure. Got it, babe?”

You nod. His reassurances help somewhat with the nervousness. You sigh and settle back and let his mouth work its magic on you.

At last, he unhooks your bra, slowly peeling the fabric from your body. He gapes at you as though the sight of your topless body is something holy. And then his mouth is latched on one of your nipples. You don’t see his tongue moving viciously, but you can feel it. You can’t repress the moan, the arch of your back, the clench of your thighs, the curl of your toes.

You grasp his shoulders desperately. Fuck, he has broad shoulders. You’re desperate to see more of them, more of him. He’s wearing a casual button-down flannel with a white tee underneath. So you peel off the flannel, and he lets you. And then the tee shirt. What’s revealed is a wide, smooth chest, bulging arm muscles, perfect nipples. Jesus fuck.

You tug up at his jaw, needing to kiss him while you feel his chest pressed bare against yours. He feels so warm. He smiles into your mouth, probably at the feel of your erect nipples against his chest.

As he bites into your bottom lip, he squeezes your thigh, hard. It’s like an electric jolt of pleasure. A throaty sound comes from your mouth, lost in the kiss. 

“You’re mine,” he purrs in your ear, squeezing your thigh again, this time the inner part. “All fucking mine.”

His roughness surprises you, it nearly steals your breath. As does the dirty talk. Was this really the same dork who says “golly” and “what the hey”? It’s like you’ve unleashed some different beast in him tonight. What’s more, this is further than you and Clark have ever gone before with each other. The rest of the night is all one big, exciting question mark. Is Clark—this big, silly, sweet man—turning out to be secretly the dominant, possessive type in bed?

You hope so. Fuck, that’s hot. And unexpected. 

And then as if to contradict the roughness, he plants a series of sweet kisses down your chest, down your navel, and says, “You’re so pretty, baby. So pretty.” His kisses trail the top hem of your skirt. “I wanna kiss you everywhere.”

You want to thank him, or challenge him, or say something provocative back. But he squeezes your thighs again, nearly at the apex. So all you can manage is his name, breathy and soft.

Before you know it, he’s crawled down to the end of the bed and started kissing up one of your legs, up, up, up until he reaches the inner hem of your underwear. His hot breath, his mussed-up curls of dark hair, his wet tongue exploring. It’s ticklish in a way that wants you to draw him in and let him consume you.

An open-mouthed kiss at the place where your nerves all meet, separated only by thin fabric. It jolts you. Then another open-mouthed kiss to the source of the wet spot on your underwear. It’s humiliating how wet you are.

He notices. Peers up at you through his glasses. “Did I do this to you?” he murmurs against your underwear.

You try to deny it, shake your head, try to push him away as your cheeks flush with heat. He pries your legs open wider, inescapably vulnerable to him. A shudder runs from your nipples down to your toes.

Clark’s eyes are locked on your pelvis, entranced. He hooks his fingers around your underwear, peeling it off, and lets out a groan at the sight of what’s underneath. The sound might have been disconcerting if his next words weren’t, “Look at how perfect you are. Your pussy’s so pretty, baby. Just like you.”

“You’re making me self-conscious,” you scold him, half serious.

He cocks his head. Presses your thighs open even wider for him. “I like you a little self-conscious. It turns me on.”

“Clark…”

He grins. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable, really. Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “Don’t stop. Don’t change…anything.”

He grins and traces a finger around your labia, studying your reaction the whole time. “Look at how wet I made you.” Your eyelids flutter as he thumbs your entrance. “Does it turn you on to feel so exposed?”

“Yes,” you admit. You don’t think anyone’s ever spent this much time up-and-close with your unclothed lower body. It’s equally as disconcerting as it is sexy.

“I knew it,” he revels.

It clicks for you then, too, that you and he have discovered a shared… interest. Even though it was your first time sleeping together. And honestly, you’re speechless about it. Because who would have thought your shy, dorky, golden retriever boyfriend would turn out to be so into humiliating you in bed?

And who would have thought you’d be so into it, too?

You don’t have much time to think more of it. Because his mouth replaces his finger.

Holy fuck.

It catches you off-guard. You’ve rarely let anyone else do this to you, terrified of the vulnerability that comes with this level of intimacy. And yet, you don’t stop him. Can’t bring yourself to stop him.

He kisses you at the source of your wetness, his tongue lapping across you. You inhale sharply, shallowly, try to repress the urge to make any kind of sound as you exhale. The second time he licks you, you can’t stop the needy moan from escaping.

“You taste so good,” he tells you. “Like you were made for me.”

You roll your eyes and say, “If you say one more sappy line, I’m going to smother you with this pillow—”

You don’t get to finish, because his tongue brushstrokes upwards, to the point you need him the most.

You cry out, your back arching. You’re so sensitive where he’s licking you. Your hands fly instinctually to his head. To push him away, to urge him closer, you don’t know. But tangling your fingers in his curls make it all the more real what he’s doing to you.

Ticklish warmth radiates from his tongue. God, you haven’t felt this good in forever. Maybe not ever.

Clark’s tongue manipulates you deftly, meticulously, relentlessly. He learns what you like so quickly, without you even saying a word, that you wonder if he can read your mind. Your body moves disconnected from your thoughts, bucking up to meet his warm mouth. You hold his scalp, tug at his curls, rake your fingers down his arms, because god, what else are you supposed to do? You can barely control your own actions.

He peers up at you, glasses fogged up, tongue darting out to pleasure you. You flush with heat and cover your face with your hands. He chuckles and doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up.

“Clark, please, I… need you…”

“Tell me what you need, baby.”

“...Your finger.”

You surprise even yourself with your frankness. But the words seem to please him immensely. He obliges you, kissing your clit with small, slow licks, and touching you below with a single large digit. Slowly presses it inside you.

Oh my god. Even just that one finger is a stretch, and you grab a pillow to hide your moan.

He doesn’t let up. His stamina seems inexhaustible. How could you survive this if he doesn’t at least give you a break, let you breathe?

You tug at his hair and cry, “Clark, baby—”

“Mmm?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

He considers this, then cocks an eyebrow at you and croons, “You think I’m finished with you here, sunshine?”

His voice is low, coaxing. The kind of voice that says dangerous things in safe ways. He continues to move his finger, curling it inside you toward your belly button, sending delicious waves of pleasure across your lower body.

“Because I’m not. I’m not gonna stop until you’re a quivering mess for me.”

And just like that, your sweet moment of reprieve from his tongue is taken away from you. He resumes at a wicked pace, his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking gently with the most obscene noises, his tongue swipes rapidly over the bud over and over. You fall back onto the mattress, completely at his mercy. While his finger moves inside you, his other hand wraps around your hips, locking you into place, pinning you down and open for him so you can’t move an inch.

   The knot, the knot in your stomach—it’s unraveling. You want to warn, but your words are gone. All you do is moan and moan, your voice growing higher and breathier and more strained by the second. Suddenly frantic, you thrash—away, toward him, you don’t know, but it’s too much, not enough, all at once—

“Clark—I’m—oh, Clark, please—”

You come undone beneath him. Your body tenses and jolts in rhythmic swells around his finger and under his mouth. Beads of moisture from his mouth and your body dribble in rivulets up your legs into the sheets. The same sheets you’re gripping in a death vice, hanging on for dear life as he consumes you to the edge of reality. 

You come back to consciousness at the ticklish feeling of Clark’s fingertips caressing your stomach. He isn’t saying anything, just watching you hazily, his glistening mouth ajar and smirking at the work he’d done.

You stare back at him, composing yourself just enough to scowl and say, “Don’t look at me like that, Kent.”

“All that attitude, and yet you were just moaning my name. Interesting.”

Your cheeks heat. You snort, turning your head away, squeezing your thighs. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he says, kissing your stomach. “Now I know exactly how it sounds when you’re cumming for me.”

You urge him up to your face, where he kisses your jaw, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. Presses his forehead to yours and smoothes back the sweaty baby hairs from your temples with his hands. 

Then whispers in your ear. 

“You are the most beautiful woman on this planet.”

You snort, jerking your head away. “Oh, right, but those Martian women…”

Clark grins and says, “They got nothing on you.”

“I thought I told you no more sappy lines.”

“I don’t care.” He holds your jaw. “You’re perfect for me. I love eating your pussy more than anything. I can’t believe I get to call you mine.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” you breathe. 

“Did what?”

“Made me cum like that. That doesn’t—that’s never happened like that before for me.”

He gapes at you. “No one’s ever made you cum with their mouth before?” When you shake your head, a huge, arrogant grin overtakes his face. “But I did.”

“All this boasting is going to make your head even bigger than it already is,” you warn him.

He grins and then kisses your nose. Then he meets your gaze and his eyes darken. “I can show you just how big.”

Just like that, the suggestion elicits a whole new swell of desire within you. You pull him closer, kiss him deeply, revel in the way you can taste yourself on his tongue. He pulls back, thumbs your lip, shares your panting breaths.

“Don’t make me wait any longer,” you breathe.

He laughs, exuberant, and pushes himself onto his knees to continue undressing. As soon as he gets the pants off, you tackle him. Tug him down to the mattress so he’s lying on his back. He’s stronger than you, you know, so you can’t exactly force him to lay down. But he knows what you want and obliges you, giving you that toothy smile.

You straddle him. Studying his body beneath you makes you want to worship it. He’s just in his boxers, now, and the sight of him makes you feel even wetter than you already were. Clumsy with excitement, you paw at his boxers, pulling them down as quickly as you can, letting him spring out. 

Holy god. He’s… wow. You don’t know what you were expecting. You mean, of course, a man built like him was expected to be well-endowed. But he’s absolutely hung. Fully erect. Veins protruding beneath velvet skin. Already swollen and red and weeping for you.

Are you salivating? Maybe. That’s goddamn embarrassing.

You’re about to lean down to take care of him with your own mouth when two strong hands stop you in your tracks, bracing your shoulders.

“Later,” Clark insists, his voice strained.

You give him a confused, exasperated look. “Now,” you insist.

“I won’t last,” he says.

“Then we’ll go for round two,” you say eagerly, trying again to meet him with your lips, but to no avail. His arms are made of steel.

“No, I want the first time I’m inside you to be inside your pussy,” he compromises, “and the second time you can do that, if you want.” When you scowl disapprovingly at his plan, he adds, “Please. All I’ve dreamed about for weeks—for months—is what it’d feel like to be inside you, sunshine. Please?”

You smirk, disbelieving. “Is Clark Kent… begging? Begging for my pussy?”

He looks so strung out with need and desire that he doesn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed. “I need you, Y/N, I need you so bad it’s not even funny.”

Oh, the power you hold in this moment. You decide to play your hand. You run a hand along the ridges of his abs, down to the V-shaped muscles above his pelvis. “I’ll give you what you need, baby,” you croon, “if you let me taste you first. Just a taste.”

And of course he lets you, because how can he resist that?

You press a closed-mouth kiss to the tip of his head, the apex of his desire, where a new bead of pleasure seeps out. He makes a choked sound, his thighs clenching. You widen your mouth and let your lips envelop him more fully. He’s all hardness and softness in your mouth, warmth and wetness, need and salt. He’s more luscious than you could have ever imagined. You can feel your own wetness run down your legs as you crouch over him. Just the thought of how turned on he clearly is makes your insides twirl.

But just as you start to take more of him into your mouth, he pulls you up by the jaw. Your lips come off him with a pop and a string of saliva.

“Come here,” he growls. And somehow maneuvers you onto your back again. Whatever you’d done to him with your mouth in those few moments has changed his energy completely. He’s now moving fast, his hands demanding, his blue eyes feral and piercing. 

“Don’t move,” he instructs. You obey. He leans across you to his bedside table, where he removes a gold-wrapped condom.

He’s about to open it when you say, “I’m on birth control. And I’ve been tested recently, if you…?”

“Oh. I’m… yeah, I’m good, too. Medically.”

Weird that he says it like that, but ok. “Do you want to wear one…?”

“I’m good without it. Unless you prefer I do?”

“I prefer you don’t,” you tell him bluntly. You want to feel all of him, unabridged, all skin. And you trust him.

He smiles, the overeager dork he is. Discards of the package by tossing it across the room. You giggle, but your smile is quickly swiped away the moment he positions himself between your legs. Begins to press into you.

Oh fuck. He’s big. You’ve come to this realization earlier. But it’s a different story now that you’re faced with the notion of somehow stretching to accommodate his size.

Clark seems to also recognize this, at the first point of resistance. He pauses and allows his upper body to dip forward, grabbing for your hands, holding them in his on either side of your head against the mattress. His hot breath in your ear, he presses into you just a millimeter more.

You whine. Holy shit. How is this going to work? Even just his one finger had felt snug.

“You’re so tight,” he says in a grunt. 

“You think I don’t know that?” you snap back, without malice. 

“You’re tense.”

“No, I’m not,” you argue, just for the sake of arguing at this point. Because goddamn it, you’re frustrated, and you fucking need him.

“Look at me,” he commands, pulling back just enough so his eyes, endlessly intense, are level with your own. “Relax your muscles. You can take me, honey. I know you can.”

Locked in his gaze, sharing his breaths, you will yourself to sink into the mattress. Will yourself to expel the unnecessary tension from your thighs, your pelvis, your back.

The corners of his mouth curl and he nods, as if asking, alright? 

You nod back too quickly. Alright.

He sinks deeper into you. As he does, your mouth gapes open on its own accord, as though opening your mouth would somehow help with the tight fit. The way he stretches you feels at first sharp, then like a dull ache. Then like a warm, unyielding fullness that ravages your mind. All the while, his eyes hold you captive, penetrating you even deeper. You squeeze his hands tight until he bottoms out. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer. He’s so deep now that his hips are pressed flush against your pelvis as you engulf him. Stays there, unmoving, lets you adjust to him.

“You’re so big,” you whimper. 

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs. “Taking me so well.”

“I need you to…” Words evade you. You show him with your hips, bucking toward him. 

“I know, baby, I know.” Tentatively, slowly, he pulls out an inch, presses into you an inch. It’s like a warm squeeze to your insides that makes you squirm, makes your toes curl. You know he’s holding back. It’s the furrow between his brows that tells you it’s taking everything in him not to just ram into you, take you how he wants to.

He bows to kiss you passionately, all tongue and teeth and hot breath. And now  he’s moving. Still deliberate, but now with steady, rhythmic thrusts. It feels unreal. Touches something inside you each time that makes you lose all inhibition. 

You free your hands from his grip and allow them to roam his back with abandon. The swells of his shoulders, the long plane of his spine, the ripples of solid muscle beneath the taught skin. As though he were made of sheer strength beneath the marble-smooth skin.

At a sudden, erratic jolt of his hips into you, you whine and desperately claw at his back for purchase. “Clark,” you moan.

He responds with a low, raspy growl and buries his face in your neck. Sets a new, unholy pace. You grasp his back so hard you wonder if you’ll leave scratch marks.

He pushes up onto his hands, creating space between your torsos. Giving himself a better, deeper angle. Watches your breasts bounce as he ruts into you over and over. As though he can’t resist them, he caresses one, thumbs the nipple, lighting your core on fire again. You make a sound that’s partly a gasp and partly a plea.

The sound draws his eyes back up to yours. He watches your face carefully, his mouth fallen open, his jaw tense with need, not quite panting but not quite in control of his breath, either. You feel bashful at the intensity of his gaze, at being pinned down and having nowhere to hide while he fucks you  

“Fuck, Clark, it’s—so much,” you keen. Claw at his arms, the rock-hard muscles beneath them. So much strength within him, it makes you wonder for the hundredth time tonight how much he’s holding back. 

“I know, I know,” he groans. 

“Kiss me,” you demand, pulling at his neck.

He does, but not before pulling your legs up, resting your calves on his shoulders on either side of his head, bending you over fully, and the intensity doubles. His cock slides in and out of you with increasing intensity, warm and wet from you and him both. And he kisses you as though his life depends on it, or maybe yours. Every moan and gasp and whine from your lips, he consumes.

And then he’s gripping your hips so hard it’s slightly painful. You inhale, a hiss through clenched teeth, jerk away instinctively. He pauses, smooths down your hair. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps.

That goddam grip strength. You shake your head. “Don’t be.” Grind yourself against him, urging him to keep going.

He takes the hint and resumes. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. Meanwhile, you feel a sheen layer of perspiration on your own forehead. Hard work it is, having your insides rearranged. Every thrust is its own workout, even on the receiving end, and you know you’re going to be deliciously sore tomorrow.

Every passing second, the fire in your stomach grows and grows. Until it becomes impossible to ignore, impossible to smother. It threatens to overtake you with its licking flames. 

“Clark, don’t stop, I’m—I’m gonna cum,” you cry, your voice so much higher than usual, laced with urgency.

“Again?” The word is awestruck, nearly a taunt. It makes you come apart again. Your whole body shudders as you cry into his shoulder. Waves of pleasure overtake you, rippling through your core.

“That’s it, honey, ride it out. Good girl.” He forces your legs open wider for him. “Do you feel how wet I make you?” he purrs. “So fucking wet.”

Holy fucking shit. The fucking dirty talk. Who is this man?

He doesn’t let up, not one fucking bit, even though you’re a sputtering, sobbing, quaking mess at this point. He fucks you with a newfound urgency of his own. The coils of tension in your core from your last orgasm go taught again, a third one on its way. You see stars. His hands rake across your stomach, press into the space below your belly button, as though he can feel himself protruding from inside you. You gasp and moan his name.

“Clark, please,” you cry, your voice cracking. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—he’s giving you everything. And his stamina is… otherworldly.

You’re fucked out. And he’s not stopping. It’s only getting faster. You have the twisted, delicious thought that you’ve become nothing but a toy for his pleasure at this point. 

But as if to contradict that thought, he falls over onto his elbows, whispers in your ear. “You’re so beautiful, so sexy. I’m so lucky.”

You just whimper in response. Never have you felt so cherished and yet so owned at the same time. Your body feels like it’s no longer yours alone. With little warning, you feel yourself fall over the edge a third time, having barely come back to reality from the first two. 

Clark begins to grunt, his hips staggering. “I’m close, sunshine,” he warns.

“Cum inside of me,” you plead.

He groans, his movements becoming more erratic. Grips the headboard above your head. 

Something strange happens. A loud cracking noise from above your head. You don’t have time to wonder what it is before Clark is shattering on top of you.

He seizes your hips with that borderline painful grip again and empties himself inside of you. He looks unreal, sounds unreal, feels unreal. You swear you can feel his pulsing warmth as he gasps, grunts, bucks his hips for a final time. 

You’re trembling. Like, legs shaking, unable to control it. Unable to even your breath, which comes in ragged gasps as you try to come down from your high.

Clark has enough energy to pull out from where you’d been connected for god knows how long. He gently sets your quaking thighs onto the mattress. Sits back on his heels, staring between your quivering legs. Smiles in deep satisfaction at the sight, sighing, absolutely spent. 

He’s never looked hotter to you than he does as he watches his own seed seeping out of you. 

Then he sinks down, rests his head on top of your chest, and melts into you. 

“Are you okay?” you rasp, your voice feeling disembodied from the rest of you.

He stiffens. “I should be asking you that!” He jerks his head up to peer at you. His cheeks are flushed. “Did I hurt you?”

“In the best of ways.”

“Damn. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I liked it.”

All things considered, you’re feeling perfectly, delusionally happy, like someone who’d just survived a near-death experience and was coming down from the adrenaline rush. Only for you, it was as though you’d died and been resurrected. 

“You liked it?” he asked, smirking.

Oh yeah. “Unfortunately.”

“Liked it enough to do it again?” he says suggestively. 

You groan and throw a pillow over your head. “You can’t say things like that to me while I’m still seeing stars.”

Clark peels the pillow off of you and gives you a cheeky grin. “You looked good seeing stars.”

Damn, yeah, he really had seen that. Three times. The man had never once taken his eyes off you.

You counterbalance your embarrassment about it by touching the side of his glasses. “You kept these on,” you comment. 

A beat. “Uh… yeah.”

“You dork.”

“What?! I wanted to see you clearly.”

“Vision’s that bad, Kent?”

“You could say that.”

You remember something, then, and snap your head toward the headboard. “Holy shit. Clark. What the fuck.”

The heavy-looking wooden headboard against the wall was snapped clean in half down the middle. The wood looked splintered at the top… where his hands had been gripping it. 

Clark scratched his head sheepishly. “Oh, yeah, that. I… It was already broken.”

“No, it wasn’t. I’ve been here before. I would have noticed a huge crack in your headboard.”

“Well, it wasn’t very sturdy,” he mumbles. “All that cheap furniture these days. Honestly, I should write a bad review.”

Looking at the thick wooden planks, you think to yourself that the headboard isn’t low-quality at all, but whatever. “Honestly, Clark, it’s kinda…”

“Kinda what?” he prompts. Somewhat nervously?

“Kinda sexy.” You smirk and shake your head. “I mean, you broke the headboard while we hooked up. That’s hot. And deranged.”

His mind seems to fixate on a different angle of what you’d said. “Wait,” he remarks, his eyes wide and awestruck. “We just hooked up.”

As if he had forgotten. Or maybe it just struck him. 

“Uh… yeah, we did.” And it was the best damn sex you’ve ever had, ever, bar none. But he didn’t need to know that. 

He smiles a dorky smile and groans, wrapping his arms around you in a hug, as though he can’t believe you’re still here. “You’re an angel.”

“Nothing we just did was angelic, Kent,” you laugh. 

He gives you an intense, silly, wide-eyed look. God, does he always get this hyper after sex? “You’re into more… stuff than I thought.”

“I’m into stuff?” You lean in close and scrunch your nose playfully. “You’re into some stuff.”

“Nah,” he downplays it, resting a cheek on your chest. He’s draped atop of you, but you can tell he’s bracing himself on his arms still, taking care not to squash you beneath him. 

“Yes,” you insist. “I can tell when a man’s holding back on me.”

His mouth falls open in mock disbelief. “You think that was me holding back?” 

“I know it.” 

“Holding back in what?”

“On being a little… dominant,” you answer. 

Which thrills you to think about. He hardly gives you the vibes during his day-to-day interactions, but you know now that he’s naturally at least a little dominant. And possessive. And into some light degradation and humiliation. 

“You sure about that, sunshine?” he challenges you, playing with your hair. “Or maybe I’m just that good at reading you.”

“It takes two to tango, Clark.” You raise an eyebrow. Meaning, even if he noticed you were into it, he was certainly into it to be doing it to you. Generally speaking. 

“I promise you, I wasn’t holding back… much,” he smirks. 

“I mean, you broke the headboard, after all. You’re clearly hiding some super strength from me. What else could you be hiding?” you joke. 

His smile is suddenly wistful. He leans up to kiss you, languid and lush, the tip of his tongue playing with yours. “I don’t want to hide anything from you, Y/N.”

Is he? You brush a stray ringlet from his forehead. “Then don’t.”

It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Because his blue eyes are scanning your face, as though he wants to memorize every detail.

And then he’s grinning and rolling over, gripping your elbows to take you with him.

“Clark,” you laugh. 

He positions you so you’re on top of him, straddling his abs. And you're definitely dripping with the seed he had spilled into you, now dribbling onto his stomach. 

He doesn’t seem to care. He caresses up your sides, tracing your curves, completely in awe of you. Is he not completely exhausted? You certainly are. But not tired enough to try to cross your arms over yourself, covering yourself, feeling suddenly bashful again in the post-sex clarity. 

He pries your hands apart and worships you with his eyes. 

“Look at you,” he says. “You’re absolutely beautiful..”

“Stop it,” you say, but you’re smiling. 

“I’ve dreamed of you, but this is better.”

“You better stop with the sentimental shit, or I’ll get up and leave right now.”

“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Gag me,” you say in mock repulsion. 

He quirks an eyebrow. You realize then what the words suggested. 

“Wait—“ you start. 

“Oh, you really are into some stuff, aren’t you, sunshine,” he jeers. 

“Stop it.” Though to be honest, the idea of being gagged by Clark Kent was… 

He’s laughing with you. “More time for all of that another time.” He sits up, hugs you tightly, sweetly, against him. Pulls away, and says, “but I’m not done with the sappy stuff.”

“Oh no.”

“I like you,” he says bluntly. “A lot. I like your bad moods in the mornings, because—no, no—”

He grasps your shoulders, sensing you trying to escape the cheesiness.

“Hear me out,” he implores.

“Fine,” you grumble, “but make it quick.”

“I like how extra grumpy you are in the mornings,” he says, “because I get to see how the littlest things can turn your day around. Like a good cup of tea, or when you get the Wordle right in the first three guesses.”

That makes you want to giggle. “It does make me happy.”

“I know. And I like how pensive you are in the evenings. You make me really think, sometimes. And I like how you might scowl at everyone at work, but I can see the way your eyes soften when you see me.”

You blink. He notices that?

“I think you’re a lot of bark, but no bite. Like, in a good way. I like your hard exterior, sunshine, but I like your soft inner layer even more.”

“My inner layer?” you mock suggestively. 

He grins and stokes his hands down your body, to the uppermost part of your inner legs. “That, too. I love your pussy, baby. I’m so obsessed with you.”

“Clearly,” you say, jokingly deadpan. “Okay, are we done with all of this now?” You can’t resist the urge to deflect his affection with your cynicism.

He grips your forearms in a vice, giving you a serious, yet still lighthearted glare. “I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”

He doesn’t say it with any ill-meaning or judgment, just as an observation. But it still feels like a punch to the gut. Because you know he’s right.

“I dunno…” you mumble.

“I’ll stop. I know I’m being a lot.”

“You’re not.” You drop your gaze, staring at his chest to avoid his eyes. “...Well, you are, but it’s okay.”

“I can tone it down a bit with the compliments—”

“No, I don’t want you to stop… I guess.” You shake your head, dispelling the weird thoughts. “I dunno. I guess you’re right, I do feel uncomfortable, a bit. But it doesn’t mean I want you to stop saying those things, not really.”

He brings a hand to your cheek, caresses it. “Why do you think you’re feeling uncomfortable?” he asks, his voice nearly as feather-light as his touch.

You laugh softly to yourself, somewhat bitterly. “Clark, I’ve been uncomfortable with this since that day on the roof, when we danced under the moon.”

He blinks up at you. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”

Shit. “Shit. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Clark frowns, pushes up his glasses, thinks for a while. Sits upright, scoots back so he can lean his back on the (broken) headboard, you still perched in his lap straddling his hips.

“What do you mean?” he asks sincerely.

You sigh, exasperated with yourself, and plant your hands on his chest as though to brace yourself. “I’ve just… I’ve never—I don’t do well with relationships. Never have. It makes me feel… weird, to be seen and observed and judged, when I get close to someone. I don’t do well with compliments, and I’m not very good at giving them. I don’t know why.”

Clark nods a little, his expression understanding. “That makes sense.” He runs a hand gently down your arm. “I promise I don’t judge you. I’m not asking you to… perform, or say the right thing, or fit into anyone else’s idea of how this is supposed to work between us.” He lifts a finger to your chin, tilting your face up to meet his, now at eye-level. “I just want to be close to you. However you let me.”

A beat. His fingers find yours.

“And I don’t need the compliments. I already know how you feel when you look at me. When you do… other things to me.”

His words bring lewd, recent memories to mind, and you smile with him, the two of you flushing with heat.

“I want to get better,” you tell him.

“You don’t have to change any—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“At compliments. At giving them.”

He tilts his head, his smile becoming a grin. “Okay, let’s practice now. Give me a fat one.”

You study him, your heart pounding. Where to start? And what could you possibly say? Something about his eyes? No, too overused. His body? No, you’re not that shallow. His mind? No, that’s too headass.

“Uh…” you hesitate.

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“Wait, no, I’ve got one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“...You’re the least disappointing man I’ve ever met.”

“That’s hardly a compliment. That’s just an insult to the other men.”

“Trust me, they deserved it.”

“I’m sure they did. Try again, sunshine.”

“Okay… I think you’re really… stable.”

He raises a brow. “You mean, like, sturdy? Like a table?” he jokes. 

“No, dumbass, like, emotionally. Like, thanks for being cool about me being all emotionally detached and stuff.”

He grins, his white teeth glimmering in the lamplight. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“I’m resisting the urge to rinse my mouth with soap, but yeah, it wasn’t that bad.” It's like you're on the edge of tenderness, like the affection wants to come out but you can't will it to.

He ruffles your hair. “I don’t think you’re emotionally detached. You’re just… prickly. You’re like a cat that only wants affection sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Shit, my cat. I forgot to feed her tonight.”

“Ember can wait,” Clark says as he wraps his huge arms around you, pulling you against him, pressing his nose to your hair. “Stay here for a while.”

“Okay, twist my arm,” you laugh. Hug him back. “I think I have another compliment for you.”

“Oh, a bonus compliment?”

“Yeah.” You pull away, bat your eyes at him, muster your confidence. You speak the words slowly, deliberately. “You have a very, very nice dick.”

You swear you see his pupils dilate behind the glasses. “Oh, I like this compliment.”

“It’s very nice. So pretty. So big.”

You can feel him twitch to life beneath you. “So what I’m hearing is, you have no problem giving me compliments when you’re horny?”

“It definitely feels easier that way,,” you laugh.

“I guess I just gotta keep my girl turned on, if I want her compliments,” he teases, blue eyes full of mischief. “I can do that.”

“You know, I might need to do a little inspection,” you say, moving yourself lower on the bed. “Gotta make sure I’m not giving compliments where they’re not due.”

“Well, by all means, please start the inspection process, ma’am.”

He’s half-hard when you set eyes on his member again. Still just as delectable. A delicate touch, your hand wrapping around the base, and you can feel the blood swelling there. “Nice form,” you say coquettishly, “and flawless execution earlier, but does it withstand multiple trials?” 

You give him a few tentative pumps. Enjoy the way his mouth drops open unwittingly as he watches. 

“I’ll have you know,” he starts saying, his voice strained, “that you’ll have no issue with performance—”

He cuts off, doesn’t get to finish. Because as you wrap your lips  around him and bring him into your mouth, he loses all ability to speak, and you finally get your way with him.

˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧

click for chapter 3 (will be coming out on Saturday, August 16th at 1PM PST!)

