cryptictongues

[cryptictongues]

THE POWER OF LOVE?? CLARK BEING A LOVESICK PUPPY??? CLARK FINDING THE WOMAN OF HIS DREAMS????? THE BANTER???? YOU COOKED WITH THIS!!! Truly one of THE BEST fics I’ve read in a while! 💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕 EVERYONE READ THIS !!!!

find me somebody to love

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.

word count: 21k (i’m so sorry… the plot was plotting)

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clark’s pov, teacher!reader, reader’s in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.

a/n: i’ll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clark’s head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: you’re a mastermind, and i’m beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!

Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, it’s usually the complete opposite.

Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clark’s already saying, “No. Thank you.”

“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, claiming they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, you’re relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”

Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”

“I’m not—”

“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.

You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”

“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.

“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”

Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.

Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”

“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”

“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”

“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.

“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”

A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.

At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”

Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”

“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”

“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”

“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”

As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”

Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.

The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”

You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”

“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”

10…

“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”

9…

He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”

8…

He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.

7…

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”

6…

“—over Superman?”

5…

“Clark, will you please look at me?”

4…

He does, but stays silent.

3…

“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”

2…

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”

1…

The look on your face is beyond devastating.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!

The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.

When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.

Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.

Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”

“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”

Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.

“Let me walk you.”

It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.

You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”

“Please, let me.”

“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”

He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”

You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.

When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.

A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.

The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.

“What was that back in the bar?”

The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.

Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.

“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”

In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.

But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”

Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.

“Even still, you won’t look at me.”

He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.

You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”

There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”

A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. I asked him.”

“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”

“What are you implying?”

“Does he pay you for the interviews?”

The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”

“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”

“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”

“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”

“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.

You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.

“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?

You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”

It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?

His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.

“Holy fuck.”

It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.

You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.

“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”

“Please, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”

“I know.”

“I’m not drunk,” you insist.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”

He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”

You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”

“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”

Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.

He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”

“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”

“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”

“Clark, I swear—”

“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.

“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”

His voice softens, almost breaking.

“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.

“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”

“I don’t want that.”

Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”

“I said I don’t want you to go.”

He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”

You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”

“I seriously don’t understand—“

“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”

“Even after all this?”

“I guess I’m really stubborn.”

“So… you don’t want me to go?”

“No.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”

“You don’t hate… Superman?”

“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”

Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.

“You know what I would hate?”

“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.

“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”

He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”

“Please, tell me.”

“You’re gonna make fun of me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”

For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.

“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”

You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”

He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”

“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”

“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”

“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”

“Sort of.”

“Is not touching me one of them?”

“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.

“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”

Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”

“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”

“How interesting.”

His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”

Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if someone’s as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”

A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”

“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”

Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.

And suddenly, he has a goal.

This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.

Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.

It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.

RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.

Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.

The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.

He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.

But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”

Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”

You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.

Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.

No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.

His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”

Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.

He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.

One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.

His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”

You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.

You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.

He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.

“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”

He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.

You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”

Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.

“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”

He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.

When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”

He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.

So instead, he drops to his knees.

Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.

He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”

You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.

“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”

Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.

“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.

“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”

Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.

As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.

With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.

He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.

You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.

He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.

Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.

“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”

His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.

Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”

“Yeah? Who is it?”

The answer is simple. “You.”

You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”

He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just… say it however it comes.”

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”

You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”

“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”

You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”

He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”

Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.

The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.

You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”

Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.

“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”

“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”

His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.

As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.

The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.

His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.

That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.

And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—

The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.

Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.

Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.

He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.

At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—

“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”

“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.

“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”

He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”

“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”

He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.

Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.

The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.

“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”

With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.

Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.

“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”

He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”

His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.

You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.

“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”

“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”

And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.

His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.

Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.

He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.

Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”

“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”

You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.

But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.

After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”

“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”

He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.

You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”

No answer. Just pure silence.

You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”

He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.

“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”

He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.

You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.

“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”

This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.

He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.

His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”

His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.

“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.

“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”

Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.

The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.

“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.

“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”

You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.

He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.

To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.

Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.

Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.

Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”

You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.

You’re writing the same letters, over and over.

I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.

“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”

“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”

He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”

“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”

“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”

The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.

What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.

Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.

dividers by: @chrisssiren <3

[cryptictongues]

Genuinely one of the best portrayals of ‘making love’ I’ve read. Incredibly tender, patient, and just so loving. Also, loved the way the argument ended. I like seeing when stories take moments like that and transitioning them into something sincere. Phenomenal first fic and hope to read more 💕

sorry (demo)

clark kent x reader

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, cheating (not really though), angst, hurt/comfort, breakup/makeup, plenty of fluff, clark is veryyyy apologetic, smut, piv, body worship, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, porn w/plot, domestic bliss

word count: 11.6k

Summary: Your domestic bliss comes to a halt when you believe your fianceé to be unfaithful. To prove his innocence, he reveals his secret identity to you.

notes – hii, this is my first fic ever. i posted this on ao3 the other day and decided to upload it here too. it is implied that the reader is a black woman but ofc this fic is open to everybody who wants to read. this work is very lwk inspired by beyonce's lemonade (hence the title ikyk). i am still proofreading, which has been giving me hell so i apologize for any spelling errors in advance. anyways this is kinda long so let's get into it.

The past three months had been a dream.

Scratch that—dream didn’t even come close to doing it justice. Your brain had never been generous enough to conjure something this good, even in sleep. Dreams implied something fleeting. Temporary. The kind of bliss you eventually woke up from with a sigh and attempted to go back to sleep to experience again to no avail.

No, this wasn’t a dream. This was real—tangible, sustainable, and yours.

Three months ago, your college sweetheart dropped to one knee and asked you to spend forever with him. It was, without question, the easiest decision you’d ever made in your life.

Fuck yes.

You were convinced your boyfriend—well, fianceé now—was the living, breathing answer to prayers you didn’t even know you were saying. You’d never considered yourself religious. Churches were never really your thing. But life had a way of dragging you to your knees all the same. There had been enough botched romances, faded friendships, and quiet goodbyes to loved ones to leave you gutted—emotionally threadbare. And in that kind of silence, in that kind of ache, you’d found yourself pleading to something—anything—for help.

And then came Clark.

A six-foot-four geek with poor posture, thick glasses that always slid down his nose, black curls, and the kindest soul you’d ever known.

Your relationship began innocently enough—purely platonic. You’d text back and forth, building your own strange little universe of inside jokes that no one else would ever understand. You became each other’s go-to for spontaneous outings: lazy walks through the park, slow afternoons wandering museum halls, casual café lunches that somehow stretched into hours.

It was easy. Just two people who genuinely enjoyed each other's company.

You couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment you both caught feelings. When the laughter lingered a little longer, when a glance started to feel like something more. Looking back, though, you suspect the feelings were always there—quiet and patient. Latent. Simmering beneath the surface, tiny flickers of a spark just waiting for the right moment to catch fire.

What you do remember though was the moment your dynamic with Clark shifted.

It had been a faithful night during undergrad. Your flatmate had informed you she would be spending the night with her girlfriend.

Must be nice.

You took advantage of your roommate’s absence and invited Clark over for a movie night. Nothing unusual—just the two of you, like so many times before. But something about that night felt… different. The air between you buzzed with something unspoken, something warmer, heavier.

You started the film at opposite ends of the couch, the usual space between you filled with pillows and plausible deniability. But over time—slowly, naturally—you drifted closer, pulled together like magnets finding their charge. At some point, you rested your head on his shoulder, and without hesitation, Clark slipped his arm around you, drawing you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

This is nice, you thought, settling into the quiet rhythm of his breathing. I could get used to this.

You glanced over at Clark, lounging next to you in gray sweatpants and a plain white undershirt, and—God—he looked good. Ridiculously handsome in the most effortless, unbothered kind of way. His brawny stature shrunk everything in his vicinity. Making you keen to the size difference that exist between the two of you.

And then, out of nowhere, the urge hit you.

Twisted and sudden and impossible to ignore. You wanted to hold his hand. You wanted to run your fingers through his curls, crawl into his lap, straddle him, kiss him until you forgot your own name.

The thought startled you. Not because it was unwelcome—but because it felt so real. So possible.

You stole a glance at his face, trying to read something—anything—in the curve of his smile, the casual way his hand rested beside yours.

Would he want that?

Did he see you that way?

Could he?

Or were you just a friend caught up in a dangerous daydream?

Only one way to find out.

“Clark.” He was engrossed in the film, but almost-immediately turned his head to give you his full attention.

He uttered your name in response, the vibrations of his voice resonated in your body made your stomach flutter. “What’s up” he spoke, not a clue in the world that you were plotting on him.

“I have an outlandish out of the box question.”

“Is it another one of those 'either or ' questions, where you ask me if I'd rather be reincarnated as a jaguar or flamingo?” He mused.

You kissed your teeth playfully, faking annoyance. “No it’s not one of those, this time around” you laughed nervously. You hoped he couldn’t sense your nerves but it was Clark and unfortunately he noticed everything.

Before you could get your question out, you felt Clark gently stroking your shoulder with his thumb—soothing you, almost like he was trying to coax it out of you.

You exhaled sharply. You never been bold enough to shoot your shot but you trusted Clark. If you missed, Clark seemed to be the let-her-down-gently type rather than laugh in your face and ghost you type.

If you put anymore thought into how he might respond, you might never say what you had to say.

Fuck it, here goes nothing

“Have you ever thought about us… in a-uh romantic capacity… Don't know like more than friends,” you questioned, voice unsure but somewhat steady.

The corners of his lips quirked up ever so slightly, holding back a grin. He looked at you, searching your face for any traces of sarcasm or insincerity.

Instead he noticed the awkward smile on your lips, and the earnestness that beamed in your eyes. On top of that he could hear the quickening of your pulse.

Everything about you in this moment read honest, so he figured he ought to follow suit.

He cleared his throat. “I think about it more than I should,” he began his confession, voice low and measured.