A/N: Helloooo! I'm SWEATING! Sorry for any typos, I hardly edited this. But I really hope you like this chapter!! I will be publishing each chapter on saturdays! So chapter 3 (more smuttttt!) will be published next Saturday, August 16th at 1pm PST -- get hypeeeeed!!!!!

Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!

Much love ❤︎ from Juniper

about me || masterlist | AO3 || ask me anything! Disclaimers: I do not claim to own Superman, DC, or any other affiliated names or fictional events. Other details, such as names, locations, and events, are also fictionalized. Please note that the representations of body types in my moodboard are not intended to exclude anybody of any race, ethnicity, or body shape. Do not copy, reproduce, or claim my work as your own on Tumblr, AO3, Wattpad, or any other website. You do not have permission to use my works in AI generators or in any way related to artificial intelligence. You may not use my work to sell or pass off as your own creation. 

Superman taglist (I went ahead and added users who commented on ch1, but if you'd like to be added or removed just lmk, and no hard feelings!):

@soulluvrrr @luvvtxinityy @technicolor-daydreaming @moonmunson @gemmawritess @or-was-it-just-a-dream @cuddlyklaus @manicandobsessive @laelara3 @animegamerfox @sflame15-blog @floralcyanide @bangtanevermore @ticklish-leafy-plant @evermoresivy @1-800-peakyblinders @ppinkdynamite @otakusimp1 @sandyscorner @idk-tbh127 @omg-hellgirl @bellelamoon @animegamerfox @tenaciouskryptoniteland @instantezra @likefruitbutnot @monochromefruitloop @ker0senebunny @gissellec1 @or-was-it-just-a-dream @crisis-unaverted-recs @bananacubb @sakiigami @ahaha-fvckjjj

[yiiiikesmish]

ahhhh this made me giggle so much. and the smut was perfection

bury the lede

pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader summary: clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you. word count: 5.7k warnings: 18+ mdni, coworkers/friends to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex (office), hair pulling! (m!receiving), wall sex, mutual pining, so much yearning, light angst, happy ending, clark losing it over an injustice, them christening every corner of the daily planet, this man lives to go down on u idc idc

In the twelve months you’ve known Clark Kent, you’ve counted exactly zero swear words.

Not one.

Not when the printer jammed five minutes before deadline. Not when a senator’s aide ‘accidentally’ dumped her $14 latte over his notes. Not even when a rat the size of a chihuahua moved into the break room and stared him down like it paid rent.  

Three hundred and ninety-something days. Zero expletives. You’ve been tracking it like a long-term assignment.

The working headline? The Unshakable Composure of Clark Kent.

It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.

But over time, it became something else.

A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldn’t stop writing in your head:

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Height: 6’4” (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure). Known aliases: None. Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every intern’s fundraiser and forgets to take them home.) Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says ‘good gosh’ and ‘heck’ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.) Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that you’ve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)

And through a year’s worth of careful observations—of eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%—the man has yet to let so much as a ‘damn’ slip past his lips.

And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft you’ve outlined in your head:

“Clark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with ‘Thanks so much!’ even when they absolutely should not be. He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.”

And that, you’ve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.

But tonight—

Tonight blows the whole story wide open.

Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screen—and he is absolutely vibrating with fury.

He’s leaning back against a desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jaw’s locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest it’s like he’s physically holding himself back.

And he hasn’t looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:

We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.

No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.

Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:

Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than you’ll ever have.

You’re still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.

But Clark?

Clark is something else entirely.

He’s past fury. Past protest.

Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaks—not out in the world, but inside him.

You’ve seen it before, in fragments.

When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.

When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.

When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didn’t ask if it was tied to your reporting—just asked which story.

When Clark gets truly upset, he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t storm around or slam doors.

He goes still.

Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.

You’ve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.

Tonight makes five.

And this time, it’s for you.

You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo might’ve changed since the last time you read it.

It hasn’t.

The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like it’s buffering.

Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.

Because your article—your article—

The triple-sourced, fact-checked into oblivion, airtight exposé Perry promised would front the Sunday edition—

Pulled.

Not bumped. Not buried on page ten.

Gone.  

And it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Because it wasn’t just a story. It was a truth someone didn’t want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.

It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.

Now, it’s nothing.

Scraped like gum from the bottom of someone’s shoe.

But what wrecks you—what truly undoes you—isn’t the memo.

It’s him.

Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.

And it’s unbearable. Not because he’s angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. It’s a spotlight on everything you’ve been trying not to feel.

And the fact that it means this much to Clark—it's excruciating.

When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.

“This is such complete—”

He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.

You blink. “Were you about to swear?”

His laugh is barely a breath. “No. I was about to flip this place upside down.”

You snort softly. “Well, that’s healthy.”

He looks up at that.  

And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if you’ve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, which—you have.

The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.

They’re still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.

Grief. Fragility.

Recognition.

Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.

The kind of knowing that can’t be taught, only earned—through late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.

He knows you.

Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a lead—obsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.

Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.

And how badly it broke you when you failed.

And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And it shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didn’t know how to end until just now.

Because he means it. Really means it.

Not just for the story—for you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.

You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if that’ll erase the memo from existence. 

“Should’ve pitched a fluff piece,” you mutter. “Stuff that matters. ‘Puppies of Metropolis.’ Or, I don’t know. ‘Ten Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.’”

 Clark frowns. “Your story mattered.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. “It’s just a job.”

“No.” His voice sharpens, solidifying. “It’s not just a job.”

And the way he says it—

God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.

So you do what you always do when it gets too real:

You deflect.

“What’re you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?”

It’s a joke. A dumb one. You’re not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.

But something flickers in his expression.

His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrow—not in anger now, but in purpose. 

And you’ve seen this look before, too.

In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.

Decision.

Steel-willed and absolute. Like he’s already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.

“Give me the files.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Your article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Just—trust me.”

 “Clark, I—”

“I’ll make sure it gets out.”

You stare at him.  

This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders don’t get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.

But there’s something in his eyes that stops you cold.

Because what’s there isn’t hope—it’s certainty.

Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.

And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.

You nod. “Okay.”

He nods back, steady as anything. “Good.”

You turn—toward your desk, your files, this impossible thing you’re now apparently doing together—but he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.

“Hey.”

You look back.

And that’s when it hits you again.

That thing.

That not-quite-hidden headline that’s been quietly building in the margins between you for months.

The Look.

The I’d burn down the sky for you look.

The I’d rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.

The this isn’t just friendship and we both know it look.

His eyes are warm. Devastating.

“I know it hurts now,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, “but this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.”

It cracks something wide open in you.

You’ve held it together for hours—through the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it all—but this? This is the last thread.

And before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thing—full of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.

Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.

And then you pull back like you've been burned.

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

But Clark—

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stammer or reassure.

He just looks at you.

Steady. Intense. Certain.

Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.

And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.

You thought he’d be gentle.

Because he always is.

But this?

This is not gentle.

This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.

His kiss is all heat and purpose—no backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.

Just immediate, all-consuming want.

And you’re gone. Instantly.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.

Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like he’s built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.

His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.

And then you hear it—

A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.

It destroys you.

Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.

Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.

Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.

No, this Clark—the one kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting months to be allowed this close, like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth—

He’s new. Terrifying. Addictive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.

“Clark,” you whisper, breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”

“I know.” His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t not anymore.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.

You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.

His hands roam everywhere—your waist, your back, your jaw—like something broke loose in him and there’s no putting it back.

When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because he’s there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your head—like even now he doesn’t know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he can’t shake.

Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.

“We’re still at work,” you manage to gasp.

It’s not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let go.

Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like he’s studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, it’s just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.

You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anyway—rough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.

And something inside him snaps.

His hands slide to your hips, lifting you—gentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everything—and suddenly you’re perched on the edge of your desk.

His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “If this isn’t what you want, please. Tell me.”   

Your pulse stutters.

He’s wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And still—still—beneath all that, he’s endlessly soft.

This is Clark Kent at his core—steadfast and true.

The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’

You take his hand.

Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where you’re already soaked.

“Does this feel like I want you to stop?”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch—then freeze.

Like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been holding this want in both hands for months and doesn’t know how to set it free.

But then you lean in, forehead to his.

"Clark."

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.

Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like he’s holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, it’s slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice blown wide open. “You’re…”

His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.

“...you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re telling me.” You gasp, already trembling.

He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined—but it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

No pretense. No buildup. Just down.

And something in you stutters.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But he’s already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

And then his mouth—

His mouth—

Fuck the plan. No time to think.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthy—it knocks the breath clean from your lungs.

Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.

His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.

And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.

Bastard.  

“Clark—please—”

He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.

And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.

His hair’s a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm it’s almost too much to bear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. “Don’t hold back.”

Then he’s gone again.

No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.

His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.

You’re shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.

And Clark—sweet, perfect, fucking Clark—just keeps going.

When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just right—your back lifts clean off the table.

“Clark— Jesus, I’m gonna—”

You barely get the words out before you break.

Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry out—sharp, wild, unrestrained—coming hard and helpless in his mouth.

And he doesn’t stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.

Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.

Careful, reluctant. Like he’d stay there forever, if you let him.

And when he rises, he looks—

Destroyed.

Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.

Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.

And god help you, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.

Your hands fumble for his belt—still burning, still aching—but he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.

Still the same Clark underneath it all.

“Not here,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Not like this.”

You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.

“Why not?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because when I finally have you,” he says softly, “I want to take my time. I want to see you.”

And the way he says it—like it’s something sacred, like you’re something sacred—knocks the breath from your lungs.

“…okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Uhm, your place or mine?”

He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.

“Yours. You’ve got better snacks.”

You laugh—really laugh—and something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe.  

He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple.

The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isn’t clawing for your attention.

You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark window—swollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeks—and something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.

When you turn back, Clark’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his world.

“You okay?” he asks, soft.

You nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah, it's just… kind of unexpected.”

He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But there’s something nervous in it too.

“Unexpected... bad?”   

You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.

Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.

“No, just—”

But you pause. Because now there’s room to really look at him.

The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way he’s watching you—like he’s terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.

Like he knows every jagged, weary part you’ve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.

His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.

Your chest goes soft.

“No,” you say quietly, eyes locked on his. “Unexpected perfect.”

Clark’s lashes flutter. And then—

He smiles.

Not the polite, mayor’s-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.

No. This one is his.

Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.

And when he leans in again—slower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when it’s just the two of you—

You meet him halfway.

Three days later, your article is everywhere.

Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.

Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.

The byline? Yours.

The exposé—your exposé—is splashed across every feed, pinging inboxes faster than the spin doctors can catch it. Reporters are quoting it, politicians are dodging it, and suddenly, you’re the name in the room. The one who broke it wide open.

When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.

Even Perry White, who doesn’t do applause—who curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him money—walks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:

“Hell of a story, kid.”

You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees aren’t full of helium.

You don’t ask how it happened. You don’t have to.

Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like it’s just another Friday, is Clark Kent.

He doesn’t look up at first. Doesn’t need to.

But when he does—when his eyes find yours—he gives you that look.

That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when he’s sure of something.

It hits you dead center.

You mouth: Thank you.

He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.

And when you move past him—headed for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normal—he reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.

Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.

You stop. Turn.

Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.

You lean down, all slow and casual, like you’re just checking his screen—then murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:

“Stairwell. Five minutes.”

Clark drops his pen.

You smirk.

His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.

You shove him hard—no grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up need— and he barely grunts before you’re on him, kissing like it’s a fight, like you’re trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.

It’s more violence than a kiss—teeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours.  

“What is—fuck—what is wrong with you?” You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. “Whose balls did you have to bust to—get that—” Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. “You said it’d take longer. You can’t just—drop this on me—”

He’s laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I cashed in a favor,” he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“For fuck’s sake, Kent—”

You yank back just far enough to glare at him.

His hair’s a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.

He looks completely undone. Glowing with it.    

Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends it’s ordinary.

Something behind your ribs gives way.

Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.

You blink hard, trying to look away.

But he sees it.

He always sees it. 

His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.

“You did all the work,” he says, voice rough with truth. “I just helped the story get where it needed to go.”

You blink back at him.

This man.

This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didn’t turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.

Like the truth was always going to find the light—he’d just hold the sky steady until morning came.

You want to say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you can’t name.

So you do the only thing you can.

You grab his collar and kiss him.

Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency—and when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefs—

Jesus.

He’s already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.

He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him—slow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.

He’s stunning like this—glasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.

“Fuck, please—"

“Language, Smallville.” You grin.

He laughs—just barely—but it turns into a moan when you squeeze.

“Unfair,” he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. “You’re being so unfair.”

“You broke embargo,” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “I’m just collecting interest.”

Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.

“Clark! You can’t—”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Three days ago, you didn’t know what Clark Kent sounded like when he’s desperate.

Now, it lives under your skin.

You used to think he’d be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.

He’s not.

He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.

And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.

And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pull—he shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.

"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."

He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.

“Not a chance. And it’s really not fair how well you know me already.”

“Three days,” you murmur, lips brushing his. “Eleven orgasms. I’ve had time to study.”

“Twelve,” he rasps. “You forgot the shower this morning.”

You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “Oh god, the shower.”

“I like you wet,” he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got you up against tile.”

“Clark,” you gasp, laughing. “We’re not in a shower right now.”

“No,” he grins, shifting you up higher. “We’re not.”

His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Still soaking.”

You gasp as he slides in two fingers—slow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.

You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time—eyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.

You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.

"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.

"Pocket," he pants, "But you’ll have to let go.”

You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.

And then—

He’s inside you.

The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not new. Not anymore.

But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.

He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like it’s the only breath he’s needed all day.

“Every time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel unreal.”

You clutch at his back, hips rolling.

“Move,” you plead. “Please, Clark—move—”

He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.

Again. And again.

The rhythm builds fast—skin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.

And then—you feel it.

The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.

“There,” you choke, eyes flying open. “Right there, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he pants, unraveling. “I’ve got you—just like that—please, keep pulling—fuck—”

So you do.

You yank his hair again, and it’s enough.

You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.

Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.

The world holds its breath.

Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:

“…we should head back.”

He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.

You don’t need a mirror to know that you’re a wreck.

Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling.  

You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.

And Clark—well, Clark doesn’t even try.

His shirt’s wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.

He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You meet his eyes, brows raised. “Think we were subtle?”

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, beaming.

You smack his chest. “Clark, we’re gonna get fired.”

“I’ll write a defense,” he says, tucking himself away. “‘A Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.’”

You choke on a laugh. “Catchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.”

He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.

“In these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?”

“Oh my god.”

“Sources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,”

“Clark.”

“Eyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.”

“Eyewitness?”

“Ferguson. The rat, remember? Hope he’s still crawling around the vents somewhere.”

You’re still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.  

When you turn, the joke’s still in his eyes—but something else has surfaced.

Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.

“Okay,” he starts. “What if… instead of writing that article…”

He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “I pitched a different one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

His smile tilts—shy and hopeful.

“Yeah, forget the op-ed. How about: ‘Local Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.’”

You blink, heart catching in your throat.

And suddenly—this is scarier than anything that came before.

You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.

That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes.  

You swallow.

“What’s the angle?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Human interest.”

You bite your lip, smile threatening. “And your sources?”

“Reliable,” he says, nodding seriously. “She even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.”

You hum. “Sounds like she’s into you.”

“Yeah,” he steps closer, smiling shyly. “I’m starting to think so too.”

You let the silence bloom between you—warm, delicate, just a little terrifying.

Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.

He leans down to meet you halfway.

This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.

You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her seven o’clock.”

His smile blooms slow and bright—a sunrise you get to keep.

“Done.”

epilogue

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life. Height: 6’4” (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment). Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, and—Superman. (Yes, that one. You’re still not over it. You probably never will be.) Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praise—saying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs. Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironically—only now it’s the morning after he’s had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue. Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you. Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like he’s twelve and in love. (He is.) Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.') Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly. On every flat surface in your apartment. And his. And yes—occasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)

[yiiiikesmish]

YES. I'm so happy someone watched materialists and got inspired to write a fic. this is so so good and i can't wait for part 2!!

Match Made (Part One)

Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.

▸ PAIRING: Clark "Superman" Kent x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: Clark goes on dates not with reader lol, hurt/comfort rather than angst?, some talks about insecurities ▸ WORD COUNT: 10.6K ▸ A/N: watched materialists and was inspired for this lil cross-over-esque story! some scenes are inspired by the movie but the plot is different. turned out a little long so split it up into a two-shot. next/final one coming very shortly :)

—

If Clark had known years ago that Perry was made of money, he would’ve asked for a raise sooner. Judging by the venue selection, the obscene amount of elaborate decor, and the fact that the bride has switched dresses five times, Perry White is a very wealthy man. 

The sheer scale of this wedding for his son means that Perry decided to invite his favorite colleagues; in other words, the five employees whom he tolerates. Steve barely made the cut, but now all five of them are dappered up, dressed to the nines, to attend Perry’s son’s — Keith's — wedding at the swankiest hotel in town. 

“Can you believe they met through a matchmaker?” Lois whispers conspiratorially, leaning over at the assigned Daily Planet table. 

“A matchmaker?” Clark raises an eyebrow. 

Lois nods. “Keith apparently signed up for some matchmaking services to get connected with women. I don’t know why he would. The man is a catch — at least in the traditional sense. Six foot, doctor, handsome.”

“Miss Lane, if I didn’t know any better, I would say you have a crush,” Clark teases, earning a sharp elbow to his abdomen. A pained oof leaves his lips. “You’ve known the guy forever. Didn’t you start working with Perry when you were like ten?”

With a huff that has her curled bangs flying, she shakes her head. “Once upon a time, I might have. Keith is a good guy, which is why I don’t understand why he would pay a boatload of money to get introduced to someone.”

Clark can’t help but agree. Call him old-fashioned but he likes meeting people organically. He has heard stories about couples meeting at grocery stores, at the library, in college. He knows that the world has changed a lot. His parents might have met bumping into each other at the farmer’s market, but plenty of his peers have begun transitioning to dating apps. Cat is an example; she goes on a date a week as a way to keep herself entertained and also recruit new gossip material for her column. Work hard, play hard. 

However, Clark shouldn’t really be saying anything regarding this matter. He hasn’t been out on a date since things with Lois ended. It was an amicable breakup that left them with a stronger friendship. 

“I do agree, I don’t think there is much appeal in getting set up. What happened to a good meet-cute? There is no science in matchmaking,” Clark notes, mostly to himself. 

“Sixty-seven percent of daters say that their dating life isn’t going too well. Three-fourths of daters find it difficult to find people to date. People look for so many different things in a partner nowadays, especially when they’re older and more particular. Height, looks, income, sense of humor, and so on.”

The new voice that interjects itself to the conversation has them looking up. It’s a woman who is sitting at their table, and likely has been there the entire time they’ve been discussing this matter. 

You look up from your phone, setting it down as you finally address the rest of the guests. You’re in a blue strapless dress that almost shimmers underneath the dining room lights. Your eyes sparkle with something akin to mischief, one that sets off Clark’s nerves. 

“So, yes, meeting people in the outside world naturally is ideal, but it’s not always realistic.” With your name, you introduce yourself. “Matchmaker for Keith and Delilah. Pleasure to meet you. I see we’re all assigned to the colleagues table.”

Heat rushes to Clark’s face having been caught red-handed speaking poorly of your profession. You don’t seem fazed in the least. He pushes up his glasses on his nose and hopes that he doesn’t look as red as he feels. 

“There is plenty science in matchmaking. You’re figuring out the right combination of variables to trigger the right reaction. A matchmaker is the catalyst. My job is not to make sure you have the perfect relationship, it’s about finding out what you want and making sure it aligns with your potential partner’s criteria.”

“So what are the variables that your clients look for?” Lois is curious now, eyes alight and eager. 

You shrug, taking a sip of your champagne and crossing your arms over your chest. “It depends.”

“All of them must be looking for money. Both Keith and Delilah clearly can afford your services.”

Your lips tug into an amused grin. “You’re not incorrect, but financial stability is not the only checkbox. It can be anything from height, hobbies, age, personality, job.”

“Isn’t job the same thing as financial requirements?” Lois prompts.

“You’d be surprised by the number of people looking for partners who make high six figures without being in finance. That’s some of my tougher ones.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“Dating is all about setting expectations. It’s about understanding what you really want and going for it. No partner is perfect, you can’t expect to get all the things on your list, but you just need the ones that matter.”

Lois hums. Clark and Jimmy abruptly spin to look at her. They share a look. It’s her impressed hum. It takes a lot to wow Lois Lane. That’s an approving hum. 

Continuing with her line of questioning, Lois asks, “How many successful matches have you had?”

Tapping your finger against your lip, you seem to think about it, but Clark knows better. A woman with your confidence and skills, your kill rate is certainly top of mind. 

“Eight — well, nine including this one — since I started three years ago.”

“Nine couples?”

“Nine weddings. There are a few successful matches that haven’t yet gotten to this stage and may never get there, but to each their own. Love comes in all forms, right?”

Another impressed hum. Clark is about to get a severe case of whiplash. 

Before Lois can pepper you with more questions, another voice jumps in. “Excuse me.” The entire table turns to find a trio of women. “You’re the matchmaker right? Can we talk to you? After seeing what you’ve done for Delilah and Keith, we wanted to talk to you a little bit more about the experience.”

Your eyes light up, a charming smile settling on your lips. It’s the look of a salesperson ready to delivery a crowd-winning pitch. “Of course.” You briefly look around the table, eyes landing on Clark when your smile stretches just a smidgen wider. “It was nice meeting all of you.”

When you’re finally gone, Lois lets out a low whistle. “I’m not going to lie, she almost sold me there. If my bank account was big enough, I might’ve considered hiring her.”

Clark looks at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding. You? Lois Lane? You considered hiring a matchmaker?”

“Aren’t you curious what kind of people she would match you with? Like she said, it’s about setting and meeting expectations. It’s a formula at the end of the day. If she’s successfully created nine weddings in three years, she’s clearly good at what she does.” 

Clark has never thought about what he wants in a partner. He is busy enough as is dealing with his double life. He already had to explain being Superman once to Lois, he can’t imagine having to do it a second time. 

Then again, that feels inevitable. 

“If I could afford her, I’d ask her out,” Lois notes, eyes raking over you appreciatively across the room. “I love a strong, confident woman.”

“The two of you would likely kill each other before the date is over,” Jimmy mutters, being the second person tonight to get a jab from Lois. 

“Well, I think she makes for an interesting story. Clark, didn’t you say you’ve been struggling to find something for a new piece?”

He has hit a bit of a block for inspiration; he can’t write about Superman (in other words, himself) forever. Stories about Superman taking down the next monster in Metropolis no longer make big splashes on the front page. 

“Yes,” Clark grumbles, “but I don’t think this is the piece we want. This feels like it’s up Cat’s alley. Or since you’re so interested, why don’t you do it?”

“You know I have my hands full with the LuthorCorp piece I’m working on. Plus, I think you could bring a certain nuance to this as a single, straight man in Metropolis. Which is the perspective that most people read about anyway.”

He winces, “I don’t think people want to hear from yet another white man.” There is also the concern around pricing, which he doubts Perry will let him expense. “Do you think she has a discount code?”

Lois smirks, “If you write it as a piece focused on her company, they might appreciate the good marketing and do a free trial period for you. Their version of charity work, I suppose.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. 

It’s not the worst idea Lois has had, and she has had plenty when it comes to getting a great story. There probably is an angle he could work with; it could be an exposé on the matchmaking industry or an inside look into dating trends in general. It’s not his realm of expertise but he has been meaning to broaden his range. 

“Well, guess I have my next story.”

–

There are worse things in life than having to take the next step in your career by writing about a luxury matchmaking service in Metropolis. For example, Jimmy walks in covered in monster goo just minutes ago and has to immediately extract the photos for publishing, dripping slime all over his desk. Meanwhile, Clark sits comfortably at his desk with his good friend Google.

His first order of business is to explore your company further. When he pitched the idea to Perry, he immediately greenlit the concept. The man was already hesitant about ADORE, the matchmaking company, when his son brought up paying thousands of dollars for it, so he was on board with Clark doing an investigative piece on it.

ADORE has been around for a decade, its revenue experiencing a steep upward trajectory in recent years, driven by the influx of billionaires and single individuals (not necessarily mutually exclusive). They list all their matchmakers on the website, all attractive women with smiles mimicking yours from yesterday. The headshots are clear, and their expertise detailed. He finds you immediately.

Clark can admit to himself that he finds you attractive. You are. You exude the kind of confidence that has Lois intrigued, the comfort in your skin that can even make Jimmy uncomfortable, and the dangerously knowing smile that puts Clark on edge. He has met many beautiful people in his lifetime, but none have shaken him the way you do.

He copy-pastes your email and begins drafting a message. Every time he finishes two sentences, he deletes one. He has never been the most polished speaker or writer, Lois gives him enough crap for it. Somehow, emailing you feels like one of the most daunting things he has done, especially after your interaction over the weekend. He has multiple colleagues read over the email and only when it has received the Lois Lane approval does he pull the trigger and click send.

Now, he waits.

Ping! Well, clearly he does not have to wait very long. It’s a response from you.

Sure, Clark. I’d be happy to meet with you to discuss a potential article. How about tonight at 7? You pick the place.

This feels like a test. It has to be a test, right? Pick the place? Seven is also dinnertime, which means you expect him to take you out to dinner. Or perhaps he can limit it to a drink, even if he does not drink.

“Hook, line, and sinker,” Jimmy nods, looking almost proudly over his shoulder. “You’ve got yourself a date, Clark.”

The water halfway down his throat makes his way back up as he sputters onto his desk.

“Oh, I hope you don’t do that tonight. You’re not winning anyone over by spitting all over them.”

“This is not a date,” he emphasizes, quickly grabbing a few napkins to clean up the mess.

Jimmy ignores him. “Where are you going to go with her?”

“I don’t know…” Clark has never been the type to keep track of trendy restaurants or places to go to impress women, he hasn’t needed it. His meals consist of multiple breakfasts in a day, because he knows the recipes by heart and they are relatively easy to make. “What about Metro Grill?”

Jimmy groans, followed by Lois on the other side, and even Steve across the floor.

“What? What’s wrong with it? It’s a good place to eat.”

“That’s where you go when you’re about to break up with someone, Clark. Or bring someone you really, really hate,” Lois flags. “She’s going to turn you down the moment you suggest it.”

Clark should be offended by this, but he also accepts the truth that he is not an expert in this area. “Okay, where should I go then?”

Jimmy snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up. “My cousin works at this sick new restaurant just a few blocks from here. The Refinery, have you heard of it? Great drinks, great vibes. Perfect for a date.”

“It’s not a date,” Clark says exasperatedly.

“I’m sure he can get you a last-minute reservation and hopefully a discount.” At what is most likely a despondent look on his face, Jimmy quickly adds, “It’ll be fine. As long as you’re not getting anything crazy like the seafood tower, you’ll be fine.”

That same night, the words that leave your mouth has his body ascending to another plane of existence.

“I think I’ll get the seafood tower.”

Clark doesn’t think he has ever paled as fast — or paled at all for that matter. You seem to have the heart-stopping effect on him, and he’s not so sure it’s the good kind.

You are dressed in a plaid blazer today to complete an all-black ensemble. Your hair is twisted, a little unruly compared to the neat pins in your head when he first met you. However, you still look beautiful — even more so today, he thinks.

The laugh that escapes you yanks him out of his thoughts. “I’m just kidding. I wasn’t expecting you to pick such a nice place, but this is a good choice. A few of my clients have been out here. It has a good atmosphere and the food is passable.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. The first test is over. “I’m glad. My coworker recommended it to me. I, uh, don’t really get out much so I’m not an expert at the restaurant scene in the city.”

You regard him carefully, cool eyes carefully assessing him. He feels a bit… unraveled under your gaze, like you’re picking him apart to his very bones to find his flaws and imperfections.

Clark knows that he is objectively, relatively handsome, but he does not have the aura that lures people in like Jimmy does. Clark Kent is also a bit of a mess in his everyday life: spilling coffee on himself twice a week, occasionally deleting an entire article after it’s been completed, and at times tripping over his own foot and face-planting onto the sidewalk in front of hundreds of people during morning and evening rush hour.

“Well, you have great resources. I’ll have the Greek salad,” you say to the waiter, handing him the menu.

“You can, um, order an entree too. I can pay, I promise.”

Your lips tug up again, like you know something he doesn’t. It’s unsettling. “I had a big lunch.”

Once their orders are in, you lean back against your seat, arms delicately crossed on your chest. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Well, Clark Kent, pitch me.” He blinks at you, taken aback. “Why should I agree to be the subject of this article for you? The business is doing well, I am clearly good at what I do. Why should I risk my and my firm’s reputation to give you a story?”

“Well, it would be good marketing for—”

“Something else. Something more exciting. What’s the angle for the story?”

“It would be great if we could cover the dating scene in Metropolis?”

You purse your lips, glancing away across the room.

“Or if you have other ideas, I could be open.”

Turning back to look at him, you let your lips stretch into a wide, Cheshire grin. Shivers snake up his spine involuntarily. “Have you considered being matched with someone, Clark?”

“Me? Oh, um, no. I don’t think I could be.”

“Why?”

He looks at you in surprise. “Well, I just assume your clients would want someone… better.”

You give a small shrug. “My clients tell me what they’re looking for, but sometimes they don’t even know what they really want. At least, until I show them. I could show you to some of them.”

“I couldn’t possibly afford your services.”

With a snap of your fingers, you grin. “That’s it. How about you do a firsthand account on what it’s like to be a client? I get a challenge in you, and you can try and prove me wrong. Win-win situation, right? Isn’t that what you wanted to do anyway? Write some silly scathing piece about the business.”

Clark flushes red. Caught again. “I don’t think—”

“I’ll give you three dates. Most people take more but I think I can do it in three for you.”

“That’s a feat for you. I don’t think you could.”

“Then try me,” you smile, leaning forward with your arms folded on top of each other on the table. Your salad pushed to the side.

This is playing with fire. This isn’t the article Perry approved, but it may be one that captures the story best. Who better to speak about the matchmaking experience than someone who has gone through it himself? 

But, there is still the matter about money.

“And the fee for your services?”

“Free for you. Just think of it as a trial period.”

His teeth catches his bottom lip, gnawing at it warily. It is for the article. It is for inspiration. It is to get out of this writing slump. He repeats these three sentences in his mind like a mantra until he convinces himself that this could perhaps be a good idea. Lois and Jimmy would be so proud of him for taking a step outside of the comfort zone.

“Alright,” he relents with a sigh.

You stick out your hand and he reaches out to accept it. “Deal, Mr. Kent. Don’t act like you’ve just signed your death warrant. This will be fun for both of us.”

“So, let’s say I’m your paying client. How does the process usually go?”

“Well, I would speak to you and ask you about yourself. I’ll write down notes on what I think are your strengths and weaknesses. I’ll ask you about your criteria in a partner, and we will go from there.”

“Great, shall we do that now?”

Your eye catches the waiter lurking in the corner. The man looks antsy, looking at your untouched salad and the fact that Clark only ordered a glass of water. Your table is bleeding money right now. “How about we move this elsewhere? I know a great late-night café.”

Clark thanks the heavens that he can finally escape this place. The moody, romantic lighting was starting to get to him. It’s probably partially the reason why he agreed to this shenanigan.

The two of you trek ten minutes to the café. The walk is silent and Clark finds the cool evening air calming for his flustered self. He watches you walk ahead, the clicks of your heeled boots mixing in with the cacophony of traffic around you. Your fingers are intertwined behind your back as you observe the city come alive before you. The shifting city lights illuminate your features and Clark thinks you look even more enchanting out here, completely in your element.

You look younger when you’re relaxed. The tightness in your eyes and lips have smoothed out as the tension leaves your shoulders.

When a man calls out your name upon entering the coffee shop, Clark looks up. It’s the barista behind the counter. You give him a small wave and a big, friendly grin. It’s not the same smile you offer your clients. Or him.

He almost feels a little jealous.

After taking your orders, you stick around by the register to chat some more with the barista and Clark awkwardly slides his large frame into one of the booths.

“Do you come here often?” He asks when you sit opposite him.

“Yes, mostly for clients. Gary doesn’t chase me out when I take a little too long.” You nod your head to the barista who’s cleaning the equipment behind the counter.

It’s just you and him in this quiet little place.

He looks at you and sees that you’re still looking at him carefully, like your eyes are conducting a comprehensive analysis of him. His curiosity gets the best of him. “So what do you think then?”

“Of what?”

“Of me.”

“I don’t know you.”

“You’ve been looking at me like you do,” Clark points out.

Your lips twitch. “Do you want my honest first impression?”

“Yes, how do you think my potential matches would find me?”

Leaning back against your seat, you assume the same position as earlier. Arms crossed, discerning eyes that rake over him appreciatively yet objectively. “You’re a great-looking guy. Height that any man would kill for — what is it? 6’4”?” Clark blushes a little but nods. “Gentleman. You’re not charming in that obnoxious, cocky way, but in a cute, endearing way. There are definitely women who like that. All in all, you tick a good number of boxes for most of my clients.”

Clark fidgets in his seat. He feels like an object being appraised. This is how women feel all the time. The patriarchy truly is the worst.

“I hear a but coming,” he replies.

A soft laugh rises from your throat. “But I can tell your suit comes from the discount bin. It’s loose around your middle but stretched around your shoulders. Your pants end too short on your very long legs. Moneyed men have suits tailored to their exact measurements. While style is an easy fix with a good stylist, wealth is slightly more difficult.”

Frowning, he crosses his own arms over his chest. “You think I wouldn’t be able to date your clients because I’m not rich? That’s incredibly superficial.”

“They make the rules,” you grin. “In this economy, financial stability is a big trait that people look for. With that said, I think your level of wealth does realistically limit the pool, but it does not eliminate it completely. I think you have plenty of great qualities that my clients are looking for, we just need to sell you properly.”

“And what would that entail?”

“A little sweet-talking from me,” you smile.

Clark isn’t sure what to make of that. 

–

The eyes are truly the windows of the soul because, in this moment, as he looks at his reflection in the mirror, he sees his soul departing from his body. He leans over his bathroom sink, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm his nerves.

It’s only a date. Clark has been on dates before. Sure, he has. None of them ever made it to a third except Lois, and we all know how that one ended. He lets his curls hang a little looser and adjusts his glasses on his face.

You hadn’t told him anything about his date aside from the fact that her name is Angela, she is thirty, and she is a doctor.

“Any words of advice?”

“Be yourself. The whole point of this is to find someone you can be yourself with. You’re going to be fine, Clark.”

Easy for you to say. You’re not the one dressed in a fifty-dollar suit, one of the only two suits he owns, going to a restaurant he can barely afford. Since you approved of his restaurant choice last time, he figures that taking his date there wouldn’t be a bad idea. Plus, Jimmy did convince his cousin to give Clark a discount, so hopefully his wallet doesn’t hurt too much.

Unless his date decides to order the seafood tower — for real this time.

They agree to meet at the restaurant and upon seeing her, Clark already has a sinking feeling in his gut. This is not a good sign for people meeting for the first time. He expects some excitement and thrill, but his anxiety is eating him from the inside out. Angela looks stunning in a red dress that drapes over her frame like silk.

She’s beautiful and she seems nice. She looks around the room, seeming pleased with his choice. When they put in their orders, she thankfully does not order the seafood tower and instead opts for the steak. She also adds a couple of appetizers. “To share,” she beams.

It’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

However, when the waiter asks for any drinks, she looks at him. He looks at her, unsure why she is looking at him. “Well? Are you not going to pick a bottle of wine?”

“I don’t drink, so I’m not familiar,” Clark admits, biting back a wince.

The light in her eyes dims a little, and Clark feels like he got his first strike of the night. She smiles tightly at the waiter, “I’ll just have sparkling water. Thank you.”

Clark tries to make conversation, but everything is a little stilted. He asks questions, she provides answers. She asks questions, he provides answers. There is no natural progression. It is almost like an interview.

He gets his second strike when she asks him about what he does. “She mentioned that you’re a writer. That sounds fascinating, what kind of stories do you write?”

“Oh, I write for The Daily Planet, so unfortunately mostly nonfiction,” he tries to joke and she only smiles politely. “But I’ve focused a lot of my work on Superman.”

Her face immediately sours. “That alien character?”

Oh boy. This is not going to be fun. He looks down at his plate, which he has finished.

“Yes, the superhero.”

“I don’t know if I would call him a hero.”

“Why not? What would you call him?”

She shrugs, manicured nails drumming incessantly on the table. “A menace to society?”

“He’s trying to save lives.”

“He destroys property. One time, he flew straight through my apartment to take down some monster. Why couldn’t he pick another building?”

A snappy retort sits on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it. You set up this date for free for him. She is a paying client to you. He wants to be considerate. Of you. Not of this woman. 

“I’m sure he would’ve if he could’ve,” he mutters under his breath.

The conversation stalls afterwards. A nerve has been struck, one that makes it clear that this discussion and dinner cannot be salvaged. When the waiter comes back around asking if there is any interest in dessert, the answer is a unanimous no. 

Still, Clark is a gentleman, so he does the gentleman thing of offering to drive her home. 

However, when he gestures at his car — his very mediocre, secondhand car, she glances at his car, then at him. “I’ll take a cab. Thank you for dinner.”

Strike three and he’s out.

When he gets home, he asks himself how anyone could put themselves through this, before he promptly falls asleep.

The next time he wakes, it is to the sound of his phone vibrating against his cheek. The constant small talk wore him down last night, and he ended up crashing on his couch, which is much too small. Probably half the size of what Angela owns in whatever building he crashed into.

Your voice, however, is chipper. “Good morning, Clark. How’d you sleep?”

Miserably. He’s still thinking about the hefty tab from last night and how he definitely should not be going out with these women. It’s not too late to back out of this article. There are other things to write about in Metropolis.

“Clark?”

“Hi, yeah, sorry. Slept fine. You?” He massages the crick in his neck as he drags himself to his kitchen. Coffee is definitely needed.

“Good. I wanted to check in to get feedback on your date. Usually, it’s helpful when things are still fresh. I had the chance to speak with Angela already, but I wanted to hear your thoughts.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Clark sighs, “I mean, it was fine. She is definitely looking for someone with more refined tastes in both wine and cars, so I don’t think we would work out long term either.”

“Noted, that is helpful.”

"What did she say about me?”

“She said that the date was fine, but the chemistry just isn’t there for her right now.”

Clark snorts. You’re sugar-coating it for him. “You can tell me the truth.”

A pause at the other end of the line. “Dating is a marathon, not a sprint. We go through trial and error, find the best way to adjust to what we can’t change, and charge forward. It just wasn’t a good match, so we learn from the ones that don’t work out to figure out one that does. It only takes one, Clark.”

He wants to add that it only takes one for him to give up his whole farce.

“Onward and upwards,” you say, and he can picture that sales smile again.

“Do you talk to all your clients this way? Coax them gently through the pain of rejection.”

You laugh and Clark notes the pitch is a little different, a little breathy. It sounds like a sincere laugh. Warmth blooms in his chest as a result. “I’m here to be a helping hand. Some refer to us as therapists.”

“Certainly costs more than my health insurance can cover.”

Another laugh, another spark in his heart. “Well, we do provide the highest quality customer service.”

There is a moment of silence that falls over the phone. Clark knows you’re still there with the birds chirping in the background. He wonders if you always work Saturdays, it seems like a lot to ask of someone. Then again, he has also sacrificed many weekends for a story.

He finally asks, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in all this? The work that you do. Do you think that you’ll be able to find the perfect match for all your clients?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Nothing — no one — is perfect, but I do believe that there is someone out there for everyone. Whether you meet them in your teens, your twenties, or even when you’re sixty and graying, love is about finding the right time and place. I want to be the person who gets you there.”

“You’re a romantic.”

“I’m a rational romantic,” you correct him teasingly. “Love isn’t all about the sparks. It’s also about finding balance in what would make the foundations of a strong relationship.”

Clark nods, realizing then that you cannot see him.

“What are you doing tonight?”

He wishes he had enough plans to check his calendar, but his answer his quick. “Nothing planned, why?”

“I have an engagement party to attend, care to be my plus one?”

Are you— is this you—

You are swift to clarify, “I’m not asking you on a date, Clark. It’s part work for both you and me. I promise it won’t count towards your now-two-date quota.”

He can hear the smirk in your voice. It’s not as if he has anything better to do. He tells himself that this is for his article. For the depth of his article.

He keeps telling himself that when he shows up at an extremely fancy party at a mansion. You had actually rented him a suit and got it delivered. It is much more comfortable, and even he can admit when he looks pretty darn good in something.

“You clean up very nicely in clothes that fit right.”

Clark whirls around to find you. This time, in a floor-length gold dress. You look… ravishing. Like a gem that sparkles underneath the moonlight. He wants to compliment you, tell you that you do too, but the words can’t seem to leave his mouth.

A slow smirk curls on your lips. “Well, at least I know I can still make a man tongue-tied.” You reach up to fix his bowtie, fingers brushing against the base of his throat. Your hands press against the lapels of his jacket, smoothing over his chest, and down his arms. 

His breath stutters. No one has touched him like this in a long time — and you’re not even trying. At least, he doesn’t think you are. Maybe it’s just habit. But maybe it is something else entirely.

He swallows hard, gaze dropping to your mouth before flicking back up, only to find you already watching him. Your eyes darken, lingering at his lips then rising again to meet his.

Heat coils low in his stomach. His hand twitches at his side, aching to settle on your waist and pull you in until there is no space left between you. The urge to lean in, to draw you closer, is magnetic. Dangerous. 

But then you step away and the cool evening breeze kisses his skin to bring him back to the present. You clear your throat as he offers his arm. “Shall we?”

It’s an engagement party for one of your clients. He still has no idea why you decided to bring him here, but perhaps it’s to add more to the article about your expertise. What better way to show off your success than meeting you at a wedding and attending an engagement party that you created?

“We’re going to pretend you’re my boyfriend,” you whisper. “The bride-to-be is a big believer of big love, so I wouldn’t bring just anyone to this.”

He wants to ask why him, then. Why go through all this trouble? However, he misses his chance when they finally step through the threshold.

It’s hard to believe that this is someone’s home. Approximately an hour into the suburbs, the farmhouse that could more accurately be described as a mansion sits on sprawling land that stretches acres. A chandelier dangles from the ceiling, gold plates are being passed around with hors d'oeuvres, and once again, everyone is dressed like they’re meeting the queen.

He leans down to whisper in your ear, “I don’t think I should be here.”

He swears he sees you shudder slightly, but it’s gone when you look up at him with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I only want to show you the magic we can create at ADORE. Enjoy some free food while we’re at it.”

The happy couple — Samson and Kierra — are long-time clients of yours. Samson had been in the service for a year, and Kierra for a couple of months, when they were introduced to each other. One first date and two years later, Samson finally proposed to Kierra on a cliffside with an extravagant display of flowers.

Kierra couldn’t be upstaged even if anyone tried. She is wearing a massive white dress with a tail that trails behind her and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. When she spots you, she immediately brightens, screeching your name and hurrying over as fast as she can with the weight of her gown.

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you could make it!” She throws her arms around you and a laugh slips past your lips. Clark steps away slightly to avoid trampling on Kierra’s skirt and to give them their moment.

“Thank you for the invite. It’s an honor to be part of your celebrations.”

Kierra scoffs and swipes a tear away from her eye. Her blinding smile does not waver once. “Please. All this happened because of you. You introduced me to the love of my life. You’re a miracle worker.”

“It is all you, darling,” you grin, holding her at arm’s length. “You are the magic you create — and this love between you and Samson, it’s no miracle. It is inevitable.”

With a watery pout, Kierra hugs you again. “You always have such a way with words. I can’t wait to have you at the wedding too! We’re going to have flamingo dancers and a cabaret — daddy’s thinking about setting it up carnival style. It’ll be a grand time.”

You match the joy in Kierra’s expression. “I’m looking forward to it.” Then she turns to Clark and he freezes. Before he can embarrass himself, you swoop in, “This is my boyfriend, Clark.”

“Look at you,” Kierra whistles, wiggling her eyebrows at you, which earns another genuine laugh. “A tall, very tall drink of water. She snatched up the best one for herself, huh?”

Clark blushes and decides to play along. He slides an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, pressing his lips against your head. “It’s all her. Like you said, she’s a miracle worker.”

Kierra looks like she’s about to burst into tears again. “I’m so happy you found each other.” She turns to you. “I remember the first time we spoke, you told me that you hadn’t dated anyone in a long time, but look at you now. Oh, I love love. I’m going to find Samson and we’ll be sure to say hi again. For now, please drink lots and lots and enjoy the food. I’m getting married!” She squeals before scampering off into another crowd of giggling women.

His eyes follow her across the crowd, as she proudly shows off her ring to anyone and everyone who will listen. When a man finally joins her, seemingly the complete opposite, the prime example of calm and cool, Clark can see the fondness with which he looks at his future wife.

This is a couple in love. This is what it means to create that scientific reaction you explained to him the first time you met.

“I’m not going to lie, it’s starting to feel kind of nice being held like this.”

Clark slowly drags his eyes away and realizes that you’re still tucked to his side. His arm is still around you, except now your hand is carefully placed on his chest. Red sprawls across his face again as he slowly releases you. “Sorry, I wanted to make sure we were convincing. I completely forgot and I didn’t mean to just hold you for that long. It was an accident.”

Great, now he’s rambling like a fool who has never touched a woman.

“It’s good. You sold it well. Shall we enjoy the party a little more?”

He is thankful that you don’t make a big deal out of it. Clark offers his elbow and you slip your hand through. The two of you spend some time mingling with the other guests, taste-testing the fancy tiny morsels drifting around the room, and drinking your fill of champagne. Clark sticks to his iced tea.

Kierra and Samson do their speeches, and he spots you getting a little teary-eyed, so he slides a napkin your way and you look at him gratefully.

At some point, you persuade him to dance with you. He is all long, clumsy limbs, but you don’t seem to mind, laughing along with him when he does an embarrassing, old-school move. You would mimic him and the two of you end up drawing amused glances from the rest of the guests.

When a slow song comes on, before he can tug you off the dance floor to allow the other couples to take the space, you’re already taking his hands and maneuvering them onto your hips. You put your own on his shoulders and the two of you gently sway to the soft melody crooning through the speakers.

“Do you get it now?” You whisper, tilting your head up to look at him.

Clark’s eyes examine the room. There is a lot of love packed into this place. It’s not only the bride and groom, but it’s the people that they have brought together. Even him. As someone who can’t say he has experienced love beyond the one from his parents, he can feel his heart stretching open to welcome it.

And the catalyst for it all? You.

You who worked your magic, who believed in their love. You who work tirelessly to bring people who have never known each other together in the hopes of creating something bigger than the sum of their parts.

“Yeah, I can see it,” he murmurs quietly, lifting your hand to spin you around and catching you in his arms again. “Kierra’s right. You’re a miracle worker.”

“Not a miracle worker. Just a believer,” you smile.

–

The last thing Clark wants to do is relive that second date. It had been an experience. He definitely needs to give you his feedback, but he’s trying to keep his mind off it while he’s at work. Unfortunately, he has friends like Lois and Jimmy, and even Cat, who are relentless in badgering him for spoilers for his article.

“Y’all, come on. Every writer has their process.”

Lois waves him off with a roll of her eyes. “You’ve been on two dates. That’s two more than you’ve been on in the last five years. Give us something.”

“How is it working out? Where are you taking them?” Jimmy questions.

“Anyone famous that I would know?” Cat peers at him through her thick-framed glasses, eyes looking much too manic for his liking.

Clark is backed into a corner at his desk as the three crowd around him. He really needs to go back to saving the world and writing Superman articles. Metropolis has been eerily quiet lately, which is a big plus because all his free time is consumed trying to write notes for this article. He still isn’t quite sure what angle he wants to play this at.

The engagement party shifted his perspective. Clark is not a cynic by any means, but he certainly has his doubts about organized dating; it is what prompted him to write about it to begin with. He didn’t think that it would result in real, more-than-superificial love. His largest point of reference for love has always been his parents. Real love that has lasted decades. 

Seeing Kierra and Samson has tilted his world, forcing him to question what it means to date in the modern world.

Then there is the matter of you. You’re… different. The matchmaking business almost seems unbelievable at first. Capitalism at its finest. He knows that, while he still has faith in humanity, humans are also known to profit off others. The career seemed to be an easy way to money-grab people of hundreds of thousands with the grand promise of a happily ever after. 

But then he remembers you that night. The genuine look of awe on your face and how you preened with pride having been the one to connect the two. The way you spoke about love and how desperately you seem to want to convince him of it too. 

It appears to work because Clark finds himself reckoning with these notions, these concepts that he has held onto for so long. He thinks about love and how it is created and what it means to find it. 

He thinks about how comfortable you feel in his arms, or how you smiled up at him with those twinkling eyes. He thinks about the teasing lilt in your voice and the gentle comfort of your words. He thinks about how easy it is with you. 

He tries not to think about that part too much when you ship him off on his second date, which is a hundred and ten percent worse than the first one. Cold chills spread through his body, goosebumps rising on his skin, at the memory.

“Oh, bad date then,” Lois laughs. “God, look at the look on your face. So was everything she said just hoo-ha?”

“No,” he says slowly, “not everything. Though, I’m not so sure how good she is at matching me with people. Either that or she has terrible clients.”

“Tell us then!” Jimmy urges impatiently.

Clark groans. “The first one hated me because I don’t drink wine, I don’t think Superman is a terrorist, and I don’t have a nice car. The second one—” he will have nightmares for days about this one, “—she kept trying to climb on top of me at the restaurant.”

The cackles ring loud and clear across the room, capturing the attention of many irrelevant parties who have no business knowing about his — dare he say — love life.

“Why is that a bad thing?” Cat asks, frowning. “It’s good that she’s attracted.”

“She was—” crazy, there is no other word, because she kept trying to kiss him even after she inhaled that plate of garlic knots in five minutes, “—a no-go, for sure. A little too eager.”

Cat grumbles something about men these days.

“But you still think it’s possible? For you to meet the love of your life in three dates?” Lois asks.

"I highly doubt that, but it’s been an interesting experience.”

If someone were to honestly ask him how it’s going, he would say that it’s not going so well. The dates have been mediocre at best, dangerous at worst. So if someone were to ask him why he is sticking around, he doesn’t think he can yet admit out loud that it’s because of you.

He’s curious about you, in a way that he hasn’t been intrigued by anyone in a long time. He wants to know more about you, about why you do what you do, what drives you. If you have anyone in your life who makes you believe in love the way you have made many others believe in it.

He doesn’t know how he feels about the last one, if he even wants the answer to it. A small nagging part of him whispers in his ear that it should be him, but that would be ridiculous because the two of you barely know each other.

So he tries not to dwell on it too much.

Lois scrutinizes him closely, even after Jimmy and Cat are gone from his desk. She has always been able to read him better than anyone else. It’s what makes her such a good reporter. He fidgets under her gaze, trying to avoid direct eye contact, lest she realize the thoughts sitting under his skin.

“There’s something here you’re not telling me,” Lois starts with narrowed eyes, “and I’m going to find out. I’m a patient woman.”

She is, and he is even more terrified because of it.

As he wraps up work that night, his phone rings and your name pops up. His heart skips a beat. He’s surprised it has taken you this long to call, presumably for feedback.

“Hey,” Clark greets. Simple, easy.

There is honking on the other side of the line and then you curse, which draws a smile from him. You always seem so professional around your other clients, but have no qualms calling and cursing in front of him.

“Hey, shit, sorry. It’s been a rough day. A few clients are out on dates so I needed to check in with them first but I wanted to make sure I came back to you. First meal I’m eating today so forgive me, I’m cooking while I call you, but I wanted to get your thoughts on your date. Heather was really happy about you, she couldn’t stop raving.”

Well, this will be awkward. “Ah, right.”

You pause, silence on the other end. “I’m assuming you have other thoughts about it?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“She was a little… eager,” he says hesitantly, “she kept trying to kiss me and climb on top of me. We were at a restaurant. It didn’t seem appropriate.”

“Oh Christ,” you mutter. “I’m so sorry, Clark. Heather’s a great woman but she’s had a string of shit dates — not all organized by me, mind you — so she might be a little pent up. I’m not excusing her behavior because that is wildly inappropriate. I’ll have a chat with her to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

"Yeah, it’s fine. No harm done. Thanks for checking in though,” he responds, packing up his bag for the day.

The office is deserted, most people have gone home for the day, but he wanted to get a head start on additional research for his article. He wants to speak to a few experts too and hopefully get more insight there beyond ADORE.

“I have a new client who just came on board. She’s fantastic and I think the two of you will get along—ow, shit!” Clattering on the other end has him on alert.

He frowns, trapping the phone between his ear and shoulder as he loosens his tie. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Um, yeah, no big deal.”

Your voice is shaky, none of your usual confidence. “Hey, tell me. What’s going on?”

“Fuck, this is so embarrassing. I can handle it, don’t worry.”

Clark sighs, “I’m not asking if you can handle it. Tell me what happened.”

A groan reverberates through his phone’s speakers. “I was cooking and then this roach—fuck, it came out of nowhere and I had the pot in my hand and I dropped it and now the roach is somewhere in my apartment and I’m standing on my couch because I’m fucking terrified. Roaches fly, don’t they? They can still get me if I’m above ground?”

“I can come over and help.”

“No, oh my god, that would be so unprofessional. I’ll… figure it out.”

“Tell me your address. I’ll drop by.”

“Clark, you really don’t have to—”

“Text me, yeah? I’m heading out of the office right now.”

A pause before your quiet voice comes through again. “Okay.”

Ten minutes later, Clark is standing in front of your door. Your apartment is surprisingly… simple. He expected an extravagant penthouse, but it’s a quiet, walk-up building with an old buzzer that had caught him off guard. You have a mat outside your door with “Hi, I’m Mat” written on it. He smiles to himself. Cute.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, I’m a little freaked out and I don’t really want to step off the couch to open the door.”

Clark looks down at the knob and wonders if it would be problematic for him to just melt or break it to access your place.

“I have a spare key under the mat.”

That works too. Also, incredibly unsafe. He’ll have to talk to you about it later.

For now, he takes the key and opens the door. The first thing he notices is the spilled puddle of red liquid next to your small kitchen. The second thing is you perched on top of the couch, looking at him in alarm with a pillow in your hand.

“Hi,” he greets, amused.

You scowl, “Don’t look so happy. I don’t know where that little creeper went.”

Clark proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes looking around both on his feet and on his knees. When he finally spots the little bugger underneath one of your side tables, he glances around for something to catch it with.

“Don’t kill it,” you mumble from your spot.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he says as he grabs one of your empty shipping boxes, traps the thing in, packages it up, and flicks the roach out your window. Turning back around, he sees you slowly climb down from your couch.

It’s a little disconcerting to see you in such casual clothes. Your hair is wet, your pajamas adorned with little stars somewhat rumpled, and your feet bare against the cool, creaky wooden floors. You exhale deeply, smiling awkwardly up at him. “Thank you. I’m sorry you came all the way here for this, I know the office is kind of far. I hope you didn’t get any traffic tickets on the way here.”

Thankfully, law enforcement has no jurisdiction over how fast he can fly from one place to another. “It’s no worries at all. I’m sorry about your dinner,” he says, looking at the pitiful mess on the floor.

“It’s just ramen, I can always make another.”

He looks at you in disbelief. “You didn’t eat all day and you were going to eat ramen for dinner?”

“It’s easy,” you say, your cheeks warming, “don’t shame me for my girl dinner.”

Clark laughs. “I’m not, I’m only slightly concerned about your health.”

“I have so much work to catch up on.”

As if on cue, Clark’s stomach also grumbles. He ate a sizable lunch but he still hasn’t had anything for dinner. “How about you work and I whip up dinner for both of us?”

Your eyes widen, protests spilling from your lips. “No, oh no. That’s a crazy inconvenience. I’ve already had you come all the way here to get rid of a bug.”

“Think of it as my thank you for setting me up on dates for free,” Clark smiles. “I’ll be back in a bit with groceries.”

When Clark is outside of your apartment, you whip the door open. “Hold on! I’ll come with you at least.”

“You have work.”

You ignore his words. “Give me a second to change.”

He always finds grocery shopping therapeutic. There is something so particularly human about it. He remembers the times he walked through the market where his parents met all those decades ago, with his mom by his side. She taught him how to pick the freshest produce and how to turn them into his favorite dishes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” You prompt.

He almost forgets that you’re next to him, until he sees you peer around him to look at his face. He chuckles, “Nothing important. Just thinking about how I used to do a lot of the grocery runs with my ma.”

“You’re close with your family?”

Clark hums, tossing a bag of flour next to the box of eggs in his basket. “Yeah, they’ve been good to me. Raised me even when I was an unruly teenager.”

“I can’t imagine you as an unruly teenager. The worst thing you’ve probably done is skip school.” Clark pinks to the tips of his ears. “Oh my, you’ve never even skipped school?”

“Education is very important!” He defends, plucking baking powder from the shelf.

You laugh, the sound a delight. Clark’s growing fond of the way you laugh. Your genuine laugh. The one that comes straight from your belly and escapes from your lips. “God, you’re such a good guy. Catching roaches, making dinner, prioritizing education. Complete package.”

The two of you continue talking about nothing and everything as you finish up your shopping. Clark carries all the groceries in the short five-minute walk back to your place, despite your insistence that you are strong enough to carry some of it.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you have to,” he points out before his hands loop through the bags.

As he prepares his usual dinner menu, you camp out on your laptop. Clark watches you from the counter, how your forehead creases and your lips twist whenever you see something you don’t like, how your lips twitch with a silent laugh, how they purse when you’re thinking. You are oddly expressive for someone who he always imagines to be calm and collected. It is an interesting bit of knowledge.  

By the time he pours the last of the pancake batter onto the sizzling pan, you shut your laptop and pad over to where he is, looking around him at the stove.

“Of course you would be the type to like breakfast for dinner.”

He cocks an eyebrow at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you eat like a child,” you tease, “but at least it smells delicious.”

“I’ll have you know I learned this blueberry pancake recipe from my ma and it’s still the best pancakes I’ve ever had.”

The two of you quickly plate the massive spread Clark has prepared. Pancakes, toast with butter, perfectly runny eggs, yogurt with granola and honey, and an assortment of fruits. The plates are spread across your coffee table and the two of you settle comfortably on the floor, backs against your couch. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever had this much breakfast food in my life,” you say as your eyes wade through the dishes in alarm. “Thanks for cooking.”

“Don’t thank me yet, you have to like the food first.”

Clark slices through the pancakes and moves them to your plate, topping them off with a healthy drizzle of maple syrup. He watches as you ravenously pile food onto your plate before digging in.

“Oh my god,” you groan. Clark blushes again and tries not to let his mind wander, instead beginning to work through his own plate.

His teeth sink into his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.

“Quit laughing at me,” you grin, shoving him lightly. Of course, Clark doesn’t budge an inch.

“I’m not laughing. I’m happy you’re enjoying your dinner,” he smiles right back.

“This is no joke. Best breakfast I’ve ever had.”

“Big compliments from someone who’s probably been to many fancy breakfast places.”

The two of you enjoy the meal in relative silence. The television plays in the background as white noise as you stuff yourselves to the brim with the delicious feast Clark prepared. It’s a comfortable silence, the type that usually only exists between old friends.

Despite your initial introduction, Clark finds himself at ease with you. He had — incorrectly — assumed that you would be more uptight, more focused on pitching your services with your sales voice rather than building real connections. Seeing you in action and spending time with you these past couple of weeks have been eye-opening.

After dinner, you’re stretched out on the couch, eyes glued to the television playing some old animated rerun. Clark is still nestled on the carpeted floor, long legs stretched out in front of him and his back pressed against the sofa.

“Why are you still single, Clark?”

The question takes him aback, and he turns slightly to look at you, but you’re still looking at the screen. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a perfect gentleman. You have all the physical qualities that make you objectively attractive. You cook. You’re a family man. You’re not scared of bugs. You come to the aid of a damsel in distress who has only put you through hell so far with your dates.”