“We’re close—really close. You get me in ways most people don’t and never judge me for my…quirks. I could talk with you for hours and never get bored. Y'know, and it doesn’t help that you’re insanely beautiful.”

He offered you a sheepish smile, “So yeah… I think about you in that way. I mean, who wouldn’t?”

Your eyes were wide, your pulse was working double time.

You couldn’t help the crooked smile that spread across your face.

Your shot hadn’t missed, it didn’t just merely go in—what happened was the equivalent of a goddamn slam dunk.

You hadn't anticipated this response, not knowing what to do next. His eyes were piercing into your soul, and occasionally glancing down at your lips, like he was trying to hold himself back.

You inched your face closer to his, staring up at him through your lashes. Your voice barely above a whisper as you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze.

“I wanna kiss you right now.”

Clark took it upon himself to reach out and cup your face with the hand that wasn’t petting your shoulder. He traced your jaw with his pointer and thumb, with soft pressure before ghosting his thumb over you bottom lip.

Your breath hitched. The intimacy of it all was overwhelming.

Wanting to touch him, you slotted your hand in his soft curls, fingers resting on the nape of his neck. He brushed his lips across yours before slowly joining them together.

Desire was gnawing at you insides. A dull, almost uncomfortable ache, caused you to squeeze your thighs together. Your mouths moved slow and rhythmically. Until you decided to increase the pressure, kissing him more fiercely. Clark kissed you back with the same intensity. Your first kiss together, initially, demure and sweet had somehow morphed into a steamy full-blown make out session.

You don’t remember quite how it happened, if it was you who took it the initiative to climb on top of him—if he pulled you onto his lap himself— or if it was joint effort, but you ended up straddling him.

Clark’s big hands were at your waist, grounded you slowly, deliberately creating much-needed friction.

You broke the kiss to come up from air. Perched on his lap you looked down at Clark. His hair mussed, a tinge of pink colored his neck and his cheeks, not to mention the bulge you felt under you— a clear confirmation of his feelings for you.

You were certain you looked just as rocked.

You exhaled deeply, letting the moment settle. “I guess fuck the movie then,” you blurted out.

Clark let out a deep, delighted chuckle that vibrated through his chest, and the sound of it made a dopey grin spread across your face.

The rest of the night unraveled like a slow-burning dream. You talked for hours—really talked. Fingers laced, heads tilted toward one another, the occasional stolen kiss between confessions. You shared things you’d never said out loud: what you admired about each other, messy stories of past flings, fears, hopes, and what you both wanted in a relationship.

That night planted a seed. A measly kernel that would blossom into a bountiful harvest that would be your relationship.

Fast-forward to present day. You reside in a nifty one-bedroom, in the heart of metropolis, equipped with tall windows and creaky floorboards that you shared with Clark.

There were still a couple of unopened boxes and picture frames that were waiting to be hung up. However, even though unfinished, the apartment already felt like home. It hasn’t even been long since you two moved in together, but it everything felt so natural.

Those days in college playing house prepared you two for the domesticity that married life— well almost-married life brought you.

Without fail every morning, Clark woke up before you, despite you nagging him that he should get more sleep. He’d make his way to the kitchen and prepare for you what he deemed to be a nutritious breakfast.

Afterwards he’d not-so-secretly observed you eating, knowing you had a habit of skipping breakfast. You drowsily sat at the dining room table with your laptop that was still half open from the night before, sipping on the chai latte that Clark prepared for you, just how you liked it.

You’d helped each other get dressed for the day in the same quiet harmony. You ironed his slacks and dress shirts, skillfully pressing out creases. You packed him his lunch for work everyday, slipping in hand-written notes into his lunch box.

In exchange, he’d assisted you with your hair in the mornings, standing behind you unraveling your hair with gentle fingers.

Some days it was helping you perfect a bun. Other days it helping you take down your plaits for a braid out.

Clark took his time. Never did he rush. Complained, or messed up. You’d poked fun about his skill being suspiciously good, but he’d only grin and shrug, claiming he’d learned it “from observation…. and a few YouTube videos .”

What a man.

As much as you adored mornings with Clark— sharing slices of toast and sleepy kisses—the afternoons were your favorite.

Most days you worked remotely, completing tasks from the comfort of your living room with the sky view of the city in line of sight from the window.

On days when you had to commute to the office, even with the tortuous traffic, you still managed to make it home before Clark. Although you tried not to, oftentimes you found yourself waiting for him to come home, hovering around the living room listening for the turning of the doorknob.

When Clark did return home, he’d walk in as if he spent the day at war rather than in a newsroom. He’d drop his satchel, kick off his shoes and envelop you in a long embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. Whispering the sweetest things in your ear—proclaiming about how much he missed you and how good it felt coming back home to you.

Evenings with Clark settled into a rhythm that felt like home. They were filled with miscellaneous chores made lighter by each other’s presence. You’d cook dinner while he washed the dishes, the two of you moving around the kitchen in a practiced, easy dance. You’d load the washer and dryer, and he’d take care of folding and putting everything away, always meticulous.

There were board games and crossword puzzles scattered across the coffee table, half-finished and waiting for your return. You’d curl up together on the couch, bingeing whatever show had become your latest shared obsession, limbs tangled and laughter frequent.

It wasn’t flashy or dramatic—but it was soft, consistent, genuine. The kind of quiet joy you’d once begged the universe for, back when you didn’t believe it could exist.

You loved Clark with your whole being, and you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him.

However, the past few weeks haven’t been the same. Something was off— your intuition was hammering at you.

Your ‘bountiful harvest,’ had a few weeds.

It wasn’t that you didn’t trust Clark.

No—wait that’s exactly what it was.

For starters, Clark always wanted to know the details about your day. Which of course isn’t a crime nor is it a red flag—but rather the a mark of a doting lover. Clark would listen intently, nodding, asking questions, or sometimes just humming a response.

The problem lies in, whenever you asked him the same question, he would smile softly and always reply, "it was average," before kissing your forehead and masterfully changing the subject. You stopped asking after a while—not because you didn’t care, you did, but you grew tired of getting the same exact answer.

Initially the “it was average” responses didn't faze you. Clark was reserved by nature; this was nothing new to you. Since you first met him, he'd always kept things close to his chest, careful, and methodical with his words.

But as of late, the vague responses became more frequent, as did the flimsy excuses. The missed calls, getting left on read for hours, and half-baked excuses for why he had to suddenly take an afternoon stroll or go in the middle of dinner.

One evening, Clark walked through the door looking disheveled—his tie missing, the top button of his dress shirt undone, another one completely gone.

You raised an eyebrow. “Rough day?”

He gave you a sheepish grin, already kicking off his shoes. “Took the tie off on the way home. Felt like it was strangling me.”

“And the button?”

He glanced down at his shirt and let out a low chuckle. “Popped off at work. Didn’t even notice until someone pointed it out. Guess I'll need a new dress shirt.”

Okay no big deal, it’s a logical explanation— odd but totally plausible.

You let him off the hook.

Another night, he came home later than usual, with his clothes emitting a smell of smoke. You inquired if there had been a fire nearby—he shrugged, claiming he hadn’t noticed.

Clark— the man with the sense of smell akin to a dog, who’ve you seen sniff out a hot-dog stand fifty meters away.

Who apparently couldn't seem to notice the loud ass odor permeating from his clothing. You just tilt your head and stared at the man in front you.

He always had an answer, or an excuse rather.

At first, you told yourself you were being paranoid—that you were letting your old lovers from your past, the ones who’d lied to your face without flinching, haunt the narrative.

Clark is different, you reminded yourself. He was devoted, gentle, attentive. The kind of man who held your hand in the grocery store and remembered how you liked your tea. He wouldn't betray you. He couldn’t.

But then again… you hadn’t expected betrayal from the others either. And look how that turned out.

Still, you wanted to believe. You didn’t want to sabotage a good thing. So, you clung to hope, convincing yourself you were simply bruised from the past.

Even so… you began paying closer attention.

His suits started looking more disheveled when he came home, like they’d been thrown on in a hurry. Wrinkled in places they shouldn't be. His tie crumbled up in his pocket.

And then there was that night.

You woke in a cold sweat, the sheets beside you cold and undisturbed. The room was eerily silent. You groggily called out for Clark once.

Nothing.

You tried again, voice heavier this time.

Still, silence.

Sleep pulled you back under before you could process it. When you woke again, Clark was beside you, limbs tangled with yours as if he’d never left. He was gently rocking you awake, a soft smile playing on his lips.

Later that morning, you brought it up—your half-formed memory or dream, whatever it was—hoping for some clarity.

Clark blinked, then smiled as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “That’s odd I was next to you the entire night,” he said with a laugh, like it was nothing.

“You sure you didn’t leave? Not even for a second? Bathroom? A snack?”

He shook his head. “No. You said you called out for me, right?”

You nodded, eyes searching his.

“I would've answered, darling. At the very least, you know that. Must’ve been a dream, like you said.” His fingers brushed your cheek in that familiar, loving way.

But something inside you didn’t settle.

Not with the way he said it. Not with the way your body remembered the cold side of the bed.

And definitely not with the way he looked into your eyes and lied so gently, so perfectly, you almost believed him.

Almost.

And still, when he walked through the door at the end of the day, flashing you that disarming dimpled smile of his and pulling you into a hug, your doubts would be suppressed by the warmth of his embrace— at least momentarily.

You didn’t have any real proof—just minor moments, offbeat inconsistencies that could be, and often were, explained right away. A missing button. A late night. A tie stuffed in a pocket. innocent enough on their own.

But then there was your gut, there was a quiet and unwavering feeling biting at your insides.

You tried to move forward. Tried to pretend like you weren’t quietly losing trust in your fianceé—the man you once considered your lifeline.

You couldn’t help it though, your evenings grew quieter. The notes you tuck into his lunchbox got shorter, so did the kisses you shared, becoming more obligatory than affectionate. The warmth in your touches faded. You no longer wanted to make love—not because you didn’t love him, but because something in you recoiled at the intimacy.

You found yourself mourning something that hadn’t even ended yet.

Then there was today. Clark was late, like really fucking late.

One or two hours late was forgivable but this time he’d been six hours late.

The clock read 11:25 p.m., and he was nowhere to be found. His location had been turned off, and your calls went ignored. You paced around the living room trying to conjure up a logical excuse for his behavior.

Maybe Perry kept him late in hopes of meeting some insane deadline.

Maybe he's involved in some sort of accident on the way home.

Maybe…

Maybe he’s with someone else.

You stopped pacing and curled up on the couch, bringing your knees up to your chest. The thought alone made you feel like your heart was hemorrhaging.

It was the only excuse that made sense. The deflections, the absence, the secretiveness—didn’t feel so random anymore.

The key finally turned in the lock around midnight. A wave of dread hit you like a ton of bricks; you couldn’t even bear to look at him, how in the world were you going to get through the night?

The rational part of your brain was telling you to fake it, wait til he left for work in the morning to pack your bags, leave a note, and then leave. You wanted to leave this relationship with at least some of your dignity intact.

You listened to the soft creak of the floorboards and him shutting the door behind him. The shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, and the long exhale he let out when he was finally home.

“Hey, sorry I'm a bit later than usual," he greeted softly. His voice was hoarse. He took a seat next to you on the couch. He wrapped his arms around you in a hug, and planted a kiss on your forehead. You stiffened, not able to bring yourself to hug him back.

So much for faking it.

You slowly turned your head to meet his gaze.“I tried calling,” you said. “Didn’t hear back from you.”

His hair was tousled, his collar unbuttoned, clothes wrinkled, and of course, the tie he left the house wasn’t around his neck— which had become a staple of his.

Clark winced slightly. “Forgive me, it’s been a long day.”

You hummed, your eyes narrowed as felt yourself growing irritated.

“So long that you couldn't even find the time to send me a text letting me know you wouldn’t be back till midnight?” You let out a humorless chuckle.

Clark wore an apologetic look on his face. “I know, there’s no excuse. Work was more taxing than usual but I'll do better, I promise.”

You had many more questions you wanted to ask but you refrained, mind already made up. By this time tomorrow you’d be long gone.

Instead you got up from the couch, creating some distance between the two of you.

“It’s late. I should get some sleep,” you spoke forlorn.

The thought of lying down next to him made your skin crawl. “I’ll take the couch tonight,” you added.

The faster you went to sleep, the faster morning would come and the sooner you could go.

Clark leaned forward in his seat and responded immediately. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. If anything I'll take the couch.”

“That’s fine,” you uttered turning away to go to bedroom.

Clark’s words stopped you in your tracks. “I understand you’re upset with me right now, rightfully so,” he began. “These past few weeks I could sense you’ve been distant….a bit closed off.”

He stood up and took a step toward you, like he wanted to close the space that had grown between you.

“And I know I'm probably the reason for that. But, honey, don’t go to bed angry with me again. Not tonight. Let’s talk. I’ve missed you.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. Your impassiveness had been thrown out the window.

He wanted to hash things out, you’d happily obliged him.

“Where were you?” You questioned, arms folder across your chest.

He hesitated, briefly. It was quick, but you peeped it—the slight pause before he recited from his word bank of excuses.

“Work,” he reinstated. “There was a breaking story. I didn’t think to check my phone.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “So you didn’t think about me? Not once? It didn’t cross your mind that I’ve might’ve been waiting up for you. Wondering where the fuck you were?”

Your voiced was sharpened and trembling.

“Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven o’ clock, Clark not one call. No text. Radio silence.

He stood there with an unreadable expression on his face.

“You sure are putting in a lot of overtime lately” you continued. “This is what? The sixth time this month you missed dinner? The late nights, the vague excuses, the sneaking out late at night when I'm asleep. ”

Clark’s breath got stuck in his throat.

You laughed bitterly. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Did you think I was too stupid to connect the dots? Or were you just so arrogant you thought you could get away with it?”

Tears streamed down your face before you could stop them.

Concern was etched in his facial features. Seeing you in so much pain was agonizing and knowing he was the root of it, hurt worse than any blow.

He reached out to console you taking a step forward towards you reaching out.

You took a step back. Clark looked crestfallen—like a kicked puppy.

He wasn’t sure how to approach this. It was evident that you suspected him. Of what—though you had different ideas.

He shoved his hands in his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. “I… I don't know what to say. I would never hurt you,” he said, his voice cracking at the edges. “You know that, right?”

Drained, you brushed a tear off your cheek.

“Hurt isn’t always a fist, Clark. Sometimes it’s silence. Sometimes it’s being lied to. Sometimes it’s lying awake at night wondering who you really are when you think I'm not looking.”

Guilt and panic warring across his face.

How the fuck does she know?, he thought.

“If there’s someone else, just come out and say it,” you demanded. “I can’t keep pretending like I don't know.”

The room fell silent. Clark looked stunned, as if you physically struck him.

“God, no. That’s not—I’d never do that to you. There’s no one else.” His gaze was piercing, searching your face for any sign that you might believe him. You looked away, afraid that if your eyes met his blue ones you'd cave in.

“There never has been and never will be anyone else,” he proclaimed.

“It’s you, always. I'm all about you. You’re the only one I want to spend my life with.” Clark spoke with conviction and sincerity but you weren’t convinced.

“Then what are you hiding?” you whispered.

“Your lying, I'm not sure what about. At first I thought I was paranoid, but I can feel it.”

You met his gaze. His jaw tensed and something flickered behind his eyes.

Fear.

“I want to,” he spoke eventually, voice low. “I truly do, but it’s not that simple.”

A silence fell between the both of you.

You blinked. “Okay. Fine. I'll make things easier for you,” you snapped.

Swiftly you made your way to the bedroom you shared and pulled out a duffel bag from the closet.

He observed you from the door frame of the bedroom with a pained expression on his face.

“W-what are doing?” He stammered, arms crossed.

You stopped briefly to glare at him.“I’m leaving. That way you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“You refuse to tell me the truth anyway,” you muttered not sparing him a glance.

Calmly you worked your engagement ring off your ring finger and placed it on the dresser. The sound of the ring clinking softly against the wood made Clark’s heart drop.

You then began to open up the dresser’s compartments, mindlessly throwing clothes into the bag. Detached and mechanical.

Clark approached you carefully, “Sweetheart, you can’t leave.” His voice cracked towards the end.

“Okay, I promise you this is all a misunderstanding… it’s just complicated,” he pleaded.

You scoffed. “What could possibly be so complicated you didn’t want to tell me— your fiancee?”

He didn’t answer.

You stared at him for a long moment, heart breaking quietly in your chest. You resumed packing, heading to the restroom to get some toiletries. He stood still watching you walk past him.

“Where are you gonna go?” He asked softly pushing his glasses up the bride of his nose,

“My sister’s” you replied, voice flat.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of nose, “Darling, it’s one in morning and that’s an hour drive. It’s not safe, and I know you hate driving at night.”

He was right.

However you refused to give him the satisfaction.

You didn’t say a word.

Once your duffel bag was full. You walked into the kitchen to fetch your keys only to find an empty key rack. You blinked, staring at where the keys should’ve been.

You sighed turning to face Clark. “Where are my keys Clark?,” you asked, jaw tight.

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, “But I'm not letting you drive tonight. I'll give them back in the morning.”

His voice was gentle, but the firmness underneath it made you clench your fist.

You scoffed, utterly disgusted, you let as your duffel bag hit the floor with a thud. You massaged your temples trying your hardest to self-soothe. You were exhausted physically and emotionally.

At this point you were considering taking the damn bus to your sister’s.

Or walking.

Anything to not be underneath the same roof as this man.

“Is it not enough to have a full-blown affair on me despite me opening up to you about my past relationships— the betrayal I had experienced,” you spoke lowly.

“But you continue to gaslight me and you refuse to give me my space after the fact… I never in a million years thought you could be this cruel,” your bottom lip quivered.

“Don’t say that. Please," he begged.

"I would never betray you, there isn’t anyone in this entire universe I feel as strongly for as you. Baby, you’re everything to me. You have to know that— you're everything. You’re the reason why I do what do.” Clark articulated with pleading eyes.

“And what is it exactly that you ‘do’?”

He froze again. The silence was suffocating. The answer was sitting on the tip of his tongue, you could see it in the tension in his shoulders and jaw.

He couldn't take it. He knew if he didn’t confess you’d walk out on him, there was no doubt in his mind. If not tonight, than tomorrow, or some other time in the near future.

There was still a chance that knowing the truth might not prevent you from leaving. That thought shook him to his core.

However, the more he thought about it, it wasn’t about him. Whatever consequences he might suffer were irrelevant.

It was about you— and you deserved the truth. You didn’t deserve to have your wounds reopened— to, again, be put through the pain of having a disloyal partner. To believe that the bond you shared wasn't real.

Clark, while deceptive in his own right, wasn’t cruel.

“If you take a seat I will explain everything to you. If you still want to leave in the morning, I won’t stand in your way,” he lamented.

Defeated, you sat in love seat opposite of him.

Clark looked absolutely terrified, which only frayed your nerves more.

What the fuck was he about to say to you?

He rolled up his sleeves and leaned forward before discarding his glasses on the coffee table.

You never seen him without his glasses, he only ever took them off in bed when the lights were off. It was the most minor action ever, and yet—it brought about a change in his whole presence. He seemed sharper, more certain. He looked different but somewhat familiar.

“I have never been unfaithful to you, the thought has never crossed my mind— not once,” he began, voice low and steady. “In the instances, where I left in the middle of dinner, or I was late, or came home… looking like hell— wasn’t because I was with someone else. It was because someone needed help.”

You frowned, “What kind of help?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line before standing up.

Before you could even ask what he was doing, there was a rapid blur— a powerful rush of wind.