Clark swallows a laugh at the sincerely befuddled expression on your face. “I don’t know. I’ve been on a few dates but I don’t think I’ve ever been that good at it.”

“You’re literally perfect.”

“Far from it,” he murmurs quietly. “I think people tend to look for someone charming, someone put together who can talk their way through anything. I’m not that guy.”

“On the contrary, I think people who are too charming can seem disingenuous. You, on the other hand, bleed sincerity.”

The corner of his lips tugs up. “Is that really a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing, I promise.”

He shifts and breathes out slowly. “What about you? Any partners?”

“Oh, yes, loads. As you can see by my delicious dinner on the floor and the fact that I spend all of my hours at work.”

Clark chuckles low, shaking his head. “Alright, no need to sass me.”

“I’m single as a pringle.”

“Why don’t you date?”

Thick silence blankets both of you for a moment. You seem to be deep in thought, your lips pressed into a thin line as you snuggle deeper into the worn fabric of your couch. Clark wonders what or who put that look on your face. Impassive, but if you look closely, it’s tinged with a little hurt.

“I’m not… datable,” you begin quietly. “I don’t date. I think I’ve seen too much of the inner workings behind dating to believe that it’ll work for me. I’ve been around the block and I’m not about to take that walk again.”

Clark stews on it for a moment. He has never been that good at biting his tongue. “Can I ask why?”

You take a deep breath. “My last boyfriend, we got into so many arguments. I was young and insecure, I was constantly concerned about how long we would last. I analyzed every single part of our relationship and us as individuals to see if we were meant to be together. He told me I was cold and emotionless, that I didn’t really understand what makes a relationship.”

“That’s not fair. Relationships don’t last solely based on love alone, as much as people would love to believe that.”

Tilting your head back, you look up at the ceiling. The fan whirrs quietly, offering some reprieve from the heat that crawls up your skin. “I’m an awful person, Clark. I talk a big game about being able to match people with their perfect partner, but I don’t even believe it’s even possible for me.”

"I don’t think you’re awful,” he quickly interjects with a frown.

A light laugh escapes your lips as you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are warm, and sad, and Clark wants nothing more than to chase that expression away. Before he can continue, you say, “You don’t think anyone is awful, Clark. That’s your strong suit.” You smile. “It’s a good thing. We need more people like you. More people with faith.”

“You’re too tough on yourself,” Clark says, turning his body around entirely and sitting cross-legged on the couch. His fingers itch to reach out to you, but he keeps his hands tucked on his lap. “Love isn’t easy. What you do isn’t easy. You help people who may no longer believe in love find their way again. That’s not a simple task. What you’re trying to do is build relationships that last, and that includes understanding what people are looking for and making sure they never settle for less than they deserve.

“Humans are complex. No one thinks about love exactly the same way as another person. You— you just haven’t found someone yet who thinks the way you do, but it doesn’t mean they’re not out there. I understand what you’re looking for. I’m a romantic,” he smiles, “but I also do think that some sensibility matters. So no, you’re not an awful person. You don’t need anyone to make you whole, but you sure as heck can find someone who will love you as much as you love them.”

When he finally looks at you, he sees the unshed tears in your eyes. You’re looking at him with something like awe and appreciation. It makes his heart stutter, and he quickly looks away.

“Gosh, that’s a little embarrassing. I talk as if I know anything about this, huh?” He laughs, the sound stilted. His heart tightens in his chest as he glances away from you.

“You’re a darn good man, Clark Kent,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

Clark smiles. “No need to thank me.”

As if you’re trying to release the tension from the air, you sit up, discreetly swiping at your eyes. “Also, are you real? Who says things like heck and gosh?”

A groan bubbles up his throat. “My parents raised me not to curse, alright.”

“Yeah, you were a real unruly teenager.”

Part Two (coming soon!) ↦

Tag List: @sflame15-blog

[yiiiikesmish]

ahhh i love this so much. beautiful piece of writing. thank you for sharing this, the emotional rollercoaster you just took me on HIT.

put you in a bodybag or in my bed. ( clark kent )

clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him?

superman! clark kent x fem! journalist! reader (no use of yn- clark nicknames you neutron)

themes: onesided enemies to lovers (you are enemies- he thinks you're lovers but he's also a brat), hidden feelings, workplace rivalry, drunk shenanigans, kissing, implied smut, and love confession, fluff, angst, betrayal (juicy angst), mentions of insecurities, feeling overwhelmed, confiding in superman, previous relationships and an ending inspired by "how to lose a guy in 10 days"

wc: 15k (CLARK HURT COMFORT FINAL BOSS)

masterlist.

it's the smug half smile that catches your narrowed eye unwillingly, the sympathetic look your best friend jimmy sends your way and the fresh copy that lands at your desk to settle the fire in your blood.

you love the smell of fresh paper printed; the crispness, the warmth of the stories it tells and trusts you with. the faint inky scent that bleeds under your fingertips, excites you to new highs- you're sure this could very well be a strange addiction. but now? seeing clark kent's name printed small under the overbearing headline that's most certainly not yours but very well deserves to be, you've never felt the urge to scrunch it up, crumble it to death as it shreds along with your pride.

metropolis' man in the cape saves again: his thoughts on humanity, hope and his place in the world.

and he might've. you applaud superman, he's a man of the people, a story worth writing and you've even asked to interview him once- he never replied, like a ghost, except he haunted you through repetitive interviews with your mortal enemy clark kent and it burned. and from that day? you preferred batman, at least he rejected you with honesty and a bluntness you could appreciate. he didn't get cosy with the enemy, he punished them and relished in the feeling of it, just how you wished you could do yourself to one person in particular.

"you'll get em next time tiger," and its a stiff pat of the lazily dropped on to your shoulder, a smile imprinted in the air that englufs you. you don't even have to look up to recognise the unwanted looming 6'4 shadow towering above you, as if from that height you couldn't feel anymore smaller- be anymore smaller compared to him. the rage bubbles over in your stomach, steaming at your organs and quietly releases through the air that flares from your nostrils. you're seething and he knows it, he tortures you with the same lame comfort every time he makes the front page and you don't- which these days, feels way more often than not.

but you won't burst, not yet, and definitely not infront of the one person who's waiting for it to happen. you wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he's won, he's under your skin and you let him roam free there. so you grit your teeth, open your document and begin to list all the things you hate about clark kent.

. . .

"golly, if it isn't jimmy and neutron," shining blue eyes twinkle with a tease and you feel the bile rising up in your system already. the play on words had gotten old very quickly; matter of fact a day after he met you quickly and decided that because you were pushing in the field of science journalism, using your physics degree to explore current trends in space with an environmental focus often- clark had used his big brains to label you as neutron, fitting for your best friend jimmy. it was also the last time you wore red, clark's evil pretty smile basically bursting when he saw the correlation and on your first day, before lunch time had even hit- clark kent had made two embarrassing (on your part) mistakes. first, he had thought you were the latest intern and asked for his coffee order and then came the likening you to a fictional character- the nickname sticking to you with hot embarrassment. months later and you're still neutron, you're pretty sure you may die as neutron.

"ha, ha," the stale echo leaves your mouth as you shoot him your best disapproving glare. it doesn't deter him one bit, you get a flash of teeth in return, a blinding superstar grin that just fuels your disgust- god, how could anyone be as obnoxious as him, you think.

"hey clark!" jimmy calls out and clark responds with a wave, you hiss at your friend, the outward act of betrayal infront of your own eyes as you duck your head low to avoid any further confrontations with your mortal enemy. that's enough evilness for one day, anymore and you'll be at the gates of pure hell, clark kent's poster face ready and waiting.

"keep walking jim," you whisper through your teeth, giving clark one last glare before continuing on to the lifts and into your lunch time plans- the weather seemed nice enough to eat outdoors, you two had thoroughly checked the weather days in advance, hoping to get some much needed serotonin, sunshine and serenity the city can offer.

"hey jim, say if you see this nerd about yay big," he levels your height with his hand, purposely making you look smaller, "tell her the second page is looking for her," and you flip him off as you walk away, hearing a loud weight of boyish laughter thud in the air of the daily planet. a sliver of his stupid face disappears once the doors shut, though it lingers at the forefront of your mind- the crevices and lines etched of his skin burnt into your memory as the words echo again. you rub at your temples, massaging them softly as you slump your body against the wall- jimmy immediately taking your bag from you and lightening the load on your shoulders.

he doesn't have to say anything; he knows what has you so uptight and part of him thinks its the funniest and silliest game of cat and mouse that you and clark are locked in, both blissfully and painfully unaware.

"i hate when he calls me that," you mumble into your hands, feeling the anger seethe, bubble and then you mute it down into what feels a lot more like practised exhaustion and fatigue. there's no bark in your bite whenever clark isn't around, there's just something in his presence that greatly amplifies your annoyance and the secondary feeling of insecurities pushing on you. he's clark kent. he's loved by the whole team, he's buddies with superman, he makes the front page like it's his birthright with such ease, he's built like a damn machine and he has a dog, he talks to his parents every other day, he watches star wars and he is kind- albeit kind to everyone but you. you can't help but feel like this is all a personal attack- of course clark kent isn't perfect and has enemies, he chose you as his target, you as his nemesis- he must've seen some sort of match to play though often than you'd like to admit you do feel way out of your sparring depth.

"i think it's cute," jimmy shrugs, and by the downward turn of your curled lip, bordering into snarl territory he knows you disagree- and hard.

"he said i had a big forehead!" you didn't mean to shout, but the outrage is astronomical, the disbelief burns in your veins. clark kent cannot find you cute- he's satan in disguise, this will ruin everything, everything you've worked for and against because that will mean you are wrong and clark kent is actually capable of being a decent person.

"he called you a genius!" jimmy tries to reason and the look you level him with incredulity makes him want to hide away and wait this out.

"a young boy genius-"

"the most renowned of minds," he compliments, trying to make it sound way better than what it is, not that you have a giant forehead or the one instance you wore red and became the butt of a joke. you're his best friend, and he loves you more than anything but some part of him wants to just shake you awake, that clark kent must be drawn to you if he only ever acts this way around you. for two incredible journalists, you two are so stupid with the evidence right there infront of you.

"oh yes jimmy, because that's what every girl wants to hear- not that i'm hot or that my work matters and is good enough to make the print but that i'm a young boy genius with a forehead the size of fucking space- what? why are you looking at me like that?" you take a step away from him as the lift finally opens and leads you outside and on a pathway to the nearest park where you can settle down, let the breeze run through your skin and hair and squash any thought of a certain black curly haired nuisance in your already occupied brain.

"oh nothing," he teases, "why would you care about clark kent, your quote unquote "nemesis", calling you hot?"

"i don't," you immediately spit out, aware of how suspiciously quick the response came and the smug look jimmy olsen tries to hide. it's like your brain had this rehearsed, formulated in a strict "clark kent protocol" and shot it out along with any inclination that you could feel anything other than a strong dislike for your co-worker.

"okay," jimmy shrugs, his hands drop lazily in surrender but the smile he sports is as clear as day; soft as the clouds you sit under as you unwrap your sandwich and kick your legs free.

"i said i don't," you repeat, even minutes after the conversation dies down and jimmy is busying himself trying to find a movie on his laptop, but it bugs you the indifference- no, jimmy not siding with you immediately, like there's some secrecy he's holding to himself instead of defending your honour boldly.

"i heard you the first time babe," he mumbles, scrolling and clicking, "how do you feel about star wars?" he asks, and your heart knocks against your ribcage, a slump at having to work overtime at the constant reminder of clark fucking kent. but you know jimmy, saying no and bringing up clark's strange addiction with the series would only prove his point- that as much as you dislike him, some part of you searches for his opinion in a sick and twisted way.

so you take a bite of your sandwich, swallowing pesto and your pride and let it grow stale in your mouth as you nod, "sounds good to me," you try for a careless, offhanded comment of indifference but it burns, it bothers you in ways you can't even explain.

"okay," fuck you, okay.

. . .

"oh, she loves when i call her that," he doesn't even try to dull out the laughter when he spots your middle finger sent his way, his tongue presses in his cheek, mischief laced in his mind as he watches your form disappear through the doors and out into the wind. he swivels back in his chair, the wheels rolling as the gears in his brain turn- he really needs to think of a new article for next week's brief, check in with perry, come up with something that can top your new advancement on the science column. that task enough was difficult, you were smart and everybody included clark kent knew it and had to deal with it, you really gave him a tough run for his money in the fight to make the front page.

"do you know if she's seeing anyone? she's hardly with anyone other than jimmy- maybe she's seeing jimmy," he mutters as he closes the millions of tabs open on his screen, his stomach rumbles and he's due for a break soon. he was tempted to join your and jimmy's picnic, overhearing you guys from across the corridor and he salivated at the mention of you bringing some banana bread and tea in flasks. he lingered at the printers, waited to be given an invite, even focused on jimmy- the weaker of you two to crumble first but the pure steel you gave him as you moved to the opposite side of the room with your best friend following like a lost puppy as soon as you caught sight of clark staring intently, it was clearly not going to happen.

"clark, what do you care? you give her absolute hell-" lois' warning is cut off by clark's brows shooting to the ceiling at her admission.

"i do not! it's our thing-"

"i think this might be a you thing-" she tries to reason to her colleague, bring him out of the depths of delusion he's ran himself through and back to the surface of reality.

"she likes it!" clark scoffs, you engage in this mini war just the same as he does- the effort does not go unnoticed by him. out of everyone he's ever met, only you've come close to his wit, his intellect, his humour- you're his equal and if he has to mess with you to keep the competition on your toes and your focus on him, clark kent will spend the rest of his life playing this dangerous game. and if anything, he loves a challenge. you didn't swoon when you first met clark, you didn't bat an eyelid or even go out of your way to impress him but you've stolen his attention from the first look and the rest is history.

"and what makes you think she likes it?" you. lois wants to say, but she doesn't think her friend is ready for that type of conversation yet. but the real meaning is unspoken but heard, lingers in the air as his eyes are struck on the spot where you've left.

"she smiles," and he sports one of his own, if lois focused a little longer than maybe she would've heard the subtle pick of his heartrate, the dreamy sigh that leaves his lips followed by a little gasp when he pictures you, how he has to press his lips together to stop himself from bursting out the seams.

"at everyone but you," lois, the true voice of reason and honesty, tries to hit him with.

"exactly," he's smug when he faces his friend, kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back in his chair, "mine are reserved," he brags. he thinks about the small smiles kept with clark kent's name attached to them. how they're half teeth but all heart, with your lips pressed together but clark can see the small curve of your lip. the smirks that radiate confidence, how clark marvels at your talent and intellect, the small snarls where you mean to throw disdain but clark catches it with pride that he can rile you up this good. then there's the smiles where you don't think he's watching but he always is, where your eyes crinkle and your whole existence seems to soften with something gentler, something kinder, something so overtly hidden from him that he doesn't want to ruin the moment and let you know he's there.

he must've trailed too far off into the distance, overstayed in the shrine he's built of you in memories that lois' knowing look pulls him back to the surface and he tries to return back to their earlier conversation- the start of it all, questioning the existence if there's someone out there other than clark who is deserving of your attention, "i don't think her and jimmy are a thing, i mean i saw her wrestle him for a coffee mug in the break room earlier," and he tries to hide the fondness with a poorly executed scoff.

"clark again, what do you care?" except this time lois doesn't bother to hide the giggle of stupidity at one of her closest's friends and clark panics, he doesn't care. he can't care- it'll ruin his easygoing relationship with you and if you have to hate him for him to get access to a side you don't give out to anyone else, clark kent will do it.

"i don't, i told you, maybe if neutron got laid or was seeing someone, she'd like i don't know lighten up," he excuses but the words feel as misplaced as they leave him, when they linger in the air and cut through the thickness with a swift elbow jab from lois. it feels wrong, like a branding he's put out there- a label on your character but he needs to throw his friend off his trail. he's clark kent, he's number one and you're the competition. and then a heavy silence takes over and clark trails lois' apologetic gaze to where you stand just a few feet away from him, sporting the same glare you always mean for him but a new faint red blush creeping up your neck.

oh lord, he thinks.

because somewhere along from torturing yourself with star wars and your work nemesis thinking of your smile, you've made it back to the office- forgetting a cup for your flask. and at that moment in time, fate is a cruel twisted and funny thing because your ears burn hot with the intensity of the words he's hit you with and they paint a tomato hue of embarrassment you can't bring yourself to die down.

"dick," you scoff in his direction, disgust laced on your features but its a little more of a weaker whisper than you'd like.

"hey, you can borrow it whenever," he tries to recover, regain the comedic banter and shoots you a wink to recover from his stumble. but you just stare, stare and stare till he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. when you're satisfied with his squirming you turn to head back to your desk to grab a small blanket and some cups.

"i'd rather eat glass," you return smoothly, "glad to know a dry spell is also hitting you too or do you just you offer your services up to anyone?" it's snarky, but if you weren't so thrown off guard, you know you could've done better.

"ah, not anyone, just you babe," another smirk. but when you've disappeared he faces a stern lois who stands with her brows raised clearly unimpressed, theres just something about you that brings out the competitive childish side in him and he doesnt know what to do. his mouth moves far too quick for his brain to keep up with, anything for you keep your eyes on him. until you don't.

"oh gosh," he breathes when you're out of earshot, though he'd never let you hear or give you the satisfaction of throwing him off his usual calm, collected and smooth game.

"a little too far, kent," she pats him on the back, its a little harder but carries the consequences of him mouthing off "keep that up and you'll drive her too far out you'll need a damn map to bring her home."

"oh i'm not trying to bring her home," he rolls his eyes and a beat of silence passes the two of them.

"clark, i think you like her," lois softens.

"i think you're being crazy and should just help me with damn article," he huffs, directing his attention to literally anything but the confession his friend hits him with. he can't like you- he can't, but lois saying it doesn't make it feel any less real. so she lets it go, settles into their easy routine and helps nitpick where he's gone wrong and what he can do better, clark listens obediently and tries to focus but he can still feel you in his orbit. he needs to do something to salvage the mood and so he does what he knows he can do- pure journalism.

"full disclaimer not that i care or anything but for purely based on my outstanding deductive skills as a journalist- that means she's not seeing anyone," he breaks the shifted mood to recall your earlier comment from memory, like his muscles remember the contraction, the wave of oxygen it takes to formulate your name and your entire existence like its a secret oath he's sworn to protect.

"not that you care though right," lois teases and he feels his friendship slowly restores its balance, his earlier slip up not forgotten, just lightly grazed over into something familiar.

"of course not," he confirms and ducks his head lower into his desk, not without sneaking a look in the direction of your desk that still sits empty- you must've returned to your picnic with jimmy and afternoon without the tyranny of clark kent.

"it was on the record- observational, i'm a journalist," he excuses with a shrug. lois catches the ramble fondly but clark is too far in his head to notice. and maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it enough.

. . .

the thing is, clark kent has tried to be nice to you. a truce of some sorts.

it started with coffee cups that he would leave on your desk, watch you sniff cautiously and the first few you spilt down the sink along with his eager-eyed hope for peace. you weren't sure of who was leaving them until you arrived to work a lot earlier than usual- your plans to leave a lot earlier that day and make up the time.

you watched him pick up your mug from the cupboard through blinking tired eyes- it had to have been a blur, a lapse in judgement you were half asleep. but the guilty look, his widened eyes like a deer in headlights, its a look you'll score into your memory.

from there, he still made the coffee and he'd watch you drink it in agonising slow slips, never once did you acknowledge it, thank him other than a slight nod, but he held onto it.

he tried through giving you pointers on your work, just little comments to push you in the direction and you were pushed alright. you didn't speak or look his way for days, the cold shoulder freezing clark out as you poured yourself into long days glued to your desk to come out better, to do better, to be better.

he even offered to walk you home and you looked at him like he was insane; and maybe he was. maybe he shouldve known it came across as weird, out of the blue, i mean you two were hardly even friends and your commute was in the entirely different direction of his but he thought it was gentlemanly, honourable even but you gave him one weird look and left. and he never asked again.

and from then, clark decided there was higher reward that came from annoying you than what came from being nice to you. nice didn't earn him your attention, didn't push him to be his best for you and him, in fact he owes a large part of his career growth to you- it's nice to be challenged but being nice wasn't going to get you to look in his direction and linger. nice was for strangers, for friends and you and clark? he knew your connection was meant for more.

. . .

it's wednesday and you have the mornings off, entering the daily planet just after the callback from lunch is announced and you step into the meeting room ready for a debrief.

you've had your hair cut, clark notices immediately as he catches sight of your frame slipping through the door behind perry. he likes it, a lot, he decides. it looks so soft and bouncy, styled in a blowout that clark for a second, thinks what it would be like to feel the strands through his fingers, like silk. do you use silk pillows?

you catch sight of lois, send her a sweet smile and it drops to a slower polite one at clark, who lets his fingers dance in a teasing wave as you walk past the pair to get to your usual seat- right across from him. he gets a faint smell of vanilla and deeper notes of cherry that intoxicate his bloodstream and lure him deeper in your vicinity- is that a new fragrance? he doesn't have time to notice because a laughter like sunshine streaks through the sky, throwing planet earth off orbit.

"that good?" jimmy murmurs, and you shake your head, eyes widening and flashing in delight,

"incredible," you gush in a whisper and clark feels left out. there's clearly something unspoken in the air, you just feel lighter. you've abandoned your usual slacks for a fairy-like skirt, paired with a simple knit sweater and bow ballet flats, you look ... nice, he wants to say. like, you always look nice but today, you look really nice. you look softer, less guarded and it is drawing clark in like a magnet he can't turn from.

before he can even tease you, the room drifts off into a deep discussion as they pass around their ideas for the week and when it gets to you, clark uses the opportunity to ask you the most useless questions, hold your gaze intently as he quizzes on random hypothetical scenarios and when he hears the frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you pack up your things, clark faces a tired lois, ignoring how he hears you mumble a faint "i'm going to kill him jimmy, i'm going to go down for first degree murder and i give lois permission to have that story."

"what?" he questions. she levels him with a look and he shrugs it off, "she looks different today," he adds a little quieter today.

and then lois swats his shoulder in annoyance, "dude," she breathes, "you know, maybe she finally got laid and eased up a bit" lois repeats a stale regurgitation of his previous words and scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. and as if by instinct, clark's fists clench and rumble under the table as he pins a dark look to your seat. he can't imagine it- you? sharing an electric chemistry with someone other than him? must be a nightmare he's stuck in because suddenly clark doesn't feel as special anymore. he feels lonely, and a little bit childish for getting such a reaction out of you. he tunes out on lois' teasing and taps his fingers against the table in thought and then without saying goodbye, he leaves lois lane confused behind.

for this type of journalism, clark has to go out on the field.

he tries to find you on many occasions to conduct his investigation on your love life but it seems you're playing hide and seek, though he does spot jimmy olsen refilling his coffee in the break room and very subtly leans his back to the counter, facing jimmy cooly.

"can i help you, clark?" jimmy furrows his brows, looking around to see if there's anyone else clark is here for.

"hey jimmy," he smiles and it's strange, unnerving even. clark has always been nice to jimmy but his little stunt flustering you in the break room after you've clearly had a good morning, jimmy feels the need to protect his honour and show his loyalty today to you today.

"listen, i gotta go," he swats off clark, holding up two mugs and clark catches it instantly- the mug he used to refuel so often for you. he matches jimmy's stride within seconds, his longer legs having to slower down a few steps to keep up in tandem with him. jimmy catches on slowly to what clark's doing and speeds up, narrowing a corner and hoping to lose him.

"what do you want?" jimmy breathes out, trying to catch his lungs up to this metaphorical turned physical chase.

"neutron," clark stops him, extending his arm as a physical barricade to the wall and cutting him off and jimmy nods slowly, careful not to pour any more spillage from the steaming mugs he's transporting. "she uh, she doing okay?" he asks.

"is she doing okay?" jimmy dumbly repeats, "yes?"

"yes?"

"yes?" he repeats,

"why are you saying it like a question, she is or she isn't," clark rumbles in exasperation.

"yes she's fine! what do you care?"

"why does everyone keep saying that!" clark bursts our and quietens down once he sees the few stares that have accumulated his way. jimmy rolls his eyes and sends him a glare, eerily similar to lois' but all clark can focus on is how its nothing like yours.

"clark, you're like, a menace-" jimmy gets out, "in the nicest way possible, i think you're out of your depth," and clark doesn't make a move, just sets his lips between his teeth and sits on it.

"she's not seeing anyone is she?" he speaks low, a depth he's sure can touch the centre of the earth and meant for jimmy's ears only. a smirk settles on your friend's features as he tries to hide the smile.

"you'll have to ask her yourself," he shrugs trying not to act too smug, "her business is her business." and he ducks his head under clark's arm of a barricade and carries on his way, he walks around the corner slightly again out of clark's way but sends a final look back in resignation and slight pity for your work nemesis who's clearly trying to branch out into friends and more territory with no clue how to, "clark?"

"yeah?" he answers hopeful, the beat of his heart skipping as he jumps to each conclusion.

"save her a dance tomorrow, i think she'd like that," and he nods to himself, that's if you don't kill him before the daily planet gala starts.

. . .

"girl, tomorrow you wear the dress. trust me on this, no questions, just do it."

. . .

there's faint buzz of something questionable, something familiar and something that makes the butterflies soar in your stomach as you take a walk around the room. it's been decorated so beautifully and you take the time to just soak up the ambience- the warmth it offers as you're here so often this place is basically your second home, you've made friends, enemies but so many memories that tonight is a celebration.

you let yourself looser, you dance as much as you can and let the liquid courage swim through your veins as you float carefree, until you hit the deep end. 6'4, 240lbs of a deep end.

"clark," you nod and sip into your drink, you had wanted to avoid him tonight but coming to think of it, there's nowhere in existence you could go without clark kent following you at your side.

"neutron or would you prefer my sweet nemesis?" he grins, taking in your attire and he lets his eyes roam on your frame, it warms a different kind of fire in you, a little bit of a burn that wraps around your frame- the kind that comes from a campfire, settling into the sweet night.

"you look well," you get out, ignoring his trap and his smile grows. well. he straightens to his full length, relishing in your compliment and fights back the drawl, he knows he looks good. and he knows that you know he does. he looks fucking incredible in his navy suit, his slicked hair with a small curl that hangs to the forefront. it drops, dangling dangerously infront of you and you feel the urge to reach out and wrap your finger around it, tug it enough for him to fall into you and-

"you look incredible, you know," he leans in with a tease, "for a nerd," and your heart races at the intensity of being so close. you take a step forwards, ignoring the beat of a drum in your ears and the warnings blarring in your mind and you whisper, letting it simmer in the air and lands on his lips.

"you look well," you repeat, "for someone who's about to be second place to me," and he rolls his lips together, melting your words into his soul, imprinting what he knows and loves. clark kent doesn't come second place- it's not in his nature, but the confidence you shoot at him, it sends something straight to his head and his heart. god, he loves a challenge- he likes you. and he just doesn't know what to do with all of this.

he replaces your empty glass of drink with his own, and when your lips touch the mark where his own had been moments before something tingles down his spine. you chug it down in one go and face him with a smile. your best friend's words come to you earlier and remind you that tonight is a party and you're allowed to enjoy yourself. you're a professional, you work hard, you deserve to let loose and you'll be damned if you let clark kent steal all your energy to keep up with his immature banter. there doesn't have to be a fight or arguement tonight, you could be civil coexist in the same place as clark kent and not have everything go to shit.

"jimmy said you were gonna save me a dance or have you gotten all chicken-shit?" you lay the bait and he takes it, burning at the red of your dress that flashes in his brain. he wants to photograph this moment, burn it into his soul for permanent memory because the twinkle in your eyes is dangerous, he's falling in deep. he tries to play it safe, knowing that you'd hardly let him close to you if you were sober and aware- the alcohol numbing your nerves and feeding in his delusions. so his hands find your waist at a respectable distance as he sways you to the beat, your own wrap around his shoulders and before you know it, he's skipping you around the room, twirling you in his arms and all you can feel is him.

"i need another drink," you laugh when you detach yourself from his hold, patting his chest (and pretending like you didn't feel a whole bunch of muscle under that white shirt) in a forced friendly manner and making a bee line for the table set up.

someone needs to stop you before its too late, so he warns your best friend who cheekily nods at him before he takes off in the same direction, needing the same liquid courage that has you seeing stars though clark kent is far from sober himself; his tolerance just a lot higher than yours.

the shots line up and clark takes them with each loosening his muscles and drowsing him with replays of how you smiled at him, how your laughter sounded when he finally let go of you. how tonight you weren't pretend enemies, he was a man standing infront of the most gorgeous woman alive and pretending like he wouldn't sacrifice anything to be close to you.

it's sloppy to get drunk at a work function, but clark decides its sloppier to let the only person who's ever made him feel so alive walk away so he searches for you in the sea of souls, eyes straining as he dodges body to body till he sees a sliver of red make a beeline to the bathroom and he follows.

come on clark, you're superman, you can do this, the alcohol cheers him on.

you can tell her that you love her and it all won't go to shit.

. . .

the knocks at the door interrupt your application of a fresh coat of lipstick, the red as crisp as your dress and you feel yourself blush slightly; you look good and you feel great too, which makes a really nice change for once.

"occupied," you raise your voice and steady yourself at the sink, taking a deep breath in to pace yourself. it might be a good idea to think about turning in for the night, making sure you have enough rest- you have the day off tomorrow but, still. you've had your night of breathless fun and it's time to clock back into being responsible you.

the knocks clutter again and you huff, ripping the door hinges with more force than you intended that you stumble your balance, reach out for the frame to lean on for support and face the almost intruder.

"clark?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question but it just does.

"you are infuriating," he breathes. his speech is slightly slurred and you scrunch your brows in annoyance, then your nose at the smell heavy in the air. god, he's ruining your mood already.