Clark no longer standing in front of you anymore, but was he was… across the room, leaning against the wall like he had always been there.

You gasped loudly and your stomach dropped.

Then again, there he was sitting next to you on the love seat. No footsteps nor sound, almost as if he transported.

You stared at him wide-eyed in disbelief, “There’s no way.”

In another flash, Clark was gone—not gone but floating. Casually levitating in the middle of your living room. The sight made the hairs on your body stand up.

The truth hit you like a blast of cold air on a scorching hot summer day. The man who soared the skies dawning primary colors and a cape. Whose name had been the topic of almost every other news segment, article, or social media post. The almost mythical figure who fights crooks, battles intergalactic threats, and saves the world from ruin day in and day out, was your fianceé—your Clark.

“Your Superman, ” you exclaimed softly.

He landed lightly, stepping towards you, his eyes searching yours with an ache you haven’t seen before.

I could fucking faint right now.

“I wanted to tell you from the start but I refrained from telling you for a multitude of reasons”

“Which are…?”

“Fear mostly. I thought that by telling you, I'd be putting your safety in jeopardy. And if something were to happen to you because of me—I wouldn’t be able to live with myself” his voice broke.

He continued. “There’s also a pathetic part of me that thought if I was truthful, maybe you would decide that you wouldn't want to be with me. That you might want to settle down with some normal—less alien and more human.”

You felt dizzy, this was a lot to process.

You started to put the pieces together, “So earlier when I was confronting you about your ‘secret’, you thought I was referring to—”

“I thought you figured me out, which is why I asked if you thought I might hurt you. I was under the impression you were scared of me," he admitted.

Your facial expression softened. “Clark I'm less scared of you now than I was thirty minutes ago.”

“It doesn’t matter what abilities you have and I don’t care that your not human. I’ve known you for years, I know your heart. You’re a good person and knowing how you choose to wield your powers is even more of a testament to character," you articulated.

You took a deep breath, your fingers finding your temples. "I can’t fathom what it’s like to have to carry that sort of responsibility," you whispered.

There was no doubt in your mind—Clark was being honest. and yet, you still felt a pang in your chest.

“But you been lying to me for quite some time now and it hurts knowing that,” you sighed recalling the last four years of knowing Clark.

Tears stung your eyes, Clark kneeled in front of you, and ever so gently he wiped them away.

“I just wish you were honest. I understand that you wanted to protect me, that’s valid but… I feel so strongly about you, Clark. I don’t think, not for second, knowing your secret would’ve ever drove me away from you. I'd like to think it would’ve brought us closer.”

You buried your head in your hands. “I would’ve never have guessed that this was the actual explanation for what’s been going on. These last few weeks I’ve been losing my damn mind conjuring up the worse case scenarios.”

He carefully took your hand in his, “I’m not above admitting that I was undoubtedly wrong.”

“I was deceptive and I convinced myself I lied solely to protect you but the truth is my own self-interest played a big part into that decision. I thought that my lies would keep you close but they had the opposite affect of what I had hoped and I ended up hurting you in the process. My biggest regret is not telling you sooner and for that I sincerely apologize with the entirety of my being.”

Quiet tears streamed down your face—you couldn’t help it. You were feeling so many emotions all at once, some of which contradicted one another.

You didn’t have it in you to stay mad at Clark— you felt a lot things in this moment but anger, no.

He was put in a impossible situation. Did he make the best choice not telling you— no, but you could sympathize with his thought process.

You would like to think if the roles were reversed you would’ve told him a long time ago… but then again you weren’t entirely sure.

“I can’t honestly say that I'm completely fine with what you did. It’s going to take some time to get over it—but I love you, very much, and I think what we have is worth saving.”

“We can mend this but only under the condition you never lie to me again,” you looked at him with a pleading look.

Clark let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding in. Relief wasn’t a strong enough word to describe how he was feeling right now.

“Darling, that’s the least I can do. I’m gonna do everything in my power to make it right, I swear. I’ll spend everyday making it up to you.”

You looked at Clark, really looked at him, like it was your first time clearly seeing him. You reached out and stroked his face. This was the more like the Clark you fell in love with— sincere, honest, and devoted.

Clark was gone and back in a blink of an eye, still kneeling down in front of you. In his hand was your engagement ring you’d tossed on the dresser earlier. He looked at you silently, searching your face for your approval or disapproval, before he slipped the ring back on your finger.

You nodded gently to signal to him it was alright. He gingerly put the engagement ring on your finger, before taking a seat next to you and enveloping you into a hug.

“My sweet girl, your so good to me,” he murmured in the crook of your neck. Clark’s hand rubbed on the expanse of your back, the soothing sensation making you lean closer into him. His other hand was wrapped around your waist holding you like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You missed him, horribly.

You held on to him, arms wrapped around his neck. His baby blue eyes peered into yours. His face moved close to yours, hovering, waiting for a green light from you.

You smoothly slid onto his lap, giving him all the encouragement needed to put his lips on yours. You moaned into the kiss, forgetting what it was like to kiss him.

It’s been a minute.

He took control, setting the slow and intense tempo, which you matched with the same amount of fervor. Your tongues taking turns exploring each others mouth, and occasionally colliding. You pulled back slightly, softly tugging his bottom lip in between your teeth, before pulling back completely.

You were panting but Clark wasn’t done yet in the slightest—neither were you. He nuzzled his face in your neck pressing soft kisses on your pulse. A familiar heat began to spread from the pit of your stomach to in between your legs.

The sensation of his lips on the sensitive flesh of your neck riled you up like no other. And Clark knew this— by now he was an expert on your body, knowing exactly what buttons to push. It was only made worse when he moved the opening of your nightgown to the side so he could get better access, littering your collar bone with sweet kisses. In between kisses he’d whisper your praises, voice real low and deep.

Kiss.

“I’m so lucky to have you.”

Kiss.

“So fortunate that I have the privilege of seeing you like this.”

Kiss.

“God. I can’t wait to make you my wife.”

Kiss.

Quiet moans started slipping out of you, even though you tried to contain them. It’s been so long—too damn long since you and Clark had been intimate with each other.

Growing desperate for relief you steadily rode his thigh, the one where his thick cock laid against. You could feel Clark growing rock hard in his slacks. You weren’t any better, certain he could feel the dull throbbing your clit. He groaned into your neck trying to compose himself.

When he lifted his face out of the crook of your neck he was almost panting.

“I love seeing you like this.” He moved his hand that was placed on your waist, under your gown down your thigh. Gently he roamed the span of your thigh, alternating between feather light-touches and kneading the soft flesh. “You have no idea how sexy you look right now,” he continued.

You carded your hands through his hair and kissed him with the same intensity as before. Clark’s hands made their way to your panties, giving the sides of your hips a squeeze, causing you to whimper into the kiss. As a rebuttal you unwrapped your arms from his neck, using one of your free hand to stroke his hard-on through pants. He stopped kissing you and his head fell back slightly, lips parted.

You bite your bottom lip watching his reaction. “Clark, baby. I need you,” you whined, delivering to gentle pecks to his jawline.

“M’ right here. Not going anywhere, angel.” He reassured, both hands gripping your butt under your gown.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “It’s been a minute since we’ve um— made love,” you spoke, whispering towards the end.

He smiled at you, almost teasingly. “Are you nervous?”

“Not terribly nervous, but just a little bit,” you smiled running you hands down his clothed chest.

He kissed your forehead. “It’s perfectly normal to be nervous. We can stop at any point. I only ask you for one thing, and that is to communicate with me.” Clark asserted.

“I know I haven’t been the best in the trustworthiness department as of late… but there is nothing I want more right now than to make you feel good. In order for me to do that, I need you to have a little faith in me and trust that whatever you say or ask for I will deliver.”

He placed his hand on your chin, holding your gaze. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, transfixed on his assertiveness.

“Use your words please,” Clark instructed.

“I can do that for you, Clark. I promise.”

Clark melted at the way you said his name. That whole sentence was like a line ripped straight from his fantasies, but only better because it was real.

“Let’s move to the bedroom,” he uttered gripping your waist and wrapping your legs around his lower torso.

“Hold on to me,” was the last thing he said before he rocketed into your shared bedroom.

The fast movement had your heartbeat up again. Clark didn’t want to put you down—just yet. He instead, put your back against the wall while your limbs were still entangled in his.

Your arms were wrapped around his neck once more, while your face hovered over his. You teasingly brushed your tongue across his bottom lip. Before your tongue could retreat back into your mouth, Clark had shamelessly took the bait and latched his lips onto yours. You nightgown was hiked up to your hips, Clark took that as a sign to stroke your bare legs all the way to that back of your thighs. Everywhere Clark touched, left your skin ablaze.

“Clark, baby, take your shirt off,” you pleaded breathlessly.

Just like that he unbuttoned his shirt with a supernatural quickness. He allowed you the honors of sliding off his white button-up, revealing his burly physique. His abs, deep planes of muscle, flexed as you ran your hand over them. Your eyes peered over to his broad shoulders, then to his biceps.

The signs were there… you never saw him work out but someone how he was the picture of fitness. It all adds up now.

You ran your hands over his buff arms, while you brought your lips to his neck. Gently suckling on his skin. You brought your lips a little higher nibbling on the patch of skin behind his ear.

He groaned lightly, his hips surged up against yours seeking friction. You could feel him, seemingly harder and larger than before. You rocked your hips against his, chasing pleasure. He slotted his thigh into between your thigh, throwing you a bone.

“Use me, make yourself feel good, baby”, he groaned out. You didn’t waste anytime, rocking your hips back and forth. He tensed making the muscles in his thigh more prominent, which only intensified the sensation.

Clark’s eyes made their way to your chest. He didn’t need to use his x-ray vision to know you weren’t wearing a bra, you hardly ever did in the comfort of you home.

The way you gyrated on his thigh only made it more obvious, your movements caused the soft bounce of your tits. Through your silk nightdress, your nipples stood at attention, like two stiff peaks. You caught him staring, practically drooling.