"all you had to do was wait," you hiss, it doesn't come as quick as you'd like but it lands all the same. he's blocking the corridor to get back out on the dance floor with that looming intensity and you wait, tapping your foot- the click of the heel signalling where you want to be.

clark refines the sound and aligns it to his heartbeat, matching each click with a footstep closer to you until he has you up against the wall, milimetres and months of tension separating the two of you. "i've waited so long," he murmurs, suddenly softer and his hand reaches out hesitantly, his fingers stroke your jaw before he cups your cheek in his hand. the other snakes around your waist and you close your eyes, subtly leaning into his touch and he hums.

"this colour on you," its a whisper as his fingers trace your lips and his eyes darken with something heavier and unfamiliar you can't name but it excites you. you wait so patiently any moment now to feel his lips on yours, if you angle your head just slightly, bend your waist into him, you'll be there yourself

"you talk too much," and sparks fly when you decide to close the gap yourself and bridge something new. theres a soft "oomf" as you throw yourself at him and he bends immediately into you, moulding your soul to his as he lets his lips lock into yours, catching your lip between his teeth as he makes further work down your neck.

"clark?" you whisper and he hums against your skin, the breath as warm as the blood pooling through your veins that you have to press your hand against his abdomen to steady yourself.

"look who's talking too much now," he rumbles and a small gasp escapes you when you feel the graze of his teeth.

"clark?" you call out again, tugging the curls of his upwards to lift his gaze to yours and you find a hint of concern hiding in them.

"yeah, baby?" and the gruff sends a new sensation to your heart, bleeding through the edges as you scramble to find a new home where you can slot the words "yeah baby" into existence for the rest of your life. it goes straight to your head, weakening your knees to jelly as you fold. for a moment it reminds you of why you don't like being called neutron when clearly, baby is the best option out there by lightyears.

"not here," you shake your head softly,

"mine?" he asks in the inches that separate you.

"yeah," you breathe before you're tangled in him again.

you're the picture of grace and elegance as you wobble away back out into the main hall. you wave to your friend goodbye and jimmy yells for you to get home safe. minutes later, clark does the exact same except he doesn't stop for anyone. he tears the front doors down like they're a mission and meets you in biting secrets of midnight. a taxi is called, the two of you two drunk to drive and keep your hands to yourself as you land at his door.

with his mouth on yours and his hands clearly busy, it takes four tries to get the key through the door before you almost trip over yourself getting in. he catches you effortlessly and where the door had taken four attempts, it only takes clark one and possibly four seconds to have you undressed and feel his skin on yours, and not just linger under it like he usually does.

it's a night filled with praises, a messy tangle of the months of yearning and miscommunicated feelings that rush to the surface. and as your back hits the soft clouds of his mattress and he sends you to a new type of heaven, you forget all the reasons you've ever hated clark kent. how could you not? when he's hell bent on making sure you're loved enough in one night for a lifetime.

. . .

the first thing that unsettles you is that when you wake there's no sunlight that peeks through your blinds which alarms you dangerously.

it then amplifies when you sit upright and the sheets slip, pooling at your naked waist that you gasp horrified, clutching them back to cover you as you dart your eyes in your surroundings.

the hangover rushes to your head, a drum that pounds with panic as you bite your lip down, blood rising with a bruised ego as you realise just where in the hell you were.

in hell.

in satan's homeland you've lost your dignity.

you stand, the urge to cry in embarrassment as you flush, desperately grabbing your trail of clothes all over the room and dressing at the speed of light. the mirror catches your reflection, the print of pillows that aren't yours etched onto your cheeks, the ruffled of your hair a sloppy mess- a direct echo of how you feel and you shudder at your appearance. this feels like a far cry from how you looked last night- you just look so undone and it nags at you as you plan your escape.

heels may be too loud with their clicking, you ponder so you clutch as the straps and pad barefoot out of the bedroom door. the eery quiet and silence of the house just makes it easier to hear your heart thud in your chest, begging to break free and relieve itself from the anxiety building up in your system.

just a few steps to go and freedom will feel so incredible.

"not even going to join me for breakfast?" and its a deep runble, etched with fatigue and gentleness that pulls you from your escape plan as you freeze. you're mid-tiptoe and pause, turning swiftly to face the bane of your existence, the cause of all your problems and most recent mistake with a cheesy smile.

its a new one, clark thinks and he makes a mental note to jot it down for later safekeeping. it's childish even, curled with nerves at the edges as he watches you try and come up with an excuse. he sets the frying pan down on his oven and makes his way towards you. unlike you, a hot mess, he's dressed in a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms- like a normal person would be and you couldn't help but feel more stupid. he plants his hands on your shoulders and steers you into the direction of his kitchen, ignoring your pleads and excuses with a hand firmly pressed to your mouth, stifling you to silence.

"come on neutron," he mumbles, "eat." and the plate placed infront of you unlocks something ravenous, caveman-like, setting back your mannerisms years to the beginning of existence. you swallow your pride and some of the omlette he's made slowly and clark smiles, it feels like the very first time he saw you actually drink one of the coffees he made for you at the office and its funny how the deja vu just hits him.

if he could take it back, he would have tried harder, he thinks. would've made the coffee regularly into a habit, wouldve showed you in the smaller moments that he can be more than the competition, he could be a steady force in your life. or maybe, he could've just pavlov'ed you into expecting a coffee that when it didn't come, it would've caused you to seek him out either way.

"fuck," you mumble, of course clark kent had to have been a good cook too- this feels highly unfair on you, you think.

"yeah we did," he mutters into his steaming mug of coffee and when he feels you freeze under the table opposite him he apologises. its the softest of "sorry"'s you've ever heard in your life, the first from him for sure that you test how it feels on your ears, savour the sensation and decide you like it almost as much as you loved hearing the word "baby" slip from his lips last night. clark sends you a softened look, hoping his slip up hasn't scared you off- gentle steps, he curses at himself. he knows you, knows the structure you value that any sort of off balance will drive you away and he intends to keep you as close as he can.

he waits for you to finish breakfast and you sit there awkwardly, "i can do the dishes?" you offer and he shuts you down instantly, letting you linger in your shame a lot longer than you'd like as you try to come up with new escape routes.

"i can feel you thinking from here neutron," he offhandedly calls as he dries the dishes he lays on the rack, his broad back is still turned to you and you mouth a plethora of curses at the muscle you could recite like its the word of god. "lay that big brain on me, baby."

baby.

and your heart skips too many beats you fear you may go into cardiac arrest, so you settle for deflection instead, "i think last night was a mistake," you rush out. and its painfully slow how long it takes him to put down the rag, turn around and lean against the sink counter, the slight tense of his forearms as they brace at his sides the main inclination he already doesn't like what you're about to say.

"i don't think it was," he tries to catch your gaze and as soon as he does, its an intense lock of eye contact as he searches deep into your soul.

"clark we were drunk!" you try to reason, squirming under the intensity of it all. and that's the last time you'll ever drink, you swear to yourself.

"and i would do it sober," he shrugs, he bounces off the sink with a little leap as he stalks towards you, each step an echo of how he approached you last night and how you know how easy it could be to just slip and fall into his embrace all over again; clark kent is pure poison, evil and intoxicating that you feel a strong dependancy on him. you don't just love somebody like clark kent and when he leaves you make it out alive- you just about tried hating him and it feels like you're hanging on for dear life. the consequences should be earth shattering, heart-breaking disastrous.

"you don't think we have a chance here?" he asks, his fingers tipping your chin upwards to him, crushing some centimetres of distance.

"i don't think we'd work," you softly speak, "up until last night, i'm sure you hated me," and he recoils, letting out a strained sigh before nodding.

"i couldn't hate you, no matter how hard i try. i don't think we hate each other at all," he confesses, "i think we feel a lot for each other, maybe too much we can handle and know what to do with it so it possibly gets misplaced. warped and wrapped up but it's shaped in the love i feel for you," he reaches out for your hand, lays it on his chest where his beating heart rests and spreads your fingers so you can feel the extent of the contraction. "i don't know what to do with all these feelings but i do know, with my life and more than anything, that i want to be with you and i want to try- we worked so well last night, that was just a tester baby, i'd be so good to you, we," he pleads, "we could be so good to each other." and he presses his forehead so tenderly into yours, a greater look into your vulnerable gaze.

"i don't know how to do this clark," you whisper, "i'm scared," and the voice that escapes you is so small and foreign, clark's own heart breaks at the sound of it.

"we'll do this together, slow. i'll take the lead if you want but i won't pursue this if this is something you don't want," if i'm someone you don't want, he doesn't push to say.

"okay," you swallow, blinking back a few stray tears and he narrows his eyes, assessing if there's any underlying feelings you're hiding from him. part of you doesn't know if this is okay, but the word leaves you before you can stop it.

"okay?" he asks, to be sure.

"okay," you breathe and he holds your head against his chest, rocking you into his embrace and you stiffly pat his back. you've never been anything other than clark kent's work nemesis before and part of you feels way out of your league, this is unfamiliar territory and you're wildly unprepared for being someone he could love. but the way he looks at you, like you've lifted the sky to its height and hold the weight of his entire universe, you have to give it a try or it will crush you whole.

. . .

the first time clark kent holds your hand in his you almost scream.

his own is dropped at its side and when he walks with you up to the office, he tries to be subtle with how it knocks into yours. a soft slide of skin as he slows his steps to match yours. it happens four times before you grow suspicious but he doesn't bother to look down at you, the guilt is already lingering in the soft smile he tries to downplay. and then he just interlocks his hands in yours, sends you a sweet smile and carries on walking like it's the most natural thing to do.

it's unbelievably warm, protective and holds what the future could be like for you one day. it swings in tandem as you walk and he only lets go once you've made it to your desk. he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead and whispers "have a good day honey, meet you for lunch?" and all you can do is stand there, dumbly nod as he stretches out his arm to the full length before he actually has to let go of your hand and walks in the direction of his own desk.

you stand and then you sit, trying to regain composure of how different it felt to not have to have the snark ready on your lips, to not have to brace yourself for a day of matching wit- your heart beats softly, telling you to relax, get a grip of yourself- it's still clark. the clark who's showed you the worst of yourself and has still chosen to take an interest in you. he's clark, for god's sake, that hasn't changed.

"what the heck was that?" jimmy's head pops up into your view and you stutter, trying to find the words, but nothing comes up right.

"i don't know," your wide eyed gaze startles your friend. he's seen you seconds before a deadline, after a five coffee caffeine crash, when your past partner broke up with you months ago because of how much of a workaholic you were but the stillness in your gaze as you wander in the direction of where clark sits. as if he can sense your attention like its a damn superpower he meets your stare with a grin, a poke of his tongue out as he waves and you slowly return the wave back. his grin grows larger and he swivels back around but the nerves in your stomach still stay.

"honey, are you okay?" jimmy crouches to your height, "when did all of this happen?" and you look around before whispering carefully, hoping it reaches his ears only.

"i slept with him the night before last and when i woke up i thought we could go back to normal- he hates me, i hate him, whatever but," and you shake your head, "he's being really nice to me and i don't know what to do, this feels so strange, jim, this is," and you groan, dropping your head into your hands.

"oh honey," he sighs, "do you like him?" he asks quietly and you nod slowly, hoping the tears don't start spilling from your waterline and ruining your mascara.

"i think i might," you murmur, "i don't know yet, i haven't given it the time for this all to really settle yet- am i making sense?" and jimmy hugs you gently. he thinks you do already, it'll just take time for you see past the previous persona clark has shown you- that he can be more than a rival, he can be dependable, trusted, loving.

"i'm giving it a try," you add, "i mean you never know unless you try, right?" and he pats your head affectionately.

"i'm here if you need me, my friend," and you pat his shoulder in return, thankful for one thing that hasn't changed in the last few days that have blurred past and thrown you off course.

"thanks, jim."

. . .

your days moves slower when there's no arguing that takes place; it's kind of peaceful, slower paced in a way that lets you regain control of your feet. it feels a lot more intentional; the uneasy weight from the last few days slowly slipping away as you enter this new normal and you've been enjoying it.

the sex is incredible- it's hard to think when clark keeps you busy when you're alone and when he's so soft and tender in the moments after, you feel incredibly grateful to see this new side of him. there's something special between the two of you and you look forward to seeing clark, to spending time with him as you learn more about him.

like how he also loves the theatre.

you find this out when you're catching your breath, your back to his mattress and bare tummy to the air as he lies next to you.

"question," he murmurs, planting a kiss to your shoulder.

"that's not a question," you tease and roll over to your side, he flicks your nose in return and continues.

"last week when you came into work-"

"i come into work every day, clark-"

"well baby, if you let me finish my sentence," he rolls his eyes and it feels like the clark you've always ever known and you really like it. and then there's that damn baby again that has you weak in the knees all over. you smile and gesture for him to continue, "you had your hair cut, you were smiling- but not like you always do- but like," he pauses, "it was radiant, magnetic like you looked happier," and you stop and try to think of what you had been up to recently.

"oh," you mumble into his chest, noticing the slight tense he holds in his frame that you pull back with a wrinkle in your forehead.

"was there someone else?" and its the quietest you've ever heard his voice before, it wobbles a little at the edges and knifes a jagged edge into your heart.

"oh no," and you try to hide yourself in his embrace, an embarrassed chuckle leaving you as you squirm, "you're going to think this is so lame," you groan and he twists so you're underneath him, trapped by his huge arms as he hovers on top of you.

"what?" he chuckles at your sudden nervousness, an astronomical size of relief taken off his soul knowing that there's only him- even when it hadn't even been him.

"jimmy got me tickets to "hamlet" as an early birthday gift and it was incredible," you beam, "the haircut was just an addition but god clark," and when you're excited, rambling underneath him he can't help but linger into your space, cut you off with a swift kiss to the corner of your lips as you chase him for more.

one ends up into two then three and soon enough, forever.

"that's insane," his breath tickles into your skin and you scrunch your nose in delight, "because i also happen to be a former theatre kid-"

"oh my god, clark," you laugh, "who's the nerd now?" and he pinches at your side, "clark kent, a fellow drama lover- who would've thought?"

he talks with you about his favourite plays, how he wishes he had more free time to see them live, how wonderful acting is as a profession and when he lists off all the things that excite you the very same way you realise that maybe after all, you and clark aren't so different after all.

he makes a promise that this friday, the two of you will see "romeo and juliet" live as an official first date and you can't hide the soar of butterflies swirling in your stomach that you check it down into your calender immediately, pepper him with an insane amount of kisses and mentally start preparing your outfit.

he stares at you with such fondness as he listens to you talk about your family out of the city; how it was your mother who first showed you the importance of maintaing a creative outlet when pursuing such an academic and intensive career and he listens and listens and wants to soak up every single word like a sponge and wash away the doubts that have circled in his head the past week.

he worried he was moving too quick, then too slow but all he really had to do was show you he's here, that he wants to get to know you beyond your work ethic and integrity, beyond the conversations he has to search for details about you and slowly, he thinks its all falling to place.

its in the quiet of the night where he asks you again,"you sure you're okay with this?" he wouldn't be upset if you weren't, he'd bear the weight of patience and wait forever for you, he really would with how bad he wants this to work.

"yeah," you breathe and when you say it this time, the earth settles into a slower spin, and when it tilts you're ready to hold your balance. it feels right when you look into his eyes and say just one word, and you really start to believe it that this is okay, more than okay and you're only scratching the surface of how incredible it could be.

. . .

a week into spending more time with each other and dating, it feels like this is what your soul was meant do that you feel silly for even worrying about this all at the beginning.

it's monday, which means there's four days until your next theatre date with clark, you had so much fun last time that you've decide to make this a weekly occurence when you can. it's a secret you're going to surprise him with after work on the way home, you'll lean into his side, whip out the tickets like theyre gold and you know he'll be insanely pleased; its the first time you're making a move in this relationship and it's a big deal for you.

you don't see clark whilst you're at work and you think it's strange- clark's been known to disappear randomly and you've not noticed it too much in the time you've officially spent together to be bothered by it in the slightest. your main concern is finding your boyfriend and seeing if he has plans after work.

its 3pm and you start to worry, you don't want to draw any attention to you by asking others for his whereabouts but you catch lois lane in the far corner of the room who tenses when you come near and its the first warning that throws you off.

"lois?" you call out and she awkwardly turns around, feigning surprise like she hadnt stalked you for a few minutes before making your way over there.

"hey!" and you watch her cross her arms over her chest, a defensive posture, you note. why?

"have you seen clark anywhere?" you ask, and she shoots you a careful look before sighing.

"i think its best if you give him some distance for a few days," and you crumble immediately, panic flaring in your chest as your gaze narrows. god, you knew this was too much- that you were too much, you should've-

"i didn't realise how deep your feelings were for each other," she mumbles and it cuts your spiral off eerily short.

"what?" you pause, "what do you mean?"

"i think the word document says enough," she winces, "i thought the rivalry thing was a joke but.." her words trail off because you don't give her the time to finish. your heart is racing as quick as your footsteps out the door and you break out into a full sprint.

the purring of cars and clattering of metropoliton city drown out the whispers of gossip from the daily planet and your muscles burn but you keep going, you push and push and push till they give way and your heart collapses.

a sob escapes your throat in a raw guttural sound and this time, you can't stop the tears. you have no idea where you are but you know that this all just fucking hurts. your tears well up and are caught in your hands that also carries the weight of your head and the world as you just cry. knees tucked in close to your chest against the side of a building, you just cry. hours have passed and when you look around, hardly anyone around to have noticed your breakdown you just about stand. the energy completely taken out of as you sigh, you wish the ground could just wake up and swallow you whole for how stupid and careless you had been.

of course it was a word document that was going to be your downfall, you had made a lame list of things you disliked about clark and on the torturously long walk to his house they burn in your mind.

i hate the way he laughs so loudly, it rings in my ears i'm pretty sure i could go deaf in the near future.

i hate the way he looks at me like he's got something to say but never does or maybe he's too much of a coward.

i hate the way he's buddies with superman- lame.

i hate the way he sneaks up on me, throws me off guard- he's so big it consumes my space and i can't think.

i hate the way second best to him still feels like its worth something- it shouldn't.

i hate the way he makes me feel.

i hate him.

you've got to find him, you've got to apologise to him, salvage what you can and make it out of this alive, hopefully still with him but each word you remember, each muscle moved to type the childish betrayal raises a fresh new wave of tears and you're a blubbering mess by the time you reach his door.

"clark!" you shout, your voice raspy from crying, exhausted from thinking if you could run quick enough, you'd be able to outrun all your problems. you tap against the door, then full on bang with urgency as you shout his name, "clark, please!" you try, panicking when you can hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the door but no words in reply.

"clark please baby," it slips from your lips- the first time you've ever called him that in a sheer moment of desperation and you recoil, you don't deserve to call him that right now- you had the privilege and dishonoured yourself with it, "clark please open the door!" and you bang your head against it, the hot touch of your forehead cooling against the steel. "i didn't mean it," you cry, "i didn't mean any of it, i swear- i don't hate you, i promise please just let me in, please let me explain," the choked sobs rise and you're mumbling, half coherent but the words land the same. "i wrote it ages ago long before we started to get to know each other, i don't feel that way god no, you just gotta let me explain, i don't hate you, i lo-" and you're cut short by the rapid movements and the sudden open of his door.

he looks devastated and still so beautiful that it knocks the already very little air out of you. like he too had spent the afternoon working mentally in overtime, he shakes his head, restraint evident as he grips the door. his ocean eyes pierce your soul and when you move to take a step forward he grits out a sharp, "don't" and closes the door just an inch.

you can see forever through that sliver, it's so close but it's so far away, just out of your depth and reach.

"clark please," you cry and he shakes his head, torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting to protect you.

"don't," he repeats, its heavier, a little firmer but still somehow hurts all the same, bleeding through your heart as it crackles and lays bloodied and bruised open for him. and he steps on it with his next words, "god some part of me knew this wasn't going to work and gosh," he breathes, "you really do just hate me,"

"no," you shout in desperation, shaking your head and all your senses, "i don't! i swear- clark, i'm in lo-" and he cuts you off.

"i don't think you should say things you're not ready to mean," he whispers and he looks as though he might reach out, grasp your hand a final time but decides better of it.

"you win neutron," he speaks softly, lethally tender and it destroys your entire existence in one soft breath, "i thought for a second we were working, that everything was fine. but, if everything's ever just been a competition and that's all you've ever seen me as, then you win. i give up, this game? it's not for me, not if i'm never going to come first place for you," and he closes the door with a soft thud.

you don't move from your position, crying and knocking on the door once more, "clark, please!" and you fight the urge to just slump and slide against it, to camp out here forever until he opens the door and gives you an inch to redeem yourself, to clear the air and just listen. "clark, i don't hate you- i could never hate you," and fate is a cruel and twisted thing to have you repeating the same words he promised to you the morning you woke and everything changed. "i can explain, please let me explain," and you know it's heard, it just doesn't matter enough to be actioned.

you hang your head low, the image of the door closed bruising your optic nerves that it's time to go home. the damage is done and its time to mourn the casualties of getting crossed in the fire. you knew you'd never come out of loving clark kent alive, you just didn't realise hating him had burned you first long ago.

. . .

you try to catch him at work but he's missing for the first two days and you're subjected to the growing whispers and judgemental looks that are shot your way as he proceeds to just plain avoid you. he's never at his desk when you pass by, he's never at the break room, when he gets an inkling you're in his vicinity he takes off completely in the opposite direction and you can't even feel him, but you can hear the thoughts about him.

"i knew she never liked him,"

"she's actually gotta be deranged to make a whole document- imagine who else she's got written in that death note."

"i don't know babe, clark wasn't exactly the nicest to her."

"didn't they try dating?"

jimmy takes a seat beside you after the great shift where he's noticed you avoiding every single person in sight, including him and it hurts. you try your best to smile at him in greeting, force the ends in an upwards curve that it falls embarrassingly flat.

he sighs, leaving your newly filled coffee cup at your side and rests his head on yours affectionately, a little bump of support to let you know that he's always been on your side and always will.

"people are talking," you mumble, "i get it if you want to take some space," you nod tightly and he scoffs.

"we're not going anywhere," his voice is firm, "i don't care about what they say, you're my best friend and i am here for you." and you breathe out a thanks of appreciation, begging yourself not to cry again as he wraps you in a hug.

"you okay?" he murmurs into your hair and can feel you shake it against him and he sighs once more.

"he'll come around," when he pulls back.

"how can you be so sure?" you whisper, broken.

"because he's clark, he's never been one to stay away from you," he grins but your heart drops. not this time, you think. maybe not ever again.

but still you try, you pull tricks out of his own book in a pathetic grovel of sorts- but you just have to show clark that you're here, you're waiting and you'll do whatever it takes to show him.

so for the next few days you start to get to the office earlier, you make him a fresh cup of coffee and lay it at his desk, you write little pointers of encouragement on post it notes (given the fact that you have no idea of what he's writing to return him the advice he used to give you), but when the end of the day comes and you've tried not to make it obvious the way you stalk his big build that exits through the lifts and takes your heart with him, you make your way to his desk. the coffee sits untouched and cold, filled to the brim but the notes? they've disappeared. the blinding yellow fluroscent isn't pumped at the bottom of his bin with other scraps of paper he's scrunched up. you're embarrassed to admit that you half emptied it to check, they- like clark, himself- have just disappeared and you're left to deal with the radio silence in the aftermath. which somehow hurts more when it leaves everything unsaid and then some.

and like the days that have come before and all of your life before you gave clark kent a try at this thing called love, you walk home alone and lonely, all the same.

. . .

you finally meet superman on your commute home.

its the end of the week, you're final day before you're due to take some time off and you've left the office later than usual, giving clark ample time to avoid you and leave without having to actively dodge you, and then you had to speed up your writing because you've fallen behind on schedule and with everything in your life going to shit, you just needed one thing to be constant and be completely yours.

it's actually good enough to beat clark this time, you think after perry had complimented the first draft earlier. but he's made it clear that this rivalry the two of you were enamored in is no longer something he's interested and the win feels bittersweet, pointless even you could argue, it's just not the same and you hate it.

there's a hum of billy joel "piano man" that dramatically belts through your earphones as you turn the corner of the next block and if it weren't for the extra pair of feet tappering behind your shadow you probably wouldn't have noticed the strange man following you from behind. you take a random turn, panicking and afraid of leading this stalker to your doorstep that you don't recognise the alley you've turned into.

the evening air darkens with the absence of street lamps and you shake your head softly, "please," you quietly plead and at the flash of yellow teeth you throw the first punch. it's lazily and poorly directed that you miss and he grabs at your waist. you elbow him, hit him and then plain knee his nuts as soon as he drops you to the ground. the panic turns to rage and you feel the weight of the week just climb into each punch you land that you don't even feel the body turning eerily limp below you or the flash of blue and red that lowers into the alleyway.

"miss?" a deeper, ruff voice calls out, it catches sight of your side profile and softens, "hey, hey, hey," and arms that feel oddly familiar wrap around your waist and peel you off the weird man who heaves at the floor, "you're safe now,"

"no thanks to you," you almost scream the words, "for fucking superman you sure are slow!" and the agitation turns to straight tears as you just sob, "oh my god, what the fuck even is this week?" you breathe out shakily, "it's just shit after shit and i can't catch a break? i can't even get saved by superman?" and superman (clark) part of him wants to laugh at how strange both this situation and you are right now.

he wished he could've gotten to you quicker, it took him a flash of a second to recognise your scream but of course your rage was faster and you did all the heavy work, the least he could do was lend you a listening ear, even if hearing you open up so vulnerable to him broke his heart even further.

"how are you feeling?" he tries; part of him is easier to be superman like this, he stands at a distance, giving him space between the two of you because he knows he'd just crumble. he wanted to at the first sob he heard that night? the first cup of coffee he noticed, the first yellow post it note that now makes itself home in the top drawer of his desk- he couldn't bring himself to throw your little attempts at love notes away. he pats the ground next to him, offering his cape as a little blanket which you sit gingerly on, sniffles sitting in the centimetres that separate you respectably.

"i don't know if i can tell you," you mumble and his body freezes, surely you wouldn't have caught on to his identity- "you're like clark's buddy aren't you," you scoff and he blinks slowly.

"clark?" he asks, ignoring the huge weight lumbered off his chest and lets himself breathe again.

"6'4, 240lbs of pure muscle mass and glossy onyx curls, god he's just so," you groan, "he's so perfect and i as always," you start to fear the wave of sadness take over and you lower your head between your knees, focusing on how the ground feels underneath you, how the gravel looks a lot more sharper up close, "i ruined everything," and its a heartbreaking admission.

superman doesn't say anything, he stares at you, brows raised waiting for you to continue your story, "clark and i- it was strange. we weren't exactly friends, i mean we work together but it was always different. we used to compete for the spot for the first page privilege and thanks to you," you scoff and he sends you a wince of guilt, "he would come out on top most times- but he always used to push me to just be a better writer. it was petty i know, and for the longest time i just thought thats what we were. we were enemies, we hated each other- he brought out the worst in me," you chuckle,

"and yet he always stayed, he never expected anything from me in return, he was just there, you know and one night, we got together and i didn't think i was ready but i was going to try you know, he asked me for a chance and i gave it to him. i owed it to us, to the special relationship we had, to the way he made me feel like nobody on earth ever has. and you know, i've been in relationships and they've ended terrible- i'm not the best person i know but clark made it feel like it was easy to love me like he saw the worst and loved me despite it- most people would run away but clark he," and you cry, "he was my person."

you feel a hand land on your shoulder, his thumb soothing you in a backwards and forewards motion and through the tears you can't even see superman anymore. "so what happened?" he asks, though he already knows this first hand.

"when i first started the job, clark kent liked everyone but me and it felt personal, it hurt," you gasp, shrugging your shoulders as you relive the memory, "he made fun of me, and before i learned to understand and match the digs, before i found the routine and loved it with him, it honestly felt targeted so i made a word document- this was months ago, you have to believe me," you plead, "i was childish, i started listing these nasty things about him that i hated like god his smile, his laugh, just him- i had to get out all this negative energy somehow and i'm a writer, i fucking took it out on a word document, sue me," you bitterly laugh, "i don't know how it got out but it did, because the world hates me and i'm undeserving of the good things and now, i'm undeserving of clark,"

"he's incredible and i've never felt this way about someone before, but he doesn't believe so with that stupid document and me not showing up in the ways he has when we got together, he thinks that i hate him," you get out, shaking with the thick of emotion.

"and do you?"

you press your lips together in thought, maybe to repress them, if you don't speak it it won't be real, it won't be true, it won't hurt so much. but you're a journalist and your whole career has taught you that the truth is powerful, especially when it can hurt, so you be brave for once and face superman through the tears, "i'm in love with him."

the words don't come, clark feels his heart break through his chest and he wishes, oh he damn wishes that he wasn't superman- that superman doesn't even exist, he wishes he could be clark. your clark in this moment and hold you and tell you that he wants to fix this, that we can fix this and it will be alright again, he's in love with you too, he has to let you know this.

but he can't. because being superman is bigger than being clark kent. so he murmurs some useless advice at how things take time, you'll heal and clark will come back to you if he's the person you've fallen in love with- clark kent is honest and truthful and determined, if he's right for you then he will return.

superman does nothing but let his heart plummet further as you slide a faded white, slightly crumpled ticket his way and his blood freezes at the sight of shakespeare printed in small, "if you see clark, could you give him this? i wanted to take him, make it a regular thing- show him i'm committed to this and having time for it and i know we're not talking and he hates me more than anything but, i think he'll like it."

"then i will make sure he receives it, you have my word," and the world burns when you sniffle, send him a soft smile and get up to stand. to leave your problems in the hands of superman and in the darks of the alley, there's nothing more you can do and honestly you're tired of this all. you've tried and all you can do now is play the waiting game.

"i see why clark likes you, and you owe me an interview soon big guy," you nod and he sends a tight smile back, saluting you with a wave and ignoring the way his bones want to snap at how weak he feels right now. "have a good night, superman," and he waves again.

when he sees your form disappear and his tears fall onto the worn out ticket, still warm from your sweating hands, he whispers an oath, "see you soon, neutron."

. . .

"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them," the voice of malvolio echoes throughout the hall and you watch intently.

there's an ache as you try not to look beside you, at the empty seat- the clark sized hole that mirrors the vacant area in your heart as you train your eyes forward. the theatre has always been your favourite place to just let go and relax, have someone else feel the emotions for once and bring them to life but it feels lacking tonight, you can't distract yourself enough and suddenly the air weighs down on you and crushes you at a great intensity.

you silently grab your purse, sneak out the back row and head out of the doors. it's time to call it a night, go home and probably call your mom- maybe it's time to go home home, ground yourself with people who do love you and have never treated you any different, to be in an area that just doesn't remind you so heavily of clark, maybe it'd make the healing process a lot easier and you can actually start it.

you wave into oncoming traffic, drawing the attention of a taxi and rocking yourself as you wait for it to pull up near to you. the bag on your shoulder lightly dips as you step off the curb and into the taxi door before an arm pulls you back and youre thrust back into his orbit.

"clark," you breathe as his ocean blue orbs sink and drown you in. you've seen him in the week but this is different; this is upclose and vulnerable, this is intimate and before the world exploded on you.

"where you going?" his drawl lands breathless in lieu of an actual greeting.

"home?" you question and a small curl of his lip extends to the sky, the faint smile lines resting at peace.

"i said where you going, baby?" he repeats, earnest laced in his voice as his hold on you tightens against him, you're breaths are uneven as you intake his breath as your own air and you blink.

"come on man!" the exasperation of a third stranger breaks your trance and clark pops his head into the cab window at your side, lands a fifty note in his hand and grins.

"i'll take this one, thanks, have a good one," he wraps his fist in a gentle tap to the back of the car to signal its departure and the cab driver wolf whistles in return, counting the money and shooting clark a thumbs up for good luck, steering off into the distance.

"clark i-" and he presses his finger to your lips, silencing your tired fight immediately.

"so where you going, hon?" and the frustration builds up inside of you. you don't think you can do this tonight, you need energy, defense, bite and a plan to escape out of this untouched but its the sudden intensity he stares down at you, boyish and determined as he clears his throat, not offering anything else but patiently waiting for you to reply and then it hits you.

oh. home.

he is home.

"clark, i'm sorry," you whisper, "i'm sorry how this started and how it ended but it just goes to show we don't work," you get out, the words betray your voice in a tight strain and you shake your head softly, trying to detach yourself from his hold but he reaches for your hand and interlocks it, kissing your knuckles like its the very first time and then holds it to his chest.

"i don't believe that," he breathes, like its some secret joke only his soul can memorise. "you said you hated the way i laugh- it's too loud," and the words are a sharp stab, even as they spill from his lips.

"it is too loud," you confess, "i can hear it after you've stopped, it rings in my ears like an echo and i start wishing i knew how to make you laugh like that, how to keep hearing that sound again and again," the words start spilling before you can stop them and he softens completely.

"you hate the way i look at you, i'm a coward," he breathes.

"because you look at me like i'm the only one who ever matters and i didn't know what to do with all of that. its heavy, its all on me and i get nervous, clark," you scoff, hitting him lightly, tiny fists against his chest, "its worse when you look at me like you want to say something more but you don't because then i spend all day torturing myself with the what if's and its brutal," you stretch, resting your head on his chest in defeat and his heart sings beneath the touch.

"you hate the way i sneak up on you," he narrows his brows, "i take up too much space," he echoes and you glare at him.

"i know what i said clark," you seethe, annoyance bubbling up inside of you all over, "and you are big, you're fucking massive and you surround me, you consume me and steal all the air like its your birthright and i feel so damn helpless i hate it," you spit, taking a step away from him in hopes the chill of the evening hair will cool the fire that steams from your skin. "i can't even think when you're near and you're the only person who can throw me so hard off my game that i can't even remember my name some days and you do it so easily," you heave.

"do you hate that almost as much as you hate the way i make you feel?"

"oh thats worse, you make me feel like i'm not in control," and you take a step closer to him, "and i've never not been in control, you make second best to you feel like first place- like i'm still a winner because i get that cool look swung my way and i giggle like i'm back in school and i hate it- it's like you take all the years of hard work and practise just like nothing- you took my heart like it was nothing," and the tears are free to fall now, you don't even lift your arm to wipe them away you let him look at you, really look at you and let him feel the extent of the damage he's done- how he's caused you to come so undone.

"you hate me," he laughs, and its the same damn laugh you hate, you hate that you love it so damn much that you want to bottle it and get drunk on it every single night you spend in his absence.

"i do," you giggle and it feels like the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, you blink through the tears and he cups your jaw with his large hands that again, he's here consuming you all over. he presses a soft kiss to your lips and its not as hungry, as devouring and deep as the first drunken kiss you shared on that night two weeks ago. its slow, earnest, filled with the pinings and regrets of never knowing the right way to show your love. its wrapped in apologies and forgiveness and a promise to be brave and loud in how you feel.

"but here's a new one for you," you pause, "i really do hate the way that i broke your heart," you mutter ashamed, lowering your gaze but he catches it instantly with a shake to his head.

"do with it what you will; it was only ever yours to have because i'm in love with you," he smiles when he pulls away and its so loud and large your heart soars, "and you're in love with me," he presses his forehead into yours, uniting your broken hearts.

"i am," you swear, "i don't know when i fell but i know that i'm here in the deep end with you and i'm scared but i'm here clark, i promise," and he wipes away your stray tears.

the bustle of the crowds exiting the theatre breaks you free from his hold and he laughs once more, and then quieter for your ears to burn into memory only, "it's okay," he murmurs into your hair, ogling at the stars swimming in your eyes, "we have next week to make up for it," and you stare at the theatre doors and then at your lover. you lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips once again.

"we have forever to make up for this, so take me home, baby," you whisper.

and he does.

he does it for a lifetime and more.

riya saying hi: there's a lot to say but first hello! first clark fic after a few days off 🥺🥺 i poured my whole heart and soul into this one hence how long it is, how angsty it is - this is clark hurt comfort final boss. this by far has to be the best ive written and my most favourite love confession to date. ugh ! i really do hope you like it, i fear it did take a large portion of my energy so i will be focusing on requests for the next few days something easier and slower paced compared this monster.

i do want to reiterate that thank you so much for 1k followers! it means the world, beyond that how much this all feels and god im the luckiest person on earth. its such a gift to be able to create something, put myself in some words on a page and have it liked, and enjoyed my god i am gonna cry- but to celebrate this and you (!) because this in no way shape or form wouldve been possible without you, i am taking in clark requests and will try my hardest to get them out asap so send in whatever ! literally whatever ! (just not smut soz) but again thank you !!!!

and finally, this fic would not have been possible without the incredible, the STUNNING @hangmanwrites - anna i owe you a serious portion of my heart (not that you didn't already have it) for letting me work through this with you, helping steer it in the right direction and bring it to life. youre an incredible writing partner and your support has forever altered my brain chemistry- thank you my love, i appreciate and love you so damn much !!! 🥺💘

and again, to you readers, let me know what you think! my ask box is always open if you ever want to talk (and inbox too if youd prefer a longer conversation) thanks for being here and reaffirming kindness on this blog- love you !

[yiiiikesmish]

how dare tumblr hide this from me. i see my name tagged and yet i received no notification. the audacity of this app.

anyways... AHHHHHHHH I LOVE THIS SO MUCH. the yearing is just... i don't have words to describe just how good it is. like i could feel the tension under my skin. incredibly fic my love <3

You Promised

Part 2

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+ MDNI, best friends brother trope, Best Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst & Yearning, Mutual Pining, forced proximity, face sitting, piv, creampie, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cozy Domestic Moments, Clark Kent is the most romantic dork alive

word count: 17k

Summary: Things are different now, even if no one says it out loud. In the months that follow, friendship teeters on something more—quiet glances, unspoken truths, the ache of everything left unsaid. Lines blur. Boundaries slip. And what started as closeness begins to feel like something neither of you can ignore anymore. But when feelings deepen, so does the fear: of hurting someone else, of risking what you have, of wanting too much. As the seasons change, so does everything else. What was once a quiet comfort grows into something tender, risky, and impossibly real. And love—patient, persistent love—waits for both of you to stop pretending you don’t feel it. Part 1 | Series Masterlist

notes – not proofread

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

Six months. That’s how long it’s been since Clark and Lois ended things, since you stood beside him on that rooftop and said nothing while the city breathed beneath you. Since the rain settled between your shoulders and your ribs, and you learned just how quiet heartbreak can be in someone like him.

Now… things feel normal again. Mostly. You’ve returned to the easy rhythm of shared dinners and half-watched movies, inside jokes and friendly texts that sometimes come too late at night to feel entirely casual. The three of you, Clark, Kara, and you, still orbit each other like you always have. And when it’s just you and him, it’s good. Warm. Familiar. A constellation you know by heart.

But sometimes, God, sometimes, you catch yourself watching him when he’s not looking. The way he tips his head back to laugh, teeth flashing. The way his fingers brush yours when he hands you a mug. The way his shirt rides up when he stretches, revealing the soft dip of skin just above his waistband. And every time, it feels like a bruise blooming under your ribs because he’s not yours. He never was.

You tell yourself you’re fine with that. You’ve gotten good at it, this quiet, practiced ache. Smiling when he brings you soup. Letting your heartbeat even out when he leans a little too close to show you something on his phone. You know his cologne now. The scent clings to your throw pillows days after he leaves.

He’s healing. And you? You’re trying not to hope for more than what’s already too much. You’ve built a friendship strong enough to survive everything except maybe the truth. So you don’t speak it. Not when he wipes a smudge of sauce from your cheek. Not when you fall asleep beside him during a movie and wake up tucked into the crook of his arm. Not even when Kara elbows you with a smirk and says, “You two need separate couches.”

Instead, you pretend. You carry it quietly. This not-quite-love, this not-quite-mine.

-

It starts like any other night. Clark’s on your couch, slouched into the corner cushion like he’s trying to fold all six feet and change of himself into something smaller, quieter. Like maybe if he doesn’t take up space, he won’t give himself away.

The bowl of popcorn rests between you, long forgotten. Just crumbs now. Just excuses. You’d let him pick the movie, some softly-lit indie flick with a haunting score and very little dialogue. He claimed it “looked interesting” but you’re certain he hasn’t looked at the screen once.

You, also, have been watching him.

The TV throws light across his face in shifting waves, blue, then gold, then the deep violet of dusk. It paints his jawline, catches in the frames of his glasses, softens the stubborn set of his brow. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. But you can feel his gaze, quiet and steady, unraveling you. Every time the screen goes dim, it’s there. On you.

You shift slightly, stretching your legs under the pretense of getting more comfortable. Your toes nudge against his thigh. He doesn’t give much of a reaction, so you let them rest there. Light. Familiar. Maybe a little braver than you mean.

It’s a rhythm you’ve known for months now. This hush between you. The not-quite silence. The not-quite distance. His hand moves, absent at first. A casual drift downward, fingertips grazing your ankle. You expect it to retreat the way it usually does when he accidentally touches you. It doesn’t. Instead, he traces.

Slow circles. One after the other. Featherlight. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses any harder.

Your breath catches and it doesn’t recover. You keep your eyes on the flickering shapes on the screen, but the dialogue warps in your ears, blurring before finally dissolving. You can’t hear the story over your pulse. Can’t follow the plot over the drag of his knuckles against your skin, the warmth of his palm curled loosely near your heel.

You tell yourself not to react. That this is nothing. That Clark is like this with everyone. Sweet. Gentle. Kind. But you’ve seen how he pulls back from the world. How careful he is with his touch. And you've been around long enough to see what it means when he doesn’t pull back.

And he’s not pulling back.

You shift again, but this time it’s too sudden. The blanket slips from your shoulders, pooling in your lap. Cool air brushes your skin. So does his gaze.

He stills. The movie flickers to black. The room holds its breath.

You turn toward him. Eyes wide, your lips parted. You don’t know what you’re about to say just that it’s burning up your throat. But the credits start to roll, and the moment shatters like glass underfoot.

Clark exhales slowly, like he’s remembering how. “I should go,” he says, voice low. Rough around the edges. Like gravel in honey.

You nod before you can stop yourself. It’s the wrong answer, and you know it.

You want to say: Don’t.

You want to ask: Do you feel it too?

You want to reach out. Catch his sleeve. Anchor him to you and never let go just like you have since you were 17.

But instead, you sit there, heart thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

He stands, running a hand through his hair. His glasses catch the dim light of your lamp. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence blooms in the space he leaves behind, wide and echoing.

You press your fingers to your ankle. The spot still tingles, as if his touch branded you. You try to hold it there. Try to remember the way it felt, like being seen. Like being chosen. Like maybe, just maybe, you were both on the verge of something you were too scared to name.

But the warmth is fading and the night stretches long ahead.

-

You hear the landing before you see him. A low gust of wind rattles the panes. The soft thud of boots against your balcony floor. Not a crash. Not a heroic landing. Just Clark. Quiet. Measured. Bone-deep tired Clark.

When you draw the sliding glass door open, he’s already there, his silhouette framed in silver, the moonlight catching on the curve of the gold “S” at his chest. His cape stirs behind him in the breeze, edges frayed, one side clinging to a shoulder that looks like it barely made it out of something alive.

And he does look alive, but barely.

There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, smudged into stubble at his jaw. A cut just above his brow, still pink with healing skin. His knuckles are raw and cracked, one hand flexing like he’s not sure it’s real. The shoulder seam of his suit is burned through, charred black with something molten and cruel.

You step forward into the cool night air. “You okay?” It’s stupid. Useless. A question you already know the answer to.

“Yeah,” he lies, voice raw and low and unconvincing.

You don’t call him out. Don’t make him explain. You just nod and disappear inside for a moment. When you return, you’re holding two mugs. Cocoa. A little too hot. You burned your tongue on it once trying to calm him down after an earthquake off the coast. It worked. He said it was the first time he smiled in a week.

He’s sitting now, sunk into your rusted balcony chair like he’s folded himself into a smaller version of who he’s supposed to be. His shoulders are slumped. His cape is draped over the side, edges brushing the cement. His head is tipped back against the night sky, like he’s asking it a question it’ll never answer.

You offer the mug. He doesn’t say thank you. He just takes it slowly, carefully, like it might disappear. Like maybe you might disappear if he blinks too long.

The silence that follows is different from the kind you used to know. It isn’t awkward. It isn’t unfamiliar. But it aches.

You sit beside him, the metal of your chair groaning under the shift. Your knees almost brush. You pretend they don’t. Pretend the jasmine tea on your skin and the smoke still clinging to his doesn’t mix in the air between you like something intimate.

Your pinky grazes his, light, unthinking. He laces his over yours like a reflex. It’s not the first time he’s touched you. But it feels like a secret.

The city murmurs beneath your feet. Headlights like lightning bugs blur past below. Sirens rise and fade. Somewhere, a car door slams. Someone laughs too loud. But none of it touches the quiet pressed between you now.

There’s heat pouring off him. He runs too warm. You’ve always said that. But tonight it’s worse. More intense. Like his body hasn’t caught up to his mind, like whatever fire he flew through is still licking at his skin.

You glance at him through the fringe of your lashes. He looks like a painting of himself, still and ruined and too beautiful for how much pain you know he’s in. You loved him at seventeen. You love him still.

You’re not sure now if you’ll ever say it. You still have never even said it out loud. Not once. Not to friends or family. Not even to yourself. You feel like if you ever do say it, even a whisper of it, that it will make it’s way to him. Or worse. To Kara. Because you were always Kara’s. Not like that, but in a way that felt final. Because you couldn’t risk being another fracture in his already-cracked heart. Because it was easier to be his friend than to lose him trying to be something more.

But nights like this make it impossible to ignore. Your pinky is still laced with his. Your heartbeat is in your ears. You close your eyes for a moment and let yourself want. Let yourself imagine what it would feel like to turn to him and say, Please. Just this once. Let me have you. Let yourself imagine him leaning in. That mouth, split at the corner, kissing you like he’s dreamed of it too. You’ve seen him smile. You’ve seen him bleed. But you’ve never seen him love, not up close. Not personally. Only from afar.

And you want it. You want him.

Eventually, he stands. Sets the mug on your railing with gentle fingers that tremble like fault lines. His eyes scan the skyline like he’s searching for something he’ll never find. Then he turns back to you. One hand rubs the back of his neck, a nervous tic, sweet and boyish and old as time. He swallows hard.

“I don’t like hiding from you,” he says. The words knock something loose in your chest.

You don’t ask what he means. Not because you don’t want to know. But because you do. Because if you ask, you’ll want more than he’s ready to give.

So you just nod. And he does too. And then he’s gone, up, up, and out of sight, a red blur against the stars. You’re left alone on the balcony. One empty mug in your hand. The faint echo of warmth along your pinky finger.

You sit in the chair he left behind. You press your knees together to stop the shaking. You whisper the truth you can’t say aloud.

I don’t want you to hide from me, either.

But he’s already gone. 

And the ache is still here.

-

Kara’s playlist is too loud. Someone started with Beyoncé but now it’s swung into space disco remixes, and no one seems to know how or why. There’s popcorn in the couch cushions. Someone definitely spilled soda near the balcony door and tried to cover it with a throw pillow. The smell of strawberry lip gloss and garlic knots is competing for dominance.

It’s chaos. But it’s your chaos. The kind that tastes like comfort and found family and a too-small apartment lit by string lights and laughter.

You’re standing on a stool, trying to tape up a curling “WELCOME, BITCHES” banner that Kara printed on the wrong sized paper, when he walks in late. Clark.

“Hey, loser,” Kara calls, tossing him a plastic cup with suspicious pink punch already in it. “Took you long enough. I almost started showing incriminating pictures.”

“I brought pie,” he says, holding it up like a peace offering.

You snort. “You’re forgiven. But only because it smells like apples and childhood joy.”

He grins and steps in to set the pie down. You go back to fighting with the banner but the tape gives up again, the edge peeling as you try to stick it higher. You huff. Stretch. Swear under your breath.

And then Clark’s behind you. “Need a hand?” he asks, already reaching.

He goes for the roll of streamers on the counter beside you, and his hand grazes yours. Just a little. Just enough that your skin buzzes like it’s picked up a signal from another planet. Neither of you move. Not right away.

You swear the air shifts. His breath catches a strand of hair by your cheek. The stool wobbles. Your heart does too.

He clears his throat and steps back, but not before his fingers linger a little longer than they need to. When he walks away, your knees try not to buckle. Kara, from across the room, yells, “If you fall off that stool and die, I’m bringing you back just to kill you again!”

Later, during charades, things only get worse. Clark’s too competitive. Kara’s worse. You’re unhinged. You flail through what was supposed to be a jellyfish but has apparently come off as a haunted windmill.

Clark guesses “hot air balloon.”

Kara screams, “That’s what you got from that?!”

“You try doing jellyfish with elbows!” you shout back, laughing too hard to breathe. 

You lose the round. Clark leans in, close enough to make your brain skip a few vital steps. “Next time,” he murmurs, voice brushing your ear, “I’m making you mime Superman.”

You turn your head, accidentally too fast, and now you’re face to face. His grin is all boyish trouble. Your pulse forgets how to behave.

“Pretty sure I’d nail it,” you whisper.

“I know you would,” he says, not blinking.

Your cheeks flush. Kara throws a mini pretzel at his head and yells, “Stop flirting with my human, bitch!”

“She’s not yours,” Clark grumbles, but he’s still smiling.

“She’s my constant,” Kara says proudly, then adds the Kryptonian word that sounds like wind and velvet: aorish. “You don’t get to make goo-goo eyes at my aorish unless you plan on dying early by my hand. Or worse. Krypto’s stank breath.” At her words, Krypto launches into the room, tackling Clark and slobbering across his face. 

You shriek-laugh and try to throw a pillow at her, but she’s already flying over the couch.

Cleanup comes too soon after. You’re half-distracted, helping Kara gather solo cups and leftover napkins while Jimmy’s recounting some horrendous date where a woman tried to use him for his press pass. Kara keeps yelling “RED FLAG” every time he says something mildly out of pocket.

You crouch down to grab your keys from under the coffee table, but Clark beats you to it. His hand curls around the keyring. Yours lands on top of his. The contact is warm. Still. Too quiet. His thumb brushes yours once, and it makes your stomach twist in that stupid, lovely way.

You murmur “thanks,” barely louder than the music, and he’s already looking at you like he heard it with his entire soul.

Later, you catch him watching again, just a flicker of a glance while you’re laughing at Jimmy’s story. Your head’s on Kara’s shoulder, your cheeks sore from smiling. Clark’s smile falters for just a second, but it doesn’t fade entirely.

He doesn’t look away right away either. And neither do you. Eventually, though, you both do. Because that’s the game you play.

You, Kara, and the human-shaped sun that keeps orbiting closer. Close enough to warm you. Close enough to burn.

-

It starts with you at his apartment. Not the first time. Not even the tenth. But tonight… tonight feels different. The air hums warmer somehow. Thicker. Like something unspoken is steeping in the space between you.

You’re curled up on his couch, barefoot and tucked into one of his throw blankets, one you’ve used before, worn soft from too many nights exactly like this. The lamp hums low. Jazz crackles softly from the old radio on the counter. There’s cinnamon in the air, steeping in the pot he brewed without asking, and a half-shared bowl of popcorn between you.

Kara was supposed to come. She bailed last minute.

“Sorry, babe got dragged to a 3-moon rager on Almerac 🚀 if I don’t survive the afterparty, tell Clark he’s still a little bitch. enjoy your weird little movie night (my human forever. don’t forget it.).”

She added three alien emojis and a kiss.

So it’s just you and Clark now. Which isn’t new. And shouldn’t matter. Except it does.

You follow him into the kitchen when he offers to top off your cocoa because you always do. Some part of you always drifts toward him, magnetic and automatic, like your gravity reorients around wherever he’s standing.

You reach for the whipped cream at the same time he slides the mug toward you. It wobbles. Sloshes. Hot liquid spills down your front in a narrow arc, turning your soft t-shirt translucent where it clings to your skin.

You gasp. “Shit, sorry. Hot! Ouch.”

He’s already in front of you. Clark sets the mug down, gentle but quick, and grabs a dish towel from the counter, brushing your hand aside so he can check your wrist.

“Hey, hey, let me see,” he murmurs, voice low with worry. His thumb presses softly against your skin, checking for red. For burn. For anything worse than embarrassment. “You’re fine,” he says after a pause, and the way his brow furrows makes your chest twist. “But you’re soaked.”

You glance down. The shirt clings. Every line of your bra outlined. Your skin flushed from heat, or maybe something else. Maybe him.

Clark sees it. There’s no way he doesn’t. His gaze dips for half a second and then his whole face goes pink. Bright pink. He jerks his eyes to the ceiling like it personally offended him. Like staring at the drywall might erase the image already burned behind his eyelids.

“I-I’ll get you something,” he blurts, already halfway out of the kitchen, one hand scrubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to file away the memory with friction alone. “Just hang on, I’ve got, um, yeah.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. It’s not mean that he turned away so quickly. It’s just… him.

A moment later, he returns and tosses you something soft, navy blue and worn, caught at the wrists and frayed a little at the collar. His hoodie.

You pull it on in the other room, stripping your soaked shirt and bra, without thinking. The hoodie swallows you. The sleeves fall past your hands. The hem brushes your thighs. It’s warm and heavy and carries the scent of him deep in the fibers, clean laundry and cedar and maybe a little coffee. The faintest trace of something sunlit and faraway, like the clouds he flies through still clung to it.

You run your palms down your arms.

When you come back, he’s staring. Not with hunger. Not with shame. Just… stunned. Awed. Like he wasn’t expecting it to feel like this. Like seeing you in his clothes has rearranged something quietly permanent inside him and he doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

His gaze dips again, your bare legs, the way the hoodie hangs loose around your collarbone, and then he snaps it back up to your face, a little horrified with himself.

“I’ll give it back,” you say, voice soft. You mean for it to be casual. It doesn’t land that way.

His answer comes too fast. “Keep it.”

You blink.

He fidgets. Rubs the back of his neck again. “It, um… it looks better on you.”

You look at him then. Really letting yourself take in this moment. At the pink in his cheeks, the way he can’t quite meet your eyes, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to say more and doesn’t know how. And for one stupid second, one slow, suspended beat, you think he might kiss you.

He doesn’t. 

You don’t sleep that night. Not because the hoodie is scratchy. It isn’t. Not because it’s too warm. It’s not. But because it’s his. And it smells like him. And feels like him. And your fingers twist the cuffs into knots while your mind plays the same game it’s been playing for years: what if. What if you said something. What if he kissed you back. What if he wants you the way you want him, quiet and burning and always.

You curl tighter beneath the covers, hoodie pulled to your chin, your pulse loud against the quiet.

He gave it to you. He looked at you. He lingered.

And even if you never wear it again, tonight it’s yours. He’s not. But it is.

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

-

Kara calls it “just a little thing,” which of course means a full spread of drinks, snacks, and at least three rooftop speakers synced to some chaotic indie-pop playlist you’re sure she pulled from an alien DJ database.

You take your time getting ready. Not for Clark. Except maybe just a little for Clark, especially after all of the moments you’ve shared recently.

The dress isn’t scandalous. Not really. It just… fits. Hugs the places you sometimes forget you have. The hem brushes mid-thigh, and the neckline dips just enough to catch the breeze. Your lip gloss glints. Your eyes are lined sharp. You look good and it feels dangerous.

You arrive fashionably late with a bottle of wine and a warning grin. Kara beams when she sees you.

Clark? He sees you and forgets how to speak.

You catch it in the way his jaw ticks. The way his mouth parts like he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. He’s mid-conversation with Jimmy and Lois, but his eyes track you like a second gravitational pull just settled into the party.

The party hums in the distance, low bass vibrating through the floor, laughter echoing off the walls, Kara’s playlist bouncing between alien electro-pop and something vaguely French. The rooftop glows with string lights and mischief, but down here, in the kitchen, everything feels quieter. Closer. Warmer.

You’re leaning against the counter, feigning interest in the wine bottles Kara left half-labeled and slightly warm. The glass in your hand is only half-full, but your pulse is drunk on something else entirely. You haven’t seen Clark in a while. Not since you walked in and his entire world stopped turning.

You still feel it. The shift. The silence that bloomed in his throat when he saw you. So when he appears now, quiet as a sigh, big frame folding into the space beside you like he belongs there, you don’t jump. You just feel the air change again. Charged. Electric.

He’s behind you. Close. And when he reaches for the corkscrew near your wrist, the back of his hand brushes your arm.

Neither of you move.

“Thought you might’ve left,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse. “Didn’t see you for a while.”

You sip your wine. Let your shoulder barely lean into his chest. “Thought you were avoiding me.”

He leans down and says softly near your ear, “No. Just needed a second.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “Dangerous thing to admit, Kent.”

He exhales like you winded him. And maybe you did. His hand grazes your hip, barely. Maybe accidental. Maybe not. You don’t ask. You don’t look at him. Not yet. Too scared of what you might do. The glass in your hand tilts slightly as your body leans back into the edge of his, just enough to make him inhale sharply.

“You look nice,” he says, quiet and wrecked and reverent.

You tilt your head, lazy and slow. “You’ve seen me look better. And worse.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and his breath fans against your jaw. “But this… this is different.”

You finally look at him. God. His tie is loose. His curls are damp from sweat or maybe the shower or maybe just the heat you’ve both been generating since you walked into this room. His eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted. You can smell him. Warm spice and fresh linen. That impossible smell that always clings to your skin when he hugs you too long. That smell that makes you ache.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, wine catching behind your teeth.

He’s smiling now, slow and amused, but his voice is hushed and tight when he says, “You’re the one looking at me like that.”

You shift slightly, heel lifting from the floor, knee brushing his. “You started it.”

“Did I?” His hand is still on the counter, but his fingers twitch like they want to move. Like they want to reach for your waist. Your hand. Your face.

Your dress shifts with the motion, fabric sliding along your thighs. His eyes follow. Then flick back to your mouth.

You both hover there.

One breath away from ruin.

“Okay, human disaster and kryptonian wet blanket, are you done eye fucking or can I grab the damn corkscrew?”

You jolt like you’ve been caught red-handed. Kara stands in the doorway, bottle in hand, one brow arched in cosmic judgment. She doesn’t say anything else. Just grabs the corkscrew, mutters something about “horny tension fog,” and disappears again.

You and Clark are frozen. You can feel the heat still lingering between you, burning at the edge of something that nearly happened.

“I should…” you start.

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair, breathless. “Me too.”

Neither of you moves. And the wine? Still unopened. Because nothing in this room is half as intoxicating as the way he looked at you just now.

And the worst part? You know he’ll do it again.

-

You’re three cocktails in and glowing.

The bar is dim and low-ceilinged, strung up with mismatched lights and pulsing with a rhythm that’s too slow to dance to but too heady to ignore. Kara dragged you out, literally. Something about needing to touch grass, socialize, wear something besides “her idiot cousins” sweatshirt. (You didn’t tell her you wore it to bed three nights in a row. She’d probably smell it on you anyway.)

She looks unreal, all legs and leather and Kryptonian confidence. You’re no slouch either. The dress is tight, shimmery. Bronze against your skin, short enough to be daring, and clinging in all the right places. You hadn’t meant to flirt with anyone tonight. Hadn’t meant to drink this much, either.

But Clark texted you twenty minutes ago.

Just a simple:

“Get home safe. Call me if you need anything.”

And now you’re spiraling.

Kara’s in the bathroom. You’re left alone with your half-melted drink, the throb of bass, and the dangerous heat pooling behind your ribcage. You’re flushed. Reckless. And when you open your phone, his name is right there.

You hit call. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Mmm,” you purr, low and syrupy, “Clarkie.”

He stills. You can hear it. That little intake of breath, the sharp silence of him trying to recalibrate. “Are you okay?” he asks, voice warm, careful, threaded with concern.

“Better now,” you say. You lean back in the booth, letting your head fall against the velvet. Your knees part slightly. It’s instinct more than invitation. “What are you doing?”

“I… I was reading.”

You hum. “Boring.”

His chuckle is soft. Nervous. “What are you doing?”

You twist the straw in your drink. “Thinking about you.”