You grabbed his hand and guided it underneath the smooth fabric until he reached the soft mound of flesh. He circled his thumb around your nipple, making you throw your head back, causing you to bump the back of your head on the wall.

The thud your head made with the wall made Clark uneasy, even though you laughed it off. “You okay, sweetheart?” He asked. Taking a step back from the wall and cradling the back your head with one of his hands.

“I think I'll live,” you teased.

He turned around with you still wrapped around him and placed you upright gently on the edge of the bed.

You stared at him in anticipation as he undid the belt around his waist. He unzipped his pants and slipped off his slacks, making your lips part. There he stood in nothing but his boxers which did very little conceal manhood.

“I’m going come up behind you,” he husked.

He was a man of his word. He climbed onto the bed snaking behind you, his presence was felt. He sat behind you, making it so you were in between his legs. He pulled you closer towards him so that your back was against his broad chest.

Both his hands found their way underneath you gown. He explored your body with the faintest touch of his fingertips. Skimming softly over your bare shoulders, back, and waist. Once he got to the slight pudge of your stomach he splayed his hand over it, causing your tummy to tense from the sensation. His other hand reunited with your breasts, alternating between them both. Each touch caused you to whine and writhe.

But it wasn’t enough, you were growing desperate for more.

You slowly threw your head back into his shoulder melting into his touch. He kissed your cheek then your shoulder.

“You enjoying yourself, angel?” Fingers toying with your nipples.

“Yes, Clark,” you moaned.

His hands suddenly move their way to you knees, pulling them apart, and hiking your dress up in the process revealing you panties. His hand caressed your inner thighs, while his eyes studied you. Observant. Watching your reactions. He gently glided his knuckles across your clothed folds. You yelped out in surprise.

He was amused by your response. You could sense the smile on his face. He palmed at your core, cupping your heat— feeling it throb in his hand.

“Just say the words, and I'll make you cum at least three different ways,” he rasped in your ear.

“Jesus, Clark. Fuck. Please," you moaned out, flustered.

“Please, what? What is it you want me to do, darling?” He asked, clearly teasing. The grip he had on your mound slightly tightening.

“Make me cum, three different ways,” you whispered in his ear, too proud to say it out loud.

Clark let out a satisfied sound. His hands reached the sides on your underwear, slowly shimming them down your hips. You lifted your hips up, sliding them the rest of the way down, throwing them somewhere across the room.

Clark fingers ran up and down the seam of your cunt. Slowly. Agonizingly slow. He gathered your arousal on his finger tips before using it to lubricate your clit.

He concentrated his attention on that spot. Using one hand to push back the hood while the other relentlessly circled around the sensitive nub. He could feel and see your body tense, your thighs and abdomen both flexing.

You were close. He knew you needed a little encouragement, after all these years he knew just what to say to get you there.

“You're so precious,” he breathed softly into the space between your head and shoulder.

“I just barely touched you and your already close to cumming. You were wet well before I ever even laid a finger on it,” he continued whispering lowly in your ear.

You moaned loudly, his words just added to the bliss.

“That’s all it takes, huh. Some dry humping, groping, and neck kisses.” He uttered nibbling at your neck.

You nodded shamelessly, stuck throes of pleasure.

“I’m gonna keep rubbing slow steady until you cum. I can do this all night— you know I could.”

Fuckkk, he could. You knew from experience he wasn't joking.

You let the most pathetic sound— a cross between a whine and a moan.

“I’m cumming, Clark” you alerted, your limbs shuddering.

He wrapped an arm across your chest to steady you, while remaining steadfast in his movements.

He didn’t stop until well after you were done, overstimulating your sensitive clit.

He turned your head towards him, kissing you passionately on the mouth.

“That’s my girl.” He proclaimed gently, tracing the outside of your thighs, helping you come down from your orgasm.

You fell limp into his strong hold but Clark was just getting started.

“I wanna taste you now, is that okay?” Clark inquired, checking in with you.

You nodded, the thought of his lips on your core induced a familiar pulsation between your legs.

With your approval, Clark moved off the bed and moved you closer to the edge, so that your legs were practically hanging off.

“As good as you look in it, I want you to take that nightgown off. I need to see you,” he spoke, something carnal in his tone.

You glided the over-sized piece of fabric over your head revealing your bare form. Clark’s lips parted taking you in. He guided your back to the mattress, positioning pillows underneath you for your comfort.

His lips were all over your body— the sides of your neck, the blades of your shoulders, your tits, waist, stomach, and all over the expanse of your thighs. He was thorough making sure to acknowledge every inch of you.

“You’re such a goddess.” He whispered in the crook of your neck before connecting his lips to yours.

When his lips left yours, he interlocked your hand with his before sinking down to his knees, in-between your legs.

“You know the drill.” He insisted stroking your thighs signaling you to part them.

You did, in fact, know the drill. You opened you legs for Clark, watching him descend his head in between your thighs in suspense.

“Hold on to me if you need to, angel.” He gently squeezed your hand.

His breath made contact with your mound before his lips did. He pressed soft kisses to your outer lips, before dragging his tongue in a firm straight line from your folds up to your nub. He reiterated that motion, several times, each time increasing the pressure.

He took it up a notch, flattening his tongue against you, swathing your pussy, delivering slow licks. You squeezed Clark’s hand, needing an outlet other then moaning.

Being the multi-tasker he was, he reached his free hand up to your chest, fondling you.

Your breath was heaving, the way he worked his tongue made your brain melt.

Clark wrapped his mouth around the entirety of your heat. Suctioning and nibbling greedily at your clit to no avail. It was too much. He didn’t stop or come up from air, he just kept going sometimes peering up at you, with his mouth full, to gauge your reactions.

He didn’t even need to look at to tell you were turned on. He could tell by the arousal seeping out of you, the way you clinched around his tongue, and the throbbing of your core. But watching you— your face all scrunched up, your breath rising and falling— that was just the cherry on top.

He took his hand off your breasts, to stroke himself through his boxers. Still working you with his mouth, Clark looked up at you to see you watching him back with heavy-lidded eyes.

He just knew you were close. He hoped you would cum soon or else he’d end up creaming briefs.

Like clockwork— your body arched suddenly, your hips began writhing against Clark while your legs simultaneously attempted to close. Keyword— attempted. Clark wasn’t having it, he pried open your thighs using one hand, while the other hand was clutched in yours. You released a guttural sound, one that spawned deep from your diaphragm.

Just like before he didn’t stop until well after you were done convulsing, ensuring you’d came. He happily lapped up your fluids, kissing your thighs once he finished.

He rose up to his feet, observing you. You looked wrecked— your face was tear stained, your deep skin tone was tinged with a hue of red from being flushed, and you remained limp gazing up at the ceiling.

He laid down beside you, and wrapped you in bear hug. “You okay, honey?” Clark inquired, a hint of worry in his voice.

“M’ okay. More than okay actually. That felt so fucking good, Clark.” You slurred running your hand up and down his back.

“I promised you at the very least three orgasms. You think you got one more in you?” Clark smirked buzzing at the praise you gave him.

“Yes, but I have a request,” you smiled.

“And what is that, angel?”.

“I need you inside me,” you asserted.

Clark groaned. To think his bulge was just sort of starting to go down, but your request had him rock hard in the matter of seconds.

He hadn't planned on doing that. He was fully prepared to let tonight be about you. In fact, he was more than okay with going to sleep with blue balls, he thought it would be well deserved after what he’d put you through the last few weeks.

He couldn’t deny you though, at least not on your behalf, not when asked so boldly, not when he already promised you he’d do whatever you asked of him.

So he asked you one more time, “Are you sure that’s what you really want? We don’t have to… especially not from my sake.”

You sat up on the bed and and so did Clark following your lead. “I am sure. And I can tell right now, it’s definitely not for your sake,” you chuckle slightly.

“I want you to make love to me because I enjoy it and I missed it… I miss us. I don’t wanna punish you or keep you at arms length any more. I’ve been doing that for the past month. It’s been exhausting. I missed you, Clark.” You poured your heart out, feeling vulnerable than ever.

Upon hearing that brought you close to his chest, needing to close the space between you both. The skin to skin contact made everything more intimate. He kissed you on your temples and stroked the nape of your neck with his thumb, softly grazing the few coils peeking out your bonnet.

“I love you so much,” he uttered. Looking down at you, before giving you fervent kiss on the lips. His hand made its way to your heat, still swollen and sensitive from before. He glided his middle and pointer finger across your folds. Making you part lips into the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue in, while his fingers stimulate you.

He broke the kiss, “I need to warm you up first, before you take me.” His two fingers began circling your clit, a familiar feeling building in you gut. “Gonna start with with one finger. Then we’ll work our way up,” he instructed.

You nodded, “I understand.” You looked down staring at Clark’s fingers. They were nearly double the size of yours in length and width.

He slowly sunk his pointer finger into you, until he was knuckle deep. You could feel him curling his finger inside you, causing you to clinch around him.

“Baby, your so wet for me, I think you need another finger. What do you think?”

“Yes, but go slow, ” you requested.

He obliged, slowly moving his pointer and middle finger into your cunt. Your breath hitched, and his fingers were barely inside. “It’s okay sweetheart, you're doing so good,” he reassured delivering a kiss to your cheek. "You’re gripping me real tight, see if you can relax for me.”

Clark circled your clit with his thumb, in hopes of relaxing you more. It seemingly worked because soon after you were able to take his two fingers knuckle deep inside you. Your sweet moans filled the air once Clark began to move his digits in and out you slowly, curling his fingers upwards against your spongy walls.

Every time he curls his fingers inside, you swear you could see stars. He watched you closely, reveling in how your discomfort morphed into pleasure.

“Gonna add another,” he warned, earning a brief nod from you.

The third finger just barely made it in. He could see you wincing slightly from the insertion. He held his fingers still not moving an inch, wanting you to get use to the stretch. “That's it baby. It’s been awhile but you’re taking my fingers like champ,” he praised kissing you on your forehead.

After a minute or so, he slowly moved his fingers deeper inside you, earning a mewl out of you. “How does that feel, love?”

“Your fingers are huge,” you groaned.

"If it's too much, let me know," he pleaded.

"Don't stop, Clark. It's fine." You softly gripped his arm, a subtle action meant to persuade him to keep going.

He got the memo. You felt his arm flex as he curled all three fingers inside of you. He moved his fingers in and out you, making you squirm.

"I think I'm ready" you expressed, gazing upwards at Clark. You palmed him through his boxers and you swore you could feel his dick jump.

Clark took his fingers out of you and used them to massage your clit. Then licked them clean with a slight grin on his face. After a few moments he slid off his boxers. His large cock stood at attention, the tip almost reaching his navel.

As far as you were concerned, you would never get use to it. The same wave of shock ran through you every time you saw it.

Clark climbed on top of you, with bated breath. He cupped your face, hovering above you, with a longing stare. You reached down and slowly grabbed his manhood, stroking it from base to tip languidly in your hand. Clark exhaled sharply at your touch.

You repeatedly circled your thumb around his tip, making him cry out your name.

"You feel how hard you got me?" Clark groaned before attacking your neck with sensual pecks.

You moaned— growing insatiable.

You aligned the thick head of his cock with your entrance. You firmly rubbed his tip along your folds, periodically brushing it against your clit. The friction caused the both of you to spasm.

Clark tried his best to hold still and let you take the lead, but every once in a while he'd jut his hips up against you, losing himself in your heat.

All while you were slack-jawed and blissed out, mindlessly dragging Clark's tip along your aching cunt.

You were positive you both could cum from just this alone but you had other plans.

"I'm gonna put it inside, baby." You moaned, giving Clark a heads up.

He looked at you like you hung the stars. He caressed your cheek and bottom lip with his thumb. "Look at me when you put it in," he implored.

So you did—well, you made an honest effort to. Eyes honed in on Clark, as you guided his staunch tip through you entrance causing you to let out a hiss. Your eyes closed shut, the initial stretch causing you some discomfort. You open your eyes, after a moment and see Clark surveilling you.

"M'sorry," you whisper.

He planted a kiss on your top of your head "S'okay. You tried, it's all that matters."

"Deep breathes for me baby," he spoke in an attempt to get your breath to steady. After a minute or two of coaxing from Clark, you'd grown somewhat accustomed to what was inside of you.

He brought his hands to your chest, cupping your breast in his hands. "You’re so wet and tight around me," he huffed out, voice trembling slightly.

You whined at his lewd words. "I can take more," you stated growing impatient.

"I got'chu, just try your best to relax, sweetheart," he commanded softly. He took one hand off your breast, and snaked it down to your clit. Rubbing it a few times before grabbing his shaft and sinking a few inches deeper into you.

You gasped loudly at the sudden intrusion. Clark could feel your walls clinching down on him, getting adjusted to him.

You looked down at where your bodies connected. He wasn't even half way inside but just an a few inches past the tip. There was more of him to take and you already felt so full.

Clark slowly slipped out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness, until he drove back inside you. A familiar sense of pleasure building up in your lower abdomen.

You gripped his biceps needed something to ground you. Clark started to build a tempo in which he glided in and out of you. Nice and slow.

You were rutting your hips to meet his thrust. Gritting your teeth, and scrunching your face. Clark watched as you unraveled underneath him, continuing to work into you, sliding deeper and deeper with every few strokes.

You grew self-conscious under his gaze, becoming hyper aware of the faces and the sounds you were making. You hid your face in your hands and muffled your mouth.

He let out a frustrated sighed. "Y'know I hate when you hide from me," he breathed, still keeping the tempo. "I need to see my, pretty girl," he murmured, one of his hands encircling your wrist.

You obeyed his request moving your hands to his sculpted chest.

"There she is," he beamed.

He moved in close, locking his lips with yours. The kiss caused him to slip in deeper, making your lips part. He moaned feeling you enclosed around him— almost all of him. He slid his tongue into your mouth, while your lips ravished his. Both of you were reeling, intoxicated by each other, writhing into each other.

You both pulled away, staring at each other, forehead to forehead.

"Give it to me, Clark. I want all of you,” you begged.

Clark could've came at the mere sentence you uttered— the way you said it, the way you looked when you said it, and how your cunt throbbed around him when you said it.

He couldn't say no to you.

You watched as he pulled out of you completely, his cock glistening from your slick. Your cunt clinched down on nothing, missing the penetration. He placed his red throbbing member on your abdomen. Aligning the base of his shaft with your pelvis, providing you a visual on just how deep inside you he'd be.

He gathered some of the slick from your entrance and circled your clit.

Then, he slowly impaled you with the entirety of his cock, making you convulse around him. He wrapped your legs around his waist, shifting the angle.

You could feel everything. The veins that wrapped around his cock. The rhythmic throbbing of his manhood against your walls. The thick tip of his cock hitting your cervix. Once he reached your hilt, he didn't move, letting you bask in the sensation of being filled.

He instead, whispered sweet nothings, "Darling, I love you more than anything."

His kissed up your neck.

"I'm nothing without you."

Clark resumed his tempo, slowing working in and out of you.

"Knowing that I have you to come back to everyday, it keeps me going" he groaned.

Your eyes were glossy. His words of affirmation, the kisses he planted on your body, and the continuous stroking— it pure ecstasy. The wave of pleasure that had been building up in your stomach began to spread.

"I'm gonna cum again, Clark,” you yelled out.

"It's okay. I'm close too, angel,” he comforted.

He reached down playing with your clit once more, knowing exactly what you need. "Come on my dick, baby,” he encouraged.

You matched his thrust greedily chasing your orgasm. You could feel Clark throbbing inside of you and the slight stammer of his stroke.

"Don't stop please," you pleaded.

He obliged working you with consistency. Your toes curled, legs trembled weakly around his waist, and your pussy twitched relentlessly around his member. You came first. Sounds of pleasure spilling from your throat. You clawed at Clark's back as he hammered into you. He sped up, fucking you through your orgasm.

Clark felt you milking his cock. He watched you with a glazed expression, feeling his own orgasm take over. Clark then had to do one of the hardest things he's ever had to do— pull out of you.

A part of him, had the sick and twisted urge to cum inside you. For him, it was deeper than lust. He wanted to breed you, create life within you, a perfect combination of the two of you, that he could nurture and care for.

As much as he yearned to plant his seed inside you, he knew it wasn't the night for that. Tonight was about reformation and forgiveness—a step towards repairing the damage he'd caused. He wanted to rebuild your faith in him, prove to you he was worthy of such an honor. Ensuring that the both of you were on the same page, so he'd control it.

Mid-stroke he reluctantly slid out of you milliseconds before his climax. He came at the mere sight of you— not needing to stimulate himself any further. Milky white streaks painting your thighs, tummy, and chest.

Though he was no longer inside of you, you could still feel him. The ghost of him etched in your walls. You watched him in awe as ropes of cum shoot from his swollen cock to your body.

You reached down and tenderly stroked his shaft, coaxing him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. He was trying his hardest to compose himself but you saw him all too clearly. The way he fell apart from your touch, twitching and whimpering.

"My sweet boy," you cooed. Dazed and out of it, you reach out with your other hand to gently massage his scalp. Clark basked in the attention you were giving him.

"Let me clean you up, baby," Clark announced moving off of you.

You groaned, "Don't go."

Clark's heart broke slightly. He planted a kiss on your brow to stop you from frowning. "I'll be right back."

Before you could even register his absence or the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing he was back, with a damp washcloth.

You sighed in relief.

I forget he could do that.

He parted your thighs, gingerly wiping away the arousal that seeped from you.

Before meticulously cleansing your skin with the cloth, removing the white matter from your thighs, stomach, chest, and breast.

When satisfied with his work, he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling with each slow breath. Then, without a word, he pulled you into his arms. His burly frame curled protectively around you, one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, the other tracing slow, absentminded patterns along your back. His face nestled into the crook of your neck, lips brushing your skin with every exhale.

“I’m so incredibly lucky to have you,” he murmured, voice thick with sincerity. “I’ve traveled the globe… even to other planets. But nothing—nothing—makes me feel the way you do. I always think about you—always. I wanna be the man that makes you proud… that's worthy of you.”

Your heartbeat swelled at his words. His heartbeat was steady, strong, and impossibly gentle for all the power he held— thudded softly against your back. You felt the way his arms tightened around you, as if to keep you anchored to the moment, to him.

“You already are,” you whispered, turning just enough to brush your lips against his. “You don’t have to prove anything. Just be honest with me from now on, that's all I ask going forward.”

A soft smile tugged at his lips, one you could feel against your skin more than see. He let out a breath, the tension in his muscles slowly giving way to calm.

“You have my word,” he said. “I'll never lie to you again.”

Outside, the world continued on—distant sirens, rustling leaves, the low bustle of the city—but in his arms, it all faded. Here, wrapped up in Clark Kent, you were beyond content. The anguish you felt hours ago, felt like nothing more than a distant dream.

you made it to the end! thank you sm for reading, lmk what you thought and if i should post some more :3

[cryptictongues]

kryptonite glitter nail polish that brings Clark to his knees as soon as you shove your fingers into his mouth SEND POST ‼️

[cryptictongues]

Love the little details in this. Like I love that Clark isn’t just using his X-Ray vision whenever he pleases. He respects her boundaries. This is exactly how I’d envision Clark to react and I think you did a great characterization of him. This was a sweet read. Thanks for sharing 💕💕

you hide your injuries from him — Clark Kent

summary: you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway. content warning: reader falls and gets crushed by a bookshelf and bruises her ribs, abuse of painkillers, crack treated seriously, humour turning into angst and hurt/comfort, Clark is an idiot, Superman is reliable but Clark Kent isn’t, established relationship, Clark Kent is hopelessly in love with you, he’s just dumb sometimes. suggestive content — oral, f!receiving; nothing explicit but still heavily implied, mdni. black cat reader + golden retriever (cat?) clark kent word count: 6.8k words note: this was supposed to be silly and shorter but oops! things got a bit out of hand. written in one day and absolutely not reread, don’t mind typos or inconsistencies! >.<

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Dating a superhero is not for the faint of heart. Don’t get it wrong, you love Clark Kent, and you love dating him, even if sometimes the weight of the entire world plays third wheel between the two of you (sometimes it even felt like you were the third wheel). It’s okay, you knew what you were getting into.