A noise crackles through the line like he fumbled his phone, dropping it slightly.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, but it’s gentle. Amused. Like he already knows.

“Not drunk. Tipsy,” you say, swinging your feet. “Warm. Kinda floaty. Like you and Kara can do. I think you’d like it.”

“You should probably drink some water.”

“I’d rather drink you.” You pout, even though he can’t see it. The silence on the other end goes nuclear. You grin. “Too much?”

Clark’s voice comes back low. Rough and stuttering. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“…No.”

“Oh,” you gasp. The heat you feel spikes.

“I mean,” he fumbles, suddenly breathless, “I just…if it’s the alcohol talking then–”

“It’s not.” You cut him off, curling your legs up beneath you, cheeks burning. “It’s not.”

He exhales like he’s holding the weight of a planet. “You’re killing me.”

You toy with the hem of your dress, voice going soft. “You haven’t seen what I’m wearing yet.”

Another silence. Heavy. Threaded with something that feels like hunger.

“I bet you look beautiful,” he says, finally. Quiet and reverent. “You always do.”

Your chest tightens. He’s not teasing anymore.

“Clark,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I wish you were here.”

“I do too.”

And for a second, it’s not about the flirting or the dress or the heat between your thighs. It’s about the way he says it. Like he means it. Like he aches. You hear the bathroom door swing open. Kara returns with a smirk and two waters, her heels clicking against the floor.

You straighten, heart racing. “I should go.”

“Okay,” he says. “Text me when you get home?”

“Only if you promise to answer.”

“I always do.”

You hang up.

But your hands are still trembling when you slip your phone back into your clutch. You stare at your reflection in the bar mirror, flushed, lips glossed, skin glowing, and you think: God, I want him to see me like this.

-

It starts stupidly. It’s late. You’re half-under a blanket, legs tangled, the overhead light off and your bedside lamp flickering gold. Your phone’s at 12%. Kara is texting from a rooftop party on Jupiter’s fifth moon like she’s just down the street.

KARA: hot date saturday?? don’t be boring. wear something slutty. something war-criminal adjacent. make him weep.

You snort into your pillow, thumb already hovering over the reply button as you pull open your dresser drawer. You rifle past cotton and lace and one sports bra that should’ve been retired in 2019. Then something bright catches your eye.

Sheer violet. Gauzy. Absolutely ridiculous.

You’d bought it with Kara after one too many pink cocktails and a dare to “embrace your villain arc.” There are tiny embroidered stars scattered across the mesh. You’ve never worn it. The tag is still on.

You hold it up to the mirror and laugh.

YOU: like this?? or too much for a potential one-night stand???

No reply yet. Just your reflection, messy hair, flushed cheeks, tank top sliding off one shoulder. And then, because you’re a menace, and Kara brings out the worst in you, you put it on.

It clings. Barely-there mesh, soft and indecent. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs. The neckline dips scandalously low. Your skin catches in the golden light like it’s lit from the inside.

You tug your hair over one shoulder. Bite your lip. Lift your phone.

The mirror catches everything. Your bare legs, the stretch of your hips, the curve of your stomach. You stand crooked, one hip cocked, wrist soft where it grazes your thigh. You look tired. A little chaotic. But kind of… beautiful. Like you’ve peeled back something tender and let it live.

You’re not pouting. Not exactly. But your mouth curls at the corners like you’re daring someone to say something unhinged. Like you know.

You take the picture. Flash off. No filter.

Spicy, not explicit. Funny. Bold enough to make Kara wheeze-laugh. Honest enough that your heart is already racing.

You hit send.

And then look down at the thread.

No.

No no no no no.

Your blood turns to static. You freeze, thumb hovering like it might rewind time. You stare at the screen.

Sent to: Clark Kent

You don’t breathe. For three full seconds, you don’t exist. Then you scream into your pillow, roll off the bed, and slam your knee into the nightstand like it owes you money.

You scramble for your phone with shaking hands and immediately send:

YOU: IGNORE THAT OMG. YOU: I meant to send it to Kara. PLEASE ignore it. I’m dying. I’m already dead.

You chuck your phone to the other side of the bed like it’s radioactive and collapse into the mattress. Your face burns. Your soul exits your body. Every muscle tenses like the universe might swallow you whole if you stay very, very still.

And the worst part? The worst part is that just last week, on that stupid tipsy night out, you’d thought: God, I want him to see me like this.

But not like this. Not this. Not LIKE THIS. FUCK.

You bury your face in your arm. Your whole body is vibrating. Three minutes crawl by. Your heart’s still trying to break through your ribcage when your phone buzzes.

You lift your head. Slowly. Like you’re about to read your own death certificate.

CLARK: That color looks beautiful on you.

The air leaves your lungs.

Another buzz.

CLARK: Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. Please ignore me.

You sit up, motionless, drowning in sheer violet and shame.

Your chest is molten. Your fingers twitch. And still, he sends another message:

CLARK: We’re still okay, right?

You stare at the screen, light blooming against your skin, blinking back heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.

Because something is shifting. Because you read those words, and you feel it. How long he looked at it. How careful his voice is in text, even now. How the apology sounds like it hurt to write. Like he wanted to say more.

You don’t reply.

Not yet.

Because something inside you is splitting wide open, dangerous and tender, and even though you’re spiraling, half-naked, and panicked beyond reason, you know one thing with stupid, terrifying clarity: He didn’t look away. He looked and he wanted.

And somewhere across the city, Clark is flat on his back in bed, phone facedown on his chest, hand over his eyes, whispering your name into the dark like he’s only ever meant to say it once.

Like it’s a secret too big to keep quiet anymore.

-

You don’t see him for days.

Not on purpose, at first. You’re just… busy. Meetings. Errands. You say yes to brunch invites you’d normally ignore. You linger in bookstores with your phone on silent. You fold laundry at half-speed just to keep your hands from reaching for your phone. And when it finally does buzz with his name, you turn it face down.

It’s not that you’re ashamed.

It’s that you’re afraid you aren’t.

The image lives in your brain like a pulse. The sheer lace. The way your body looked, your face visible, your stance confident, flirty, that soft arch of your spine like a dare. The thought that he saw it. That he liked it.

That he said so.

And now everything feels fragile. The edges of your friendship too sharp. The space between you was too charged.

When Kara invites you both to her midweek trivia night at the bar, you arrive early and plant yourself between her and Jimmy like a defensive wall. Clark shows up twenty minutes in, windswept and flushed from some rescue you don’t ask about. He scans the table. Sees you. Hesitates.

You don’t look up.

You pretend not to notice when he slides onto the stool directly across. Pretend you don’t feel the weight of his gaze every time you take a sip of your drink. You laugh too loud at Jimmy’s jokes. You high-five Kara for a question about Star Trek that you definitely Googled under the table.

“Didn’t know you liked espresso martinis now,” Clark says to no one in particular, eyes flicking to the half-drunk cocktail in your hand.

You shrug. “People change.” It’s cruel. You know it. But you’re unraveling.

Later, when you leave, he follows you outside, quiet and cautious. The streetlight flickers overhead, painting him gold and shadow.

“You don’t have to avoid me,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You cross your arms, shoulders tight. “Didn’t I?”

There’s a beat of silence. Wind stirring fallen leaves at your feet.

“You looked beautiful,” he says again, softer this time. “And I shouldn’t have said anything. I just…” He falters. “It was a moment. That’s all. If you want to forget it, we can.”

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

But neither of you forgets. And when Kara texts the group chat about a winter cabin weekend, just the three of you, you nearly bail.

You almost say no.

But something in you aches to be seen by him again. And maybe something in him hopes you’ll let him.

-

The storm hits hard. Not sudden, but sure. Fat flakes tumbling sideways like they have somewhere to be, the sky a quiet, smothering gray. Kara shrugs it off when you arrive, says something about solar flares and a delay in the jet stream. You don’t ask what that means. She tosses you a knit beanie and tells you to relax.

The cabin creaks like it’s breathing. There’s cocoa in the air, pine needles on the floor, and a fireplace that makes everything glow too warmly. It should be cozy.

It isn’t. Not with him here. Not after what you sent. After what he said. You haven’t talked about it. Not directly since the bar. You’ve barely talked at all. Every time you look at Clark, you remember how quickly he typed that color looks beautiful on you. You remember how quickly he apologized. How slowly you’ve been breathing ever since.

Kara disappears early the second night. Something about checking a storm system on the edge of the solar system, and a very dramatic “Don’t touch my snacks” before she vanishes in a blur of wind and snow.

It’s just you and Clark now. The snow taps at the windows like it wants in. The fire pops, low and rhythmic, casting orange shadows that stretch tall across the walls. Your phone’s been dead since sundown. His sits untouched on the kitchen counter. No one’s talking. Not really.

Just the occasional creak of old pine settling. The soft scrape of his thumb along the edge of his mug. He hasn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. You’re curled on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped over your knees. He’s at the far end, posture loose but eyes bright behind his glasses. Tracking you.

You both pretend you’re not watching each other. You both fail. The glow of the fire glances off the slope of his cheek. Off the exposed skin of his forearms, sleeves rolled again. There’s a pink flush at his throat from earlier, when the heat kicked back on and he’d insisted on hauling more firewood inside even though you told him not to.

“You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.

You nod, but it’s half a shrug.

“Bit of a surreal day.”

His mouth curves.

“Yeah.”

-

By the time the pipes groan and rattle into silence, the chill in the second bedroom is impossible to ignore.

You try cranking the knob on the old radiator. Nothing. Not even a hiss. You run the tap and only a sputter answers. Clark checks the crawl space, comes back shaking his head, snow clinging to his sleeves.

“Frozen solid,” he says. “Looks like the storm hit the line harder than we thought.” You glance toward the second bedroom. Then the clock. It’s after midnight. Kara’s still off-planet, unreachable. No way to get a plumber. No one to trade with. You bite your lip.

“You can take the bed,” you say finally, tugging your sweater tighter around you. “I don’t mind the couch.”

He gives you a look. Gentle, but firm. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

You shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like your stomach isn’t suddenly tight and fluttering. “We could… split it.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean,” You gesture vaguely. “It’s a queen. And it’s just for tonight. We’re both adults. It’s not weird.” Clark says nothing.

You clear your throat. “Remember that bus ride to Keystone? We shared a blanket and headphones. And I drooled on your shoulder. This is basically the same. Just with fewer rest stops.”

That gets a smile. Small. Real. “Top sheet wall?” he asks softly.

Your pulse skips. “Obviously.”

He nods, and you both start moving without another word. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you haven’t been dreaming about his shoulder, his warmth, his closeness for years.

You turn off the overhead light. Crawl under one side of the covers. He follows a beat later, careful, his body a respectful distance away. Still, the mattress dips under his weight. The room holds its breath. So do you.

The sheets are too cold at first. Then too hot. His body radiates warmth like a second hearth behind you, even though he’s lying stiffly on his side of the bed, hands folded across his chest like a knight in a tomb.

You don’t speak. Not for hours. You don’t sleep, either. At 2:04 a.m., your voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Careful.

“Did you mean it?”

He shifts. Barely. “Mean what?”

You swallow and look up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “That color. On me.”

The silence stretches long enough that you think maybe he’s asleep.

“I think,” he says slowly, like he’s peeling the truth out of himself, “you’d look good in anything.” He pauses for a moment, then softer, he adds, “Or nothing.”

Your whole body goes still. The air between you charges. Hums. You turn just enough to see the outline of his face in the firelight’s dying glow. He’s already watching you.

The kiss barely happens. It’s not frantic. Not hungry. Not planned. Just breath. Then a brush of lips that almost misses. Like a secret exhaled. He pulls back first. Breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand curls in the sheet between you. Yours stays frozen near his chest, not quite touching.

You don’t speak again. You lie there, wide-eyed, heart aching. Because it wasn’t funny now. It hadn’t been funny in years. And somewhere, buried beneath the rising tide of want, your oldest promise claws its way to the surface.

Kara.

You don’t bring it up. But you don’t move closer, either. You fall asleep not in his arms, but in the wide, shivering space between what you want and what you were told not to want.

And Clark? Clark stays exactly where he is. Afraid to reach for you. Afraid not to.

-

You wake to warmth. Not just the kind from flannel sheets or the too-small cabin heater rattling behind the wall, but him. His arm draped around your waist, his hand splayed at your lower back like it belongs there. Your nose is tucked against the cotton of his t-shirt. His legs are tangled with yours, the press of his thigh warm and steady between both of yours.

He’s already awake. You know because his fingers are moving, slow, rhythmic circles at the base of your spine. Not intentional, maybe. Absent-minded. But intimate. Gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

You stay still. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Because the moment you move, this stops being safety and slips back into reality. Eventually, he shifts. Loosens his grip. You peel yourself out of the bed with an apology you don’t say, and he doesn’t ask for one.

Kara gets back by noon. Her boots stomp snow across the porch. She barrels in with coffee and sass, laughing about the barista she threatened at the gas station for spelling her name “Carrot.” She’s loud. Bright. And so, so perceptive.

Her eyes flick to you, then Clark. You’re across the room from each other. Too across. She slows mid-sentence.

“You guys good?” she asks, too casually.

“Totally,” you chirp.

Clark clears his throat. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press. Not yet. But her head tilts. Just slightly. You can feel it, something beginning to tighten.

That night, Kara claims the good couch and queues up old episodes of Chopped. You linger by the woodpile. Clark joins you in silence.

The cabin creaks around you. The snow’s returned, softer this time, quieter.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, eventually, he says, “I’ve wanted you for years.” It slips out like breath, like steam off the mug in his hands. Quiet and bare.

Your whole body stills. “You never said anything,” you whisper.

He looks at you. Really, truly looks at every inch of your face. And god, he’s beautiful in the dark. Shadows caught at his jaw, eyes glassy with something half-wrecked, half-relieved.

“Because you were Kara’s,” he says. “Not like that, I know. But you were her safe person. Her only person for a long time. I didn’t want to take that away. I didn’t want to mess you two up.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches to brush his thumb beneath your eye. And then you kiss him again.

This time, there’s no careful distance. No trembling boundary. You wrap your arms around his neck and he pulls you in with the full weight of someone who’s wanted this too long. His hands cradle your jaw. Yours fist in the fabric of his shirt. You kiss like it’s the only way to speak.

And when he kisses you again, really kisses you, out there in the cold with the scent of cedar and snow around you, you let him. You let yourself.

His hands are rough from the woodpile but cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You grip the front of his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. When he backs you up against the side of the cabin, when your breath fogs the air between you and your bodies press close to stay warm, you stop pretending it’s not love.

You stop pretending it was ever just friendship.

-

You’re the first to slip out of the room.

The cabin is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV and the dying glow of the fire. Kara’s curled up on the couch under three blankets, arms crossed over her chest like she’s mid-debate even in sleep. You tiptoe around the creaky floorboards, pretending everything’s normal, pretending you’re not still wearing the same socks he peeled off you hours ago. When you sit beside her, you try to look casual. Tuck your legs up, hug a pillow. She doesn’t stir.

Clark comes out ten minutes later. Hair damp from the shower. He glances at you once before easing onto the other couch, dropping the remote between his knees like it’s something to focus on.

You don’t speak. You just watch whatever’s playing. Some nature documentary about volcanoes. Something slow and low-toned. Kara shifts once, mutters something about magma, and goes still again. The silence stretches long.

Eventually, you say you’re tired. Stand. Stretch like it’s nothing. Like your body doesn’t still hum from his hands, from the way he said your name with his mouth full of need.

You move through the hallway like a ghost. Crawl back into the too-soft guest bed and curl toward the wall. It’s ten minutes before the door creaks open again.

The mattress dips behind you. You don’t turn. Not right away. But you feel him. Every inch. The hesitation in his breath. The way the air shifts before his body moves. He reaches slow, deliberate, like he’s giving you time to stop him. When his arm slides around your waist, you let out the softest sound. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a sigh.

His palm splays over your stomach, warm even through the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. Your shirt that’s really his. It smells like firewood and detergent and him. Your breath catches.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk.

“You’re warm,” you breathe back, but it’s barely a tease.

His chest presses to your spine. Solid. Familiar. Maddening. Then his nose brushes just under your ear, barely a graze, but your whole body tightens like he kissed you there.

“You always do that,” you whisper.

He hums low. “Do what?”

“Find the place that ruins me.” 

His hand tenses against your stomach. “I’m not trying to ruin you,” he says, voice rougher now. Closer. “Okay, well maybe not completely.” His lips ghost the shell of your ear. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel whole.”

That breaks you. You turn, slow, aching, and face him. He’s so close. You can smell the soap on his jaw. See the firelight lingering in his eyes. You don’t say a word.

You kiss him. Soft, at first. Barely-there. Like testing the edge of something you know you shouldn’t touch. But then he sighs into your mouth, like he’s been waiting for it. His hand finds your hip. Fingers flex, then drag up under your shirt, tracing the small of your back with reverent, possessive heat.

You gasp. He catches it with his mouth. Kisses you deeper. His leg slides between yours. You feel him already hard, already aching, and you can’t help the whimper that slips out when he rolls his hips, just once, like he can’t help it either.

“Clark,” you whisper.

He pulls back, breath heavy. “Say stop and I will.”

You don’t. You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him back to you. His hand roams. Slow. Searching. Worshipful. Every touch says I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw like he’s afraid it’s a dream.

And when he finally settles over you, the weight of him familiar and new all at once, you think: This is real. This is dangerous. And I don’t want to let go.

-

It starts small. A brush of fingers when no one’s looking. His hand settling too long on your back when passing behind you in the cabin kitchen. You leaning against him on the couch a moment too long after Kara’s fallen asleep.

Then there’s the moment in the hallway, his thumb brushing your cheekbone just as you say goodnight, both of you lingering like it might turn into something more.

And once, while Kara’s out fetching more firewood, you’re pressed up against the cold wall by the back door, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands gripping your hips like he can’t believe you’re real.

“I can’t stop,” he says into your skin.

You kiss him like you don’t want him to.

-

The cabin ends. You return to Metropolis. You’re still flushed from the cold when you push open your apartment door. Your boots are wet. Your scarf itches.

You’re not fully shocked when you open the door and he’s already there. Clark is standing in your living room, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and burning with everything you didn’t let yourself want back at the cabin. He turns when you close the door behind you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

He must have flown. Must’ve phased through the glass wall of your balcony like he’s done only once before, years ago, to save your life. Now he’s here for something else entirely.

“I didn’t want to wait,” he says softly.

He kisses you before you can say his name. It’s not soft. It’s full-bodied, bracing, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally let go. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger that leaves your knees unsteady. One of his hands comes up to cradle your cheek, the other sliding into your hair. His touch is trembling but firm, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t touch all of you.

Your fingers knot in the collar of his coat. You kiss him back with everything you’ve never said. Your bag hits the floor with a muffled thud. Your coat is shoved from your shoulders, caught briefly at the crook of your elbows before falling to the hardwood. He lifts you before your shoes are even off, and you wrap around him like it’s instinct, legs cinched at his waist, arms locked around his neck.

“Clark,” you giggle, breathless, lips brushing his as your noses bump and teeth scrape. He grins against your mouth, wide and helpless. His dimples are beautiful as ever. You feel him smiling. You feel everything. His arms straining to hold you closer, the quake in his chest, the quiet exhale that sounds like relief.

But when your heel digs into the small of his back and your bodies press together just right, something shifts. The air thins. He walks you to the bedroom in three smooth strides, steady as stone but gentle, like you’re something fragile, sacred. You feel the press of his heartbeat against your ribs the whole way.

He lays you down on your bed with excruciating care, like placing a holy relic on an altar. The room glows dim with citylight through the blinds, just enough to catch the sweep of his eyes as they travel over you, awestruck. He swallows. You’ve never seen him look at anyone like this.

He reaches for the hem of your sweater with two fingers, knuckles grazing your skin. His voice is hoarse, unsteady. “Can I…?”

You nod and it’s like time slows. He undresses you like it hurts. Like each layer is a ribbon he’s unspooling from a gift he never believed he’d be allowed to open. His touch is reverent, calloused thumbs brushing over your sides as he peels fabric from skin. The soft drag of your bra strap down your arm makes you shiver. He hesitates at your hips, breath stalling, before easing your underwear down your thighs.

When you’re finally bare beneath him, he just looks. Breathes. His hand trails from your ribs to your stomach, thumb stroking a slow circle over your hip. You’re shaking, goosebumps rising wherever his skin touches yours.

“You’re so…” He trails off, eyes locked to your chest, your throat, your mouth. His voice breaks like a promise. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You whisper back, “You’ve always been good to me.”

“I’ve always wanted to be good to you,” he murmurs, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to say it.

And then his mouth is on your collarbone. His nose brushes the slope of your chest. His lips graze the underside of your breast. Each kiss is slow. Deliberate. Like a vow. Like he’s saying I see you. I worship you. I’m here.

When he finally settles between your legs, breath warm and hands steady despite the way his whole body shakes, you don’t stop him.

Your thighs tremble beneath his palms. He pauses just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then your hip. Then your stomach.

When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark, wide. His voice is barely a whisper against your skin as he whispers, “Tell me you want this.”

Your hands thread into his hair, gently pulling. “I need this,” you breathe. “I need you.”

You lay back slowly, chest rising and falling as his hands smooth down your sides, steadying you. The sheets are cool beneath your skin, but his mouth is fire as he kisses the inside of your thigh again, closer this time. Your breath stutters. His grip tightens. And then he licks a stripe up your center, slow and unhurried, just enough pressure to make you jolt.

“Oh god, Clark!”  

He groans against you. The vibration sinks into your bones. His hands hook behind your knees and spread you open, holding you like something cherished, like he wants to memorize this exact angle of you, shivering, panting, wrecked beneath his mouth.

He buries his face in you like he’s starving. And maybe he is. Maybe this is hunger, years deep. He licks like he means it. Like he’s missed you even though he’s never had you. Tongue thick and hot, curling just right, slow at first, but growing greedy when you arch your back and gasp his name again.

Your hands twist in his hair, thighs trembling against his shoulders. But then he pulls back. Your hips buck at the loss, whimpering without shame.

He breathes hard, voice shredded and low as he says, “Come here.”

You blink down at him. “Wha—?”

“Sit on my face,” he says, almost reverent. “Please.”

“Clark,” Your breath catches.

“Please.” His voice breaks a little as he cuts you off. “I’ve thought about it, so many times. I need to feel all of you.”

You climb up slowly, heart pounding, thighs shaky. He lies back and watches you with something close to awe, hands firm on your hips as you straddle him. You hover for half a second.

“Are you sure?”

His grip tightens. “Sweetheart,” he says, rough and wrecked, “please.”

You sink down gently. His moan is immediate and devastating, deep in his chest like it’s been caged there forever. His tongue finds you again, this time deeper, sloppier, messier than before. The angle makes it worse. Better. Too much. Not enough.

He’s insatiable. He groans again when you grind forward, hands bruising your hips to keep you there. You try to lift, he drags you back down, desperate.

“Clark, oh my god.”

He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you. Like he wants to burn the memory of anyone else from your body. He’s loud about it, grunting, humming, practically purring beneath you when you tug his hair and rock your hips just right. His nose presses right where you need it, and when his tongue dips and curls again you see stars. You cry out. Loud. Raw. He hums, pleased, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring him to earth.

And when you come, you swear he pulls you into him, grinding your hips down as you sob through it, legs trembling so hard you nearly collapse. You fall forward, catching yourself on the headboard, chest heaving. He kisses the inside of your thigh like thanks.

You try to move off him. He pulls you back. “Not yet.”

“Clark?”

“I’m not done with you.” He kisses the inside of your thigh again, then again, until your legs twitch.

“Please,” you breathe, reaching down to tug gently at his hair. “I-I need you.”

He hums like he’s thinking about it. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind. Then he finally lets you go. His lips glisten. His cheeks are flushed. His voice is ragged when he murmurs, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

You do, slowly, still shaky, breath caught in your chest. You start to lie back, but he stops you.

“No,” he says softly, guiding you up onto your hands and knees instead. His hand skims down your spine, just his fingertips, so gentle it gives you chills. “Just like that.”

Your heart stutters. Behind you, he kneels, dragging his mouth along your shoulder, down your back, until his body blankets yours, hot and steady, fully clothed still, but you can feel the weight of him, the strength in every line of his body as he presses a kiss to the base of your neck. Then his hand slides between your legs again.

“Clark!” You jolt. 

His other hand gently clamps over your mouth, leaning close until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Shhh,” he whispers. 

You nod against his palm, gasping quietly. He kisses your shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

Then he teases you relentlessly. Two fingers, slow and steady, curling inside you as his palm grinds against the spot that already has your hips jerking. You try to stay still. You try to be quiet. But the pleasure makes your eyes flutter, your body tighten. He doesn’t go fast, he goes deep, deliberate, drawing every sound you try not to make.

“You always get this wet for me?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. You whine behind his hand. He chuckles. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Clark, I’m-I’m so…,” You dig your nails into the sheets, trying to keep quiet, but the pressure builds too fast. His fingers are too skilled, the heel of his hand pressing right there. 

His fingers slow to a stop. You whimper. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Not yet.”

“Please…” you whimper.

“Sweetheart,” he says, licking into the curve of your spine, “I’m trying to take my time. Don’t make me rush.”

You bury your face in the pillow with a muffled sob of frustration. Clark laughs, quiet, delighted, and shifts behind you. You feel the soft, hot press of him, finally bare, finally freed from his boxers, sliding through your folds with aching slowness but not quite entering. Just teasing. Just grinding.

“Clark.” You say, voice firm and laced with frustration. 

“I’ve thought about this every night, pretty girl,” he says, breathless now. “How soft you’d feel. How warm. How you’d sound.” You arch your back. He groans. “You’re perfect.”

Then, finally, finally, he pushes in. The stretch is slow. Careful but so deep. Your jaw falls open. He fills you like he’s meant to be there, like he was made for this, for you, and for a second, neither of you moves.

“Tell me if I’m too much.” His voice trembles. You reach for his hand where it braces next to your head. You squeeze it.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. He moves. Long, deep strokes, no rush, just steady, aching friction that has your thighs shaking and your fingers clawing for purchase. He holds your hips like they’re precious, leans forward to mouth kisses into your shoulder, your neck. You squeeze around him and he groans again, this time into your skin.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits, panting. “Not with you like this. Not after, gosh, after waiting this long.”

You push back into him. “Then don’t, Kent.”

He stills. Just for a moment. Just long enough to kiss the back of your neck and whisper, “You’re gonna be the end of me.” And then he starts moving again, faster this time, rhythm unraveling. Your breath catches, body tightening, and when you come again, hard and helpless, he spills inside you with a groan so soft you almost miss it.

You’re still trembling. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your breathing won’t even out. And your thighs—god, your thighs are shaking so bad you can’t tell where your body ends and his begins. Clark kisses the center of your spine, once, twice.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, too spent to speak. Still inside you, he shifts, slowly, gently, his hands skating down your sides like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then he slips out of you with a low groan and gathers you close, wrapping you in his arms like it’s instinct. You’re a mess between your legs. You can feel it, his spend, your slick, the ache where he stretched you open so perfectly, but Clark just kisses your shoulder again and holds you tighter.

He doesn’t let go. Not when you twitch. Not when you flinch from how sensitive you are. Not when your breath catches and your throat tightens. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs, rolling you gently onto your back. “Let me take care of you.”

Your lashes flutter as you open your eyes. The room’s still dark, lit only by the lamplight's soft orange flicker. You let out a breathy laugh, and he brushes your cheek with his knuckles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he’s up, slipping on his boxers, tugging his shirt over his head as he pads quietly to the bathroom. You hear the soft clink of water in the sink. Cabinets. A towel. He returns with warm hands and a clean cloth, kneels beside the bed, and nudges your thighs open again with so much gentleness it makes your chest ache.

“I’ve got you,” he says, soothing, soft. You whimper at the first swipe, not from pain but from how careful he is. He kisses your knee.

“You always this gentle?” you murmur.

His eyes find yours. There’s something heavy in them. Something endless. “Only with you.”

You swallow hard. You think, don’t say something you can’t take back. But he’s already setting the cloth aside. Crawling back into bed. Pulling the blankets up over both of you as he curls behind you again. His body is so warm. His hand settles on your stomach. You pull it closer.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispers. His breath fans your shoulder. “You don’t even know.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer. Instead, you shift until your back fits to his chest again. Until his legs tangle with yours. Until you feel like you’re part of him. Like you’ve always been part of him.

He wraps both arms around you now. Holds you like he’ll never let go. And for the first time in your life, you fall asleep in his arms, not as his friend, not as his maybe, not as the girl he’s always looked at like a secret he can’t say out loud. But as his. His warmth, his gravity, his everything.

-

In the morning, sunlight pushes through the thin curtains and Clark… Clark is looking at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. His hair is a mess. His shirt is gone. His eyes are soft and sleepy, but the second he realizes you’re awake, he smiles. Not the charming, polite one he gives the rest of the world.

Yours.

He reaches for you. Pulls you into his chest again. And when you close your eyes, wrapped in his arms, you almost believe the world will let you keep this. Even if you don’t know for how long.

-

Two months. Maybe more. You don’t mark it in your calendar. You don’t let yourself count. But it’s there, buried in the back of your mind. It happens in stolen hours. Quiet mornings. Long nights. 

You get good at pretending. Kara comes over and Clark sits on the opposite end of the couch like he didn’t just spend the night wrapped around you. He’s careful. He’s gentle. He never lets his hand brush yours for too long, never lets his gaze linger unless your head is turned. But you feel it. All of it. The shift. The ache. The want that never quite lets up.

You think maybe he does too. It’s in the way he sends you playlists again. Not as often. But they’re more curated now. Less chaotic pop-punk, more soft, strange indie tracks that make your chest hurt if you listen too closely. It’s in the way he always brings you the first cup of coffee, never mind if you’re at your place or his.

And in the way his lips find the base of your throat like second nature, every night you fall asleep wrapped in him. 

-

You’re standing barefoot in the middle of your apartment, folding laundry straight from the dryer. The hum of the machine still buzzes faintly behind you, rhythmic and warm. A soft heap of clean clothes sits on the couch beside you, yours and his, mixed together the way they always seem to be lately.