You actually love that Clark Kent has such a bleeding heart, and that he’s so kind and so helpful.

But you also really wish he would stop disappearing every time he finally has to take down that bookshelf that was hovering dangerously..

It seemed like a cruel trick of fate, truly, how every time he finally agreed to do it, something in the other side of the world comes up, and he looks at you with a guilty and sheepish grin before he wears his suit and leaves you behind, you and that stupid bookshelf you couldn’t use anymore and only looked ugly.

You probably would have gotten this over with months ago if you’d done it on your own, but no, you were stupid and you decided to trust your boyfriend. It’s your fault, really, for believing him when he said he would do it. What kind of girlfriend did that? What kind of self-respecting, independant, strong and smart woman did that? Really, you only have yourself to blame.

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” he says, and he really looks apologetic and guilty when he apologizes, and you hate that it makes it so much harder to truly be mad at him.

“It’s fine, just go,” you reply. You’re waiting for him to leave so you can finally get rid of that monstrosity in the living room.

He smiles, thinking he got away with it. He doesn’t know it’s because you decided to do it yourself.

“I love you so much baby. I swear to you I’m doing anything you want me to do as soon as I come back,” he promises, eager and hopeful and genuine, and he cups your face gently between his too big hands and he kisses you on the forehead gently, as if you would shatter if he’d applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

You can’t help but snort. Not meanly, just… he always says that. And while it’s mostly true, it apparently doesn’t apply to that damn bookshelf. Why? Absolutely no idea. You remember one day when Clark had literally mowed the lawn instead of fixing the damn shelf. What was wrong with him? Was the shelf made of kryptonite or what?

You’re proud of yourself for not sounding petty or annoyed.

“Go save the world, big boy. The world needs you.”

So did you, but not anymore. You can do anything on your own. You don’t need stupid otherworldly powers for that.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he repeats.

“I love you too. Now go before the unthinkable happens.”

He’s gone in a flash, as if he was only waiting for your permission. There he goes, probably away for the rest of the day.

You push your sleeves back and get to work.

It starts easy enough. The shelf was already cleaned and ready to be thrown away. All it needed was a strong pair of arms, and a long ladder.

You got this.

You don’t got this.

The ladder was probably older than Clark’s home planet and it stood shakily like it had a goddamn cold, but it was tall enough and it was sturdy enough for the job. Screwdriver in hand, you started unscrewing the screws (how many times were you going to say that word?), thinking to yourself that Clark was an idiot for putting this off for so long. There’s literally nothing difficult about this – or dangerous, if you didn’t count the ladder’s strange composition, and honestly, it doesn’t even count, because if it were him doing this, he wouldn’t even have needed it in the first place.

Everything was going perfectly well. You were halfway done with the screws and you were thinking of taking a small break (totally deserved, in your humble and completely unbiased opinion), when Superkitten decided that the ladder was a pair of legs, and he started rubbing himself all over it, making it even less stable than it already was.

“Superkitten, go away!” you try telling him, but of course, Superkitten answered to no one.

He’s sharpening his claws now against the splintering wood and you suddenly have the clearest vision of your demise. Dying because your stupid (God bless his stupid little heart) cat used your ladder as a scratching post.

Everything happens so fast you barely had time to think, only act, and you’re gripping onto the shelf for dear life and next thing you know, you’re on the floor. Superkitten had fled the crime scene the moment the ladder fell and you hung onto the bookshelf.

You’re not proud of it but your last thought before the wood quite literally crushes you into oblivion is: serves Clark right.

────୨ৎ────

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been unconscious for, but when you come to your senses, the sun is barely starting to set and Superkitten is licking your face. He must have been going at it for a long while because your skin felt raw. At least someone was worried about you, though, if the low whining coming from your cat was anything to go by.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you tell him, trying to reassure him. You try to lift a hand to pet him but pure agony blocks you from moving.

Now that you think about it, your chest hurts and you have a hard time breathing with the broken pieces of wood littered your body like a blanket. A painful, not warm at all, not soft blanket. If you have to have a not soft blanket, you would rather have Clark draped all over you again.

Clark. Ugh. This is all his fault. If he’d fixed the shelf when you’d told him to, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You hope you haven’t broken any ribs. You need your ribs for baking.

Superkitten’s whining has gotten louder now, probably scared because you’re awake but you’re not moving, and your heart breaks a little. You didn’t mean to worry him.

Summoning all of your strength, you push the wood off of you (you want to scream but you don’t because Clark would definitely hear that and you really, really don’t want him to see you in this situation).

“There,” you breathe out to no one but yourself, your arms falling limp to your side, weak from the strain. You can finally breathe again, at the cost of your arms.

It takes you a longer time to move again. Thankfully you don’t think your ribs are broken (you’re not a professional but you’re pretty sure the pain would be more unbearable than this) but they’re definitely bruised. You feel like a giant bruise, honestly. You guess there won’t be any sexy times with Clark any time soon. You scoff at the thought. Why are you thinking about that? Besides, Clark definitely doesn’t deserve any sexy time for being the world’s most unreliable boyfriend. Bruised ribs or not.

You want to throw everything away but you’re not sure you’d be able to bend down, so first you make your way, slowly and painstakingly, to the bathroom where you first swallow half of a pill of Clark’s heavy duty painkillers (probably a bad idea, but you have a very good reason for being stupid, and you’re not going to waste it — you love bad decisions, especially when you’re not responsible for them) and then check the reach of the damage.

Gingerly, you lift your shirt up.

One giant bruise. You literally became a Smurf.

Thirty minutes later, the painkiller has fully kicked in and you decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence. Honestly, you should be mad at Clark for gatekeeping these painkillers when you have period cramps. He’s had these all this time and he never even offered once? Rude. Cruel. Blatant abuse.

Is it normal that your heartbeat is so fast? And that you feel kind of delirious? Probably. You just got crushed half to death, so it would make sense that your body’s in a state of shock.

Superkitten hasn’t left your side ever since you woke up on the floor, and it tugs at your heartstrings. He’s obviously shaken.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you whisper to him, scratching his cheeks with both hands. “Mommy’s not gonna do that ever again, I promise. That was really stupid of her, wasn’t it? No, you’re right. Daddy’s the stupid one. This is all his fault.”

He meowed, which was all the confirmation you needed.

“Let’s go to sleep,” you whisper to him.

You change out of your clothes to put on your favorite sweater (Clark’s old college shirt) because even if you’re still a little pissed at him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him, even if he doesn’t deserve it (lie), and you curl up in his side of the bed, body wrapped around a purring Superkitten, wishing Clark was here right now.

────୨ৎ────

“The shelf is gone,” Clark says, a little dumbly.

“What are you talking about?” you reply.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you don’t really want to talk about what happened (the bruises are agonising and you don’t dare take more of Clark’s painkillers after you spent the entire night with your knees on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl as you emptied your entire stomach — bile and intestines), and quite frankly, you just want to mess with him a little bit.

“You know, the bookshelf! The one in our living room?”

You look at him, feigning concern, and you touch his forehead with the back of your palm, hiding the wince as the movement pulls your muscles. “Are you sure you didn’t take a nasty hit to the head, baby?”

He huffs, looking adorably indignant, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

He’d come back a couple of hours ago while you were still asleep, and he’d joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms like you were his favorite bouquet, holding you until you woke up. Then, he spent close to an hour just kissing every inch of your face and neck. When he tried to pull your shirt away, you stopped him with a hand to his face without a word, because you knew Clark would stop without a word. Even in your half asleep state and the numbing pain you’d remembered he couldn’t see you underneath your shirt.

And now you’re fully awake, and he hasn’t stopped following you, pestering you about the shelf. I’ll fix it now for you baby, he says, blissfully unaware and earnest in his desire to do things right by you.

But there’s no bookshelf anymore. It’s gone, and he seems to have a hard time understanding it, because his very core can’t compute the fact that you may be lying to him.

“Where’s the shelf, baby?” he asks, whining. “What happened to it?”

“There’s no shelf, Clark,” you say, as if you’re talking to a baby that’s prone to hysterics.

“Yeah, there’s no shelf now, but there was one! Remember? The shelf I was supposed to take down but then every time I tried to, something came up?”

That irked you. “Oh so now you remember,” you say, and it might have been a mistake because he wasn’t supposed to know you felt as strongly about it as you did. You were supposed to be cool and chill, and most importantly, self-reliant and independent.

His face switches almost instantly, from confused to kicked puppy. “I’m sorry baby, I really am. I was going to fix it, I swear, but then I heard—”

“I know, I know,” you reply, a little more irritated than you would normally be, and it’s partly due to the pain and partly due to the fact that he is right. You can’t get mad at him for wanting to make the world a better place. “That was a job for Superman, yadda yadda, I get it, I know, you can shut up about it now. Forget about the shelf. Forget I ever asked you to help me. I fixed it myself, so you don’t have to keep leading me on with it. Let’s just move on. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Is it possible to get addicted from just taking one half of a pill? Your head is killing you, and your ribs feel like they’re closing in on your lungs and heart, and having Clark hover around you like this, with his stupid morals and values and too pure heart only made everything worse.

Scratch addiction — was it possible to get withdrawal from just one half dose?

You take three normal painkillers. Maybe the right decision would be to go to the ER but you’re too deep into this, and you really, really don’t want Clark to find out about your ribs and have to deal with his guilt again.

You love him, you really do. But you just wish you could take a normal breath again without almost passing out from pain alone.

If he’d fixed that damn shelf months ago like you’d asked him, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You know you could have done it yourself, but he’d made you promise you wouldn’t do that, and unlike some people, you actually kept your promises. If he’d kept his, you wouldn’t be mad at the love of your life, and you wouldn’t be thinking about swallowing all of Clark’s painkillers.

You make the mistake of looking at Clark’s face, and the misery and heartbreak you see on it almost brings you to your knees. If the physical pain didn’t do you in, then his pain so clearly etched onto his angelic features certainly would.

────୨ৎ────

You love Clark but you hate his guilt. You hate the kicked puppy look on his face whenever he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he gets quieter, more overbearing, as he tries to fix things by overcompensating.

Dinner is a matter of awkward silence and grating sounds from cutlery against plates. He made dinner. He really wanted to, even if it was usually your role to make dinner. You let him because frankly, you’re over this whole thing.

The dinner is good but it tastes like ashes to your tastebuds. You keep thinking about his painkillers in the bathroom. The ones you were never supposed to take because they weren’t made for humans. You wonder if he would ever notice half of one missing. You wonder how he would react.

When you go to sleep, he tries to hug you from behind but you flinch so hard (not at him, just at the expectation of the pain that was soon to follow) that he literally makes a noise. A small, wounded, noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, you’re sorry too.

────୨ৎ────

You can’t stay mad at Clark for too long. It’s against your nature.

So when he makes dinner for the third night in a row, and buys you all of the items on your whishlist, and does a million tiny other little things that make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, and he gets down on his knees to sincerely ask for your forgiveness, and he tells you how much of an idiot he’s been, you give in. Because idiot or not, you still loved your boyfriend. So much that it sometimes hurt.

“I forgive you,” you tell him, and watching him smile is like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through dark stormy clouds after a dark season.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. More than you could ever know, even if I’m an idiot sometimes. I genuinely was going to do what you asked, I swear, but I guess I just didn’t see how important it was to you.”

He’s so sweet, and he’s so kind, and you don’t know how you’re going to keep hiding your ribs from him without breaking his heart. It’s obvious he already feels bad enough for not taking what you ask of him seriously; he already feels bad enough that you ended up doing something he was supposed to do.

Knowing you got hurt, indirectly because of him, would crush him.

“I love you, Clark. And I appreciate your words,” you reply, and you try to forget about the bruises under your shirt that seem to flare up, in sync with your guilt.

“I am the luckiest man on earth and the galaxy,” he whispers against your neck. “And I was too stupid to see it. Never again, sweetheart. Never again. I don’t even have a proper excuse, other than I was being an idiot.”

His hand trails beneath your shirt. He grazes your ribs and when you shiver, he thinks it’s from pleasure.

“You’re warm,” he says.

Yeah, because my skin is tender and sore and swollen, and even your softest touch feels like fire against my skin.

“I run hot,” you reply.

“Or… maybe I make you hot,” he says, in that distinctive way of his; both confident and boyish, both suave and sheepish, like he’s still not sure whether he’s allowed to be like this around you.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m still mad at you, remember?”

And he pouts. This oversized man, who can lift buildings, who can destroy civilisations with one vision ray, who is on his knees for you, is honest to God pouting, eyes looking at you through his eyelashes, eyes downturned like you’d just told him Krypto hated me. “But you forgave me,” he says— or rather, he whines.

“Did I?” you ask, smirking despite the tender ache beneath your breasts. He always did make everything better.

“You’re so cruel to me my love. And yet, something is wrong with me because I love it.”

You brush his messy curls over his forehead, and he all but melts against your touch, and you scratch at his scalp like you do to Superkitten.

It’s not the first time that you make the comparison. Superman and Superkitten. Both a little dumb, both full of love for you.

He rests his head on your thighs and you keep playing with his hair. It’s soft and silky and it always smells nice. He always denies it but you’re ninety-nine percent sure he steals your vanilla scented shampoo. You rasp your fingernails against his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“I love you, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll work hard on becoming a man worthy of you.”

And there’s something wrong with this sentence, because why would the man who saves the planet on a daily basis not be worthy of you? Who even are you? But still, his words break something tender inside your chest, and your heart spills like ink on paper.

“I love you too, Clark,” you tell him, because it’s all you’re able to say before your throat closes up and your eyes sting.

I should have waited for him, you thought to yourself. I shouldn’t have tried to do it on my own, and I shouldn’t have snapped at him the way I did.

Now you hurt him, and yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Clark Kent is, by definition, a clingy man. No one would never know because on the surface, he almost looks put together — aside from his clumsiness and his fool act that stopped fooling you a long time ago.

Ever since he confessed to you and asked you out and you gave him permission, it’s like all his restraints came off. A kiss on the lips were just the tip of the iceberg. When you guys go grocery shopping, he refuses to let you hold anything, and he holds everything with one hand just so he can hold yours with his free hand.

He kisses you on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your forehead. Anytime, anywhere, for no reason other than he just felt like it.

He never once made you doubt his love because, as cynical as you are, even you can’t deny the love pouring off him in waves whenever he sees you.

Whenever he has to write an article, he always manages to sneak in something only you would understand. Each sentence would start with a letter that would then form a secret message for you.

I LOVE YOU

SWEETHEART

LOVELY

Clark Kent is in love with you. You know that. The world knows that, because he has no issue with showing it to the world. In fact, he has issue if he can’t show you off.

It’s Saturday morning and neither of you has work. It’s a lazy morning, with sun rays draped over your bodies like nature’s own blanket. His arm is draped over your thigh— thigh that’s draped over his own hip. Mornings with him felt like a game of Twisters in the best way possible.

You can feel him, heavy and hot, right against your crotch. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. He bucks his hips, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Clark Kent is a clingy man, but also a relentless one. He can never get enough. Awake, asleep, his mind’s always attuned to your presence. He always wants you.

It doesn’t take you too long for your body to adjust, to react. Your hips respond in kind, and you watch as a smile unfurls on his face. He looks like the world’s largest, and most satisfied, cat in the world.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick from sleep. It’s so deep you feel like it could rumble against your chest. His hands are travellers, mapping each inch of your skin from touch alone. This, I love. This, I love too, he seems to say with his hands.

You shiver again. Pleasure and pain mingle together.

“Morning,” you reply. You’ve never been the early riser between the two of you, and mornings make you feel it.

Then, he disappears from your side, and he appears again between your legs, your thighs bracketing his head, draped over his shoulders like the world’s naughtiest cape. He’s looking at you expectantly, and heat exploses in your lower belly. He’s so big that your thighs are already stretched apart, just to accommodate him.

With one thumb, he slides your panties to the side.

Your head falls back on your pillow, and you twist and grasp the mess of his curls between your fingers.

His hands, large and safe and big and warm, are on each side of your hips, and his thumbs slide underneath your shirt. His face disappears between your legs, and your hips stutter involuntarily.

He tries to go further with his hands, but you stop him. You hold his hands in yours, and close your legs around his neck. You know he loves the feeling of you crushing him with your thighs, and you need to distract him from trying to take your shirt off, because you also know that he likes having you bare and naked, so he can play with your breasts freely. He doesn’t like being caged by your shirt.

But your bruises have gotten worse, and you can’t show him, not when he’s finally moved on and stopped feeling guilty every time your eyes meet his.

He bites the inside of your thigh when he feels that you’re not all there with him.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he demands, lips swollen and shiny. “Eyes on me.”

And what else can you do when he speaks to you like this except obey?

────୨ৎ────

“You hate me,” he pouts.

“What?” you ask, laughing in disbelief. “You just had your head between my legs and you think I hate you?”

He hasn’t even washed up yet. His lips are shiny and glossy and they smell of you.

“But you won’t let me wash you,” he explains. “You hate me, admit it, my love. You only use for my tongue and—”

You blush, and cover his — sticky — mouth with your hands. “Shut up!”

His mouth can’t move but his eyes smile for him.

“Let me shower with you, baby, please. I’m begging you,” he pleads, the moment you take your hands off his lips and you your hands against your shirt.

“No.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Just no? I don’t even get a reason?”

“You’ve been a bad boy,” you lie. “Bad boys don’t get to shower with me.”

He gasps. “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“Not for another four weeks, no.”

This time, he just laughs, taken by surprise by the specificity of your answer. “That’s so specific, baby. Why four weeks?”

You raise one shoulder. “I just felt like it.”

It’s a lie. You said four weeks because Google said bruised ribs took six weeks to recover, and it’d already been almost two weeks. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

“Fine. I guess I deserve that. But you should know I’m going to miss you terribly while you’re showering in there, all alone, without me, without anyone to scrub your back for you because you’re all alone.”

You push his face away with your hand again. He loves being manhandled by you. “I think I’ll manage, lover boy. But thank you for the concern.”

He watches you close the bathroom door like a sad puppy being left behind.

They always say things get worse before they get better, and you hope that’s the case with your ribs. The longer you look at it, the more ashamed you felt. Falling from a stupid ladder. Trying to hold onto a broken shelf. It’s no one’s fault but yours. Clark didn’t make you grab that screwdriver and climb on that ladder. He didn’t make you fall. You did. You thought that an old and unstable ladder was good enough for the job, and you tried to hold onto the shelf you’d just spent twenty minutes unscrewing from the wall to not fall.

All of this is on you. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the shame.

You don’t know why but under the shower you break into tears. The instant the hot drops of water touch your skin, it’s like a faucet is turned on. Your ribs hurt with the weight of your sobs. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s keeping it secret from him when all you want is to be cared for by him. You don’t know. You’re being stupid, and you’re so glad Clark is too much of a gentleman to use his superheating when you’re under the shower on your own, because you’re really not sure how you would have lied your way out of that.

Only a few more weeks. Your bruising is going to disappear