You pull a shirt from the pile, gray, worn at the collar, familiar. You press it to your nose without thinking. It smells like cedarwood and something brighter, like warm cotton left too long in the sun. Clark. It smells like Clark.

You hesitate for a breath, then fold it carefully, smoothing your hands over the fabric before setting it on top of your own sweaters. No lines between yours and his anymore. Not really.

Your phone buzzes once. A text. You glance over.

From Clark: “Might swing by. Cold front’s rolling in.”

You don’t respond. He’ll come either way.

Later that night, the air outside turns sharp and glassy. Wind slips under the windows like a whisper. You wake to the soft click of the balcony door and there he is. Solid. Quiet. A little flushed from flight. His hoodie clings damp from the fog. His cheeks are pink. His smile, small.

He doesn’t knock anymore. Doesn’t have to. You see the faint outline of his palm on the glass as he closes it behind him. A smudge. One of many.

“Didn’t want you to get cold or be hungry. You get extra cranky when you do,” he murmurs, setting the bag of takeout on your kitchen counter. His sleeves are still damp from the mist, hoodie clinging to his forearms as he shakes off the chill.

You turn to thank him and freeze. He’s holding something out toward you. Small. Familiar. A single brass key, looped onto a ring with a miniature Kansas license plate charm.

“Clark…” Your breath catches.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away. His ears are pink. Just presses it gently into your palm and curls your fingers around it with his own. His touch is warm. Steady.

“In case I’m not home,” he says softly. “Or if you ever just… want to be there.”

You stare down at the key between your fingers. It’s warm from his pocket. Solid. Real. A beat passes before you find your voice. “You’re giving me a key to your place?”

He finally looks at you then, cheeks pink, lashes damp from the fog, eyes unbearably soft. “I wanted you to know there’s no part of my life you’re not welcome in.”

Something inside your chest folds in on itself. He presses a kiss to your forehead before you can say anything else, his lips tender, lingering just a second too long. His fingers trail through your hair, settling at the nape of your neck like they’ve always belonged there. And maybe they have.

You cling to the paper bag just to keep from falling apart. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say you’re welcome. Just brushes his thumb across your wrist and smiles like he’s been waiting years to give you this.

-

You don’t realize what day it is until he’s knocking on your door, hair still wet from a recent flight, cheeks pink from the chill, and holding a bouquet so large it looks like he robbed a botanical garden.

“Happy two months and fourteen days,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink. “What?”

He grins. Shy, proud. Dimple-deep and boyish. “Since the cabin,” he says. “Technically since 2:14 a.m., if we’re being precise.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again. “You counted?”

Clark shrugs, bashful but beaming. “I had help,” he says, tapping his temple. “Super-memory.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t plan on keeping count,” he says, cheeks pink. “But day one was kind of… unforgettable.”

You blink at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “Clark this is… so sweet.”

He steps closer. “You love that I’m like this.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Does that mean I get to take you on your surprise date?”

You eye him warily. “You’re not going to fly me somewhere illegal, are you?”

“No international laws will be broken tonight,” he promises, solemn. “But I did make a reservation.”

-

The elevator opens to soft music and the smell of rosemary and lemon zest. You step out into a rooftop garden draped in string lights and blooming with late-summer jasmine. Golden lanterns sway in the evening breeze. The sky above is streaked with lavender and rose, and tucked beneath it all, between terracotta planters and the faint clink of glasses, is a table for two.

Linen-covered. Candlelit. Your name written in Clark’s neatest, most careful print on a folded card beside your plate. He pulls out your chair.

The waiter arrives with your favorite drink before you even glance at the menu.

“You didn’t,” you whisper, breath fogging the edge of your glass.

He grins, sitting across from you, tie slightly loose, hair mussed like he’d flown here fast but fixed it in the stairwell. “Superman might’ve called in a few favors.”

You look at and your heart does that stupid, dangerous flutter again. Clark, trying not to smile too wide. Clark, watching you like nothing else in the world matters. Clark, with glasses fogging faintly in the candlelight as he refills your drink like it’s second nature.

“So,” you say, twirling your straw. “You memorized the night we first hooked up.”

He shifts in his seat, cheeks flushing again. “I memorized… a lot of things about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

Clark meets your eyes and suddenly he’s not shy or fumbling. He’s steady. Honest. Lit from within. “I know the face you make when you’re pretending not to cry at movies,” he says. “And the sound you make when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes.”

“Clark Kent.”

“I know you hate when your socks fall down in your boots. I know you chew your thumb when you’re anxious. And I know you look at me like I hung the moon, even though all I’ve ever done is love you.”

Silence hums between you. Even the city seems to lean in.

“You said that like it was nothing,” you breathe.

“I meant it like it was everything, sweetheart.”

-

After dessert, after he insists on paying and you have to physically stop him from tipping the waiter an entire rent check, you walk hand-in-hand back toward the elevator.

The night air is cool against your cheeks. His jacket is warm around your shoulders. He brushes your fingers with his thumb, like he can’t stop touching you. Like he’s still surprised you’re here.

At the stairwell door, he pulls you close and kisses you, slow, deliberate, his palm warm against your waist. “Happy two months and fourteen days, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair.

Your breath catches. You press your forehead to his. “Here’s to all the days after.”

-

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. Clark doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you kick off your shoes and shrug his jacket from your shoulders. It still smells like him. That crisp, clean scent of cedar and something sweeter, like warmth after rain.

You drape it over the back of a chair and look over your shoulder. He’s standing there in the entryway, shirt a little wrinkled now, cheeks still pink from the cool air and maybe from how much you stared at him all night.

“You’re staring,” you say softly.

“I know,” he says. “Can’t help it.”

Your laugh is quiet. You pad into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on out of habit. “Tea or cocoa?”

“Surprise me,” he murmurs, leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He always looks like he’s trying to make himself smaller in spaces like this, like the ceiling might forget he’s 6’4” if he slouches enough.

You glance at him sideways as you reach for the mugs. “How did I ever think you were subtle?”

He grins. “I was subtle.”

“Clark, you have phased through my balcony before.”

“You were asleep,” he says, as if that excuses everything.

You hum in your throat, pouring the water once it boils. He moves before you can hand him his mug, crosses the kitchen in three easy steps and takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. That’s all it takes now. A brush of fingers. A look. It used to be longing. Now it’s real.

You sit together on the couch, legs tucked under you, your knees bumping his. He leans into your side, stretching one arm along the back of the couch so you can curl into his chest. The city hums outside the window, but in here, it’s quiet. Still.

He reads the label on the tea bag. “I don’t know how to pronounce this,” he mutters.

“Good,” you say, smiling. “Means you’re learning.”

He chuckles, setting the mug down and tugging you closer. “You’re my favorite thing to learn.”

You hide your face in his chest and pretend not to melt. You sit like that for a long time. Not talking. Just warm. Just together. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask anything of you. Eventually, your eyes grow heavy. He notices before you do, nudges your shoulder gently.

“Come on,” he says. “Bed.”

“I was so comfortable,” you mumble.

He stands, then scoops you up bridal-style with no warning, grinning as you squeak.

“Clark!”

“You said you were comfortable. I’m preserving that.”

He carries you down the hall, flicks the lights off with a puff of wind as he passes. In your bedroom, he sets you down and helps you out of your dress like he’s unwrapping something precious. 

There’s no rush. No tension. Just fingers trailing down your spine, his voice soft in your ear as he murmurs, “You looked so beautiful tonight.”

You change into an old t-shirt and climb into bed. He follows, pulling you close the moment you settle. Your head finds the space beneath his jaw. His hand strokes your back lazily, long fingers drawing circles against the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Happy anniversary,” you whisper into his skin.

He hums. “We should do this again sometime.”

You smile. “What, fall in love?”

“I meant the rooftop dinner,” he teases. Then adds, quieter, “But yeah. That too. Only with each other though, don’t get any ideas.”

-

You never meant to let it stretch this long. You’d told yourself it would be temporary. A passing thing. Something small and selfish to keep the ache at bay. A product of proximity and too many years spent pretending not to want him. You promised yourself it would stay easy, just a kiss, maybe. Just one night. Just something soft to remember when the quiet got too loud.

But simple is not a word that fits Clark Kent. Not when he touches you like the world begins and ends in your breath. Not when he looks at you like you’re a mystery he’s never quite solved but wants to spend forever trying.

And not when every brush of his hand feels like a truth you’re not ready to say aloud.

You tried, at first, to say it didn’t mean anything. You rehearsed the excuses: heat of the moment, too many glasses of wine, a bad habit waiting to be broken. You told yourself you could handle it. That it was only a body craving a body. That love had nothing to do with it.

But then he touched you like you were made of galaxies. Like every sigh and scar and stretch mark was sacred. Like he wanted to memorize every constellation mapped across your skin with the pads of his fingers.

And in those moments, when he was beneath you, or above you, or holding your hips like you might disappear if he let go, you forgot how to lie. You forgot how to pretend he wasn’t everything you’d ever wanted.

You forgot the promise you made when you were seventeen.

Don’t fall in love with my cousin, Kara had said. Her voice teasing, but not quite light. Promise me, okay?

And you had. Because back then it felt easy. Back then he was just the boy with too-big hands and too-kind eyes and an annoying habit of standing too close.

But now he’s gravity. He’s warmth. He’s the night sky and the pull in your chest and the reason you can’t sleep. And you? You’ve broken your promise to the first person you loved.

You haven’t told her. You haven’t said a word. And that silence is beginning to bloom into guilt.

Every time you see Kara’s name on your phone, something sharp lodges under your ribs. Every time she nudges you about someone else, every time she grins like she still believes you’re her constant, you feel the weight of it.

Because you haven’t been honest. Not with her. Not with yourself.

You keep thinking: I’ll tell her. When it’s certain. When it’s real. When I know what this is. But it already is, isn’t it?

It’s real in the way he breathes your name like a prayer. It’s real in the way you ache for him the second he leaves. It’s real in the way your bodies fit like puzzle pieces you didn’t know you were missing.

You never meant to let it stretch this long.

But he’s in your bed like he belongs there. And his hoodie is still folded on your chair. And every time you look at him, your mouth forgets how to pretend.

And maybe it’s too late now to go back to simple.

Maybe it never was.

-

It’s morning now. Soft and slow and late enough that the world has started spinning again outside, but you haven’t quite let it in. The windows are fogged over from the radiator heat. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet. You’re moving slowly, stretching into your shirt as Clark watches you from the bed.

His hair is still mussed from sleep. The sheet is half-draped across his hips, half-forgotten in a heap beneath his knees. His arm is bent beneath his head, propping him up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and lazy, the softest he ever looks, like you’re the only thing worth waking up for. They’re warm and heavy-lidded in that way that always makes you feel like he’s memorizing you.

Not Superman. Not even Clark Kent. Just the man who holds you when you cry. The one who shows up. The one who never really stopped.

You’re too aware of him. Of the soft rasp of linen when he shifts. Of the way your pulse flutters beneath your collarbone as you catch your reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised mouth, the faintest crescent mark on your shoulder where he lost control for just a second last night.

You pretend not to notice. But he’s been doing that more lately, watching you like you’re something tender he can’t touch too hard. It should make you feel safe. Whole. But the longer this goes, the more you feel it fray.

You’re buttoning your shirt, fingers a little slower than usual. There’s a silence between you. Not heavy, but fragile.

“Maybe I’m just the girl who always loved you,” yu say, breaking that silence. Your words come out soft, half-teasing, but your voice wobbles at the end. Clark lifts his head. You don’t meet his eyes. You fiddle with the last button and force a laugh. “Safe bet, right?”

You expect him to chuckle. To shrug it off. To say something deflective and warm and perfectly noncommittal. But he doesn’t. You hear him move instead, sheet rustling, feet on the floor. And then he’s behind you. Close enough to feel. His palm doesn’t land on your waist. Doesn’t even brush your shoulder. But his presence hums against your back like heat. Like static. Like something holy trying not to burn. He lifts a hand slowly. Gathers a strand of your hair between his fingers. 

“You are not the safe bet,” his voice is quiet. You go still. He steps a fraction closer. The warmth of him radiating across your spine, not touching, not quite, but there. “You were the risk,” he says. “You still are.”

You don’t breathe. Not for a second. Maybe longer. Your heart thrums behind your ribs like it wants to be heard. Like it’s been waiting for someone to say that for years and now that he has, you don’t know what to do with it.

You turn slightly. Just enough to glance at his reflection in the mirror. He looks open. Raw. Like every version of himself is standing in the same space at once, the boy from the porch roof, the man who held your face like it was precious, the secret you’ve kept curled behind your teeth for too long.

And just for a moment, you forget the promise. The lines you swore you wouldn’t cross. The girlhood vow that feels so distant now, but never quite faded.

You lean back against him. His hand finds your waist and his lips skim your temple.

You let your eyes close. You let yourself want it. Just for a second. And then you pull away. Because the secret is getting harder to keep. And love like this, love you don’t name, is only going to hurt the longer it stays quiet.

-

It starts with the little things. Kara’s not stupid. She wasn’t born yesterday. She’s fought gods, stared down planetary collapse, and once pieced together a global blackmail ring based entirely on tone shifts in text messages.

She notices when Clark flakes on game night three weeks in a row. She notices when you come over to movie marathons already changed into pajamas, instead of pulling them from your bag like usual.

And she notices, sharpest of all, when Clark, Mister I-Have-A-Sixth-Sense-for-Feelings, stops offering her the first slice of pie. He offers it to you now. Without thinking. Without blinking. Like muscle memory.

Kara doesn’t say anything right away. But she watches. You feel her eyes on you during trivia nights, when you and Clark share some blink-and-you-miss-it look after a joke lands. She frowns when you answer his questions before he even finishes asking them. When you take your coffee to go with his lid on accident and he doesn’t correct you.

You try to act normal. Try to play the same games and wear the same smile and curl the same way into the corner of the couch that you always have.

But it’s not the same. Because sometimes, late at night when Clark’s fingertips drag across your spine in your bed, or when he murmurs something soft and private against your temple just before he phases through the window to leave, you forget this is still a secret.

And secrets don’t hold up forever.

-

The glow from the window stretches long across the bed, a ribbon of moonlight tracing the edge of Clark’s jaw where it rests against your temple. You’re curled into him, limbs tangled, bare skin warm beneath the sheets, still humming from the hours that led to now. Kisses that lingered. Laughter that melted. The kind of quiet only found in the arms of someone who knows how to hold all of you.

His hand moves slowly up and down your back. Thoughtful. Steady. Like he’s grounding you. Like he knows something’s coming.

Because it is.

You both feel it, rising, inevitable. A question you’ve dodged for years. Slipped past in hallways. Swallowed between hugs. Skirted around with “not yet” and “maybe one day.” But there’s nothing left to hide behind tonight. No shadows, no distance. Just breath. Just truth.

“How do we tell her?” you whisper.

Clark is silent for a long moment. His thumb draws a slow, trembling circle between your shoulder blades. Then stills. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says finally, voice low and raw. “I just… I don’t want to hurt her.”

You swallow. “Me either.”

“She deserves to know. To hear it from us. Not to catch us. Not to wonder.”

“She’ll be mad,” you murmur. “Or worse, she won’t be. And I won’t know how to live with that either.”

His chest lifts beneath your cheek, then sinks again. Like it’s carrying too much. “She loves you,” he says. “Always has. I think that’s why I… why I never let myself… it’s why I waited. Because you were hers first.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light. “I wasn’t hers,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he whispers. “But you were her safe person. I didn’t want to be the reason anything about that changed.”

Your throat tightens. You take a breath that shakes on the way in. “I made her a promise,” you say. “When I was seventeen.”

Clark’s brows furrow. He waits.

“She asked me not to fall in love with you,” you continue. “I think she meant it as a joke. Sort of. But she said it with this look on her face… like she needed me to mean it back. And I did. I promised.” You blink, staring over his shoulder, at the window, the stars beyond. The weight of it still sits heavy on your chest. Still matters.

“She crash-landed into my backyard when I was fifteen, Clark,” you murmur. “She was scared and loud and weird and brilliant and more than anyone could hold. And she chose me. I was the first person she trusted. And she was the first one I loved outside of my family. That meant everything to me. She meant everything to me. And at seventeen, that promise felt like the most important thing I’d ever said.”

He brushes a hand through your hair, gentle. Quiet.

“I don’t want to break it,” you say. “Even if she’s forgotten. Even if she’d laugh about it now. I don’t want to be the person who betrayed that little girl. I don’t want to lose her.”

“You won’t,” he says softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know her,” Clark replies. “Better than almost anyone. And I know how much she loves you. Still. Nothing about that changes just because we… found each other.”

You blink back something hot in your eyes.

“She might get loud,” he adds, half-smiling. “She might swear at me in six languages and call me a dumbass and fly away for a few days. But she’ll come back. Because you’re her home too.”

You let out a small, broken sound. “I don’t know how to tell her.”

“We’ll tell her together,” he says. “Carefully. Honestly. When you’re ready. I’ll follow your lead.”

You nod, barely. But the words still weigh heavy behind your ribs. Because it’s not just a promise you’re breaking, It’s years. Of waiting. Of wondering. Of almosts and not-yets. You think of every moment you held back because of her. Every time you told yourself no. Every time you saw him and thought, not mine. And now, he is, and the cost of that feels almost unbearable.

You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, the air thick between you, the silence nearly holy. 

Clark’s voice comes again, low and certain. “I’ll wait,” he says. And it doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds like he already has.

-

There’s a knock on your front door three weeks later. That’s what started this argument. Kara’s voice filters through the apartment, bright and casual, teasing like always. Clark’s hand slips from your waist like you burned him. You flinch too. The moment folds in on itself, collapsing under the weight of everything unspoken.

She doesn’t stay long, just a quick drop-off, a joke about how tired you both look, then she's gone in a gust of wind and sunshine. But when the door clicks shut behind her, something shifts.

The silence stretches. Chafes.

You pull your sweatshirt tighter and say, too quietly, “You don’t have to act like you don’t know me.”

Clark’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You dropped me like I was radioactive the second she walked in.”

He blinks. “I didn’t.”

“You did,” you say, sharper now, cutting off his words. “And I get it. She’s your cousin. I’m your, what, secret?”

His face twists. “You’re not a secret.”

“Sure feels like one.”

“You think I want this?” he says suddenly, and it knocks the breath from your lungs, not the words, but the weight of them. The tremble.

You go still.

Clark steps back like he needs the space to breathe. His jaw is tight, his voice ragged. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for you? How long I’ve wanted this? I told you before. I’ve had to pretend for years that I didn’t feel anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. I didn’t want to hurt Kara. I didn’t want to scare you away.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. 

He barrels on. “And now I finally get to have you, finally, and you look at me like I’m the one keeping us in the dark?”

“I am in the dark!” you snap. “Because I can’t stop thinking about Kara either. She was scared and lost and mine. She trusted me. I told you I promised.”

Clark’s breath hitches. You don’t stop.

“I take my word seriously, Clark. Especially with her. Dating you like this is fine as long as it… as long as I remind myself it’s not that deep. I told her I wouldn’t fall for you.”

He steps forward, heat rising from every inch of him. “Well, you did.” He snaps, voice cracking in frustration. “You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice shakes. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching? The way your hands shake when you button my shirt, the way you never say my name when you’re about to cum—like if you do, it makes it real?”

Your heart slams in your chest.

“I love you,” he says, low and fierce. “I’ve been in love with you since I was eighteen and you called me a farm boy with a savior complex. I have tried to be patient. I’ve tried to respect your promise. But I’m done pretending this is just some quiet little thing we keep behind closed doors.”

You stare at him, shaking.

“Say it,” he demands, not unkind. “Say you don’t love me and I’ll back off. I’ll let you go. But if you do, if you do, then I’m done playing ghost in your life.”

Your mouth parts. Your vision blurs.

“I tried not to,” you whisper.

He’s absolutely still.

“I tried so hard not to fall in love with you. For her. For me. For everything I thought I owed the people I love.” You’re crying now, angry and helpless. “But it didn’t work. Because I did. I fell in love with you anyway. And now I don’t know how to stop.”

Clark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “I don’t want you to stop,” he says. “I want you to choose me. Out loud. In the light.”

You surge toward him. He catches you like gravity does, fast, unthinking. Your mouths crash together like it’s the only way to breathe. Like everything you said has to be sealed in a kiss or it might kill you both.

And when you finally pull back, panting and trembling, his hands still cupping your face, he says it again. “I love you. I always have.”

You don’t say it back yet. But you don’t have to.

He knows.

The confession still echoes in the room when the lock clicks. You and Clark barely have time to move apart. Not fully, just enough for the air to rush back in between you, still buzzing with the charge of everything said and unsaid. Your lips are swollen. His hands fall from your face like they’re afraid to be caught. And you both turn just as the door swings open.

Kara steps into the apartment, damp from the rain, a six-pack dangling from one hand, her phone clutched in the other.

“I forgot my charger—” she starts, then freezes.

You see her register the scene. Your flushed cheeks. Clark’s parted lips. The uneven breath between you. Her gaze drops to your joined hands. The silence is instant. Cracking.

Kara blinks. Then again. Her voice, when it comes, is far too quiet. “Oh.”

Your stomach turns. “Kara, wait.”

Her expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t twist or crumble or ignite. It just stillifies, as if every part of her has gone cold in an instant. She sets the charger and drinks on the counter with a soft thunk.

“I should’ve known,” she says, to no one in particular. “I’m not stupid.”

“No one said you were,” Clark says gently.

Kara’s mouth twitches. She doesn’t look at him. “But you didn’t say anything either, did you?”

“Kara, please,” you say, stepping forward.

She turns to you now, and the look in her eyes nearly undoes you. Not angry. Not surprised. Just wounded. The quiet kind. The worst kind.

“You promised,” she whispers. “You were seventeen. I asked you not to fall in love with him, and you promised.”

“I know,” you choke out. “God, I know.”

Clark steps closer, but you can feel him hesitating. Letting you lead.

Your voice breaks again. “I was a kid, and I thought it was a joke, but you weren’t joking and I should’ve known that. You were scared and raw and new to this world and I was the first thing that felt safe to you. I know what I was to you.”

Kara exhales. Her arms fold over her chest. Her hair drips slowly down her hoodie, her eyes sharp. “So when did I stop being that?”

You flinch. “You didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is louder now, cutting. “I would’ve been mad. I wanted to be mad. But then I would have been okay because it’s you. And that idiot. That’s what best friends do. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Because I was scared,” you cry. “Scared of breaking something that’s been mine for half my life. You’re the first person I loved that wasn’t family. And that promise back then—it felt like everything. Like it mattered more than anything else.”

“It did,” she says, soft again. “It mattered to me, too.”

Clark speaks then, voice low but steady. “You didn’t lose her, Kara. You never did.”

Kara’s gaze flicks to him. “It’s not about losing. It’s about being left behind.”

“No one left you,” you say quickly. “I was trying so hard not to hurt you I ended up hurting you anyway.”

Kara moves toward the table slowly, like her limbs are heavy. She picks up the six-pack and starts placing the cans in the fridge, one by one. She doesn’t look at either of you.

“I made you promise because I was selfish,” she murmurs. “Because I was scared of losing the only real thing I had on this planet. And I thought if I made you promise, I could freeze everything exactly how it was.”

You swallow, but your voice shakes when you speak. “I never wanted to choose between you.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says, finally turning back around. Her expression is softer now. Resigned. “I don’t want to be what keeps you from something good.”

Clark steps closer. “This is more than good.”

You don’t say anything. Not yet. Because your chest still aches. Because you still haven’t said it back.

Kara notices. Of course she does. She always has. Her gaze darts between you and Clark, her brow furrowing like she’s piecing something together.

“I walked in on something, didn’t I?” she asks carefully.

Clark’s jaw ticks.

You breathe out. “He told me he loves me.”

Kara tilts her head. “And?”

“I didn’t say it back.”

You say it like a confession. Like penance. You stare at the floor, at the water trailing off Kara’s boots, at the shape of your guilt.

“I wanted to,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t say it until I told you the truth.”

Something breaks in Kara’s face then, not anger, not betrayal. Just grief, melting into understanding. Her eyes shine.

She crosses the room and wraps her arms around you before you can stop her. You blink into her shoulder, breath catching.

“I’m still mad,” she mutters. “But I also get it. You’re both emotionally stunted bitches who thought not talking about it would somehow protect me.”

Clark coughs. “It seemed safer.”

Kara pulls back just enough to look at you. “Promise me this. If you’re gonna do this for real, don’t lie to me again. Don’t hide.”

You nod, tears brimming. “I promise.”

She holds out a hand to Clark. He takes it. She squeezes. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Never,” he says, no hesitation.

Kara exhales through her nose. “Great. Now somebody order takeout. I’m emotionally compromised and I want dumplings. And I’m opening your expensive tequila.”

You and Clark exchange a stunned, teary glance. You both let out matching half-laughs. And when he pulls you in again, this time he doesn’t let go.

-

“You can date,” Kara says, fork mid-air. “But don’t be weird about it.”

You blink. “Define weird.”

She points at you with her fork. “Like… giggling. Or doing that creepy forehead-touch thing. Or floating.”

Clark, sitting beside you on the couch, suppresses a laugh. You elbow him. “You literally float.”

“Not when we’re kissing,” he defends, holding up his hands. “Anymore.” He adds, sheepishly. 

Kara gags, dramatically. “Nope. Regret. Immediate regret.”

But it’s not real disapproval in her voice. Not anymore. She’s adjusting. She’s teasing. She’s giving you the space to be happy on your own terms. Even if it comes with ground rules and gagging noises.

Things don’t change overnight. At first, you and Clark are awkward in the daylight. You hover in doorways. Brush fingers, then flinch back like you’ve been caught. You almost miss the secret. The thrill of it. The breathless weight of a truth held between only two people.

But the real thing? The real thing is better. It’s Clark waiting outside your building on Sunday mornings, two coffees in hand, yours with the vanilla oat milk he always pretends not to like.

It’s his glasses on your nightstand and your fuzzy socks in his dresser drawer. It’s grocery lists. Inside jokes. Toothbrushes lined up beside each other like they’ve always belonged that way.

And still sometimes you forget. You forget you’re allowed to touch him when other people are looking.

The first time he reaches for your hand in public, just casually, just because, your breath hiccups in your chest. Clark notices. He gives your hand a light squeeze, not looking at you, just humming something low and content under his breath as you walk together through the farmer’s market, your fingers interlocked. It shouldn’t feel revolutionary. But it does.

One night, wrapped in the quiet warmth of your apartment, bare feet on cold kitchen tile, Clark behind you, arms looped loosely around your waist as you dry the dishes. you ask, “When did you know?”

His breath stills against your neck. You wait. Finally, he says, “That first day. At the farm.”

You blink. “What?”

“I was hauling firewood. You were helping Kara with the garden and came over with your arms full of tomatoes. You were all sunburnt and sweaty and annoyed about something, probably Kara, but you looked at me and smiled anyway. I was pretty sure I saw stars.”

You don’t breathe.

“You were seventeen. I remember thinking…” He stops. Swallows. “I remember thinking it wasn’t fair. That someone could look at me like that and not even know.”

Your heart kicks.

“You didn’t even see me,” he adds with a crooked smile. “Not really. But I saw you. And I knew. Right then.”

“You never said anything,” you stare at him.

“I couldn’t,” he murmurs. “You were still figuring everything out. And I… I knew I’d wait. Because you deserved the wait.”

He kisses your temple. Lingers there, breath warm and steady against your skin, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. His nose brushes the edge of your hairline. His hand curls more tightly around your waist.

You close your eyes and for a moment, everything quiets, like the world is holding its breath with you. Your voice barely breaks above a whisper.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t move, but you feel the exhale. Soft. Shaky. It’s the kind of breath that says everything without sound. Like he’s been holding it for years. Like letting it go now might undo him.

Your words are the key he’s been too afraid to turn. His hand tightens at your hip. Then, quietly, like a vow, he whispers, “I love you, too.”

You blink, and his eyes are already on yours. Blue and burning and unbelievably tender. He cradles your jaw like you might shatter from the weight of it. Like saying it wasn’t enough, he needs to show it too.

And when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate. It’s reverent. His mouth moves against yours like a prayer, like an answer, like everything he’s never let himself say. Fingers splayed at your back, pulling you into his chest, the world outside falling away. You feel the shift when he picks you up, carrying you with a quiet kind of urgency, like worship, like need, and lays you gently against the sheets.

Clothes are shed between kisses. Breaths shared. Nothing rushed. Just skin and skin and years of ache unraveling one careful touch at a time. It’s slow. Deep. Intimate.

His voice is low in your ear, gentle as dusk. “You just tell me what you need, sweetheart. I’ll give you everything.”

Your breath hitches. Fingers curling into his shoulder. “I need you,” you whisper, honest and aching. “All of you.”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“Then you’ve got me. Always.”

Later, with your legs tangled and his forehead pressed to yours, he says it again. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I think I always have.”

And when you close your eyes, his arms still around you, it finally feels like home.

-

Later that week, you’re at Kara’s place. Pizza. Movie night. Her new villain-obsessed girlfriend is passed out halfway through Pacific Rim, snoring on Kara’s shoulder. You’re curled up on the floor, Clark at your side, both of you laughing quietly about a line delivery that made absolutely no sense.

Kara throws a pillow at your heads. “You’re disgusting,” she says.

Clark raises an eyebrow. “What did I do?”

Kara shrugs. “Nothing. It’s just gross how happy you are.”

You grin. “Aww, are you jealous?”

She ignores you. Then, offhand, like it’s nothing, she says, “He flinches when he hugs people. You’re the only one he doesn’t pull back from.”

“What?” You go still.

Kara shrugs again, eyes still on the screen. “You didn’t notice?”

You look at Clark. He won’t meet your eyes. Your voice is quieter now. “Is that true?”

He says nothing. Just threads his fingers through yours and squeezes. You don’t need the answer spoken aloud.

This is real. It’s quiet. Simple. Messy sometimes. But it’s yours. And after all the waiting, the wishing, the aching—it’s finally allowed to be.

-

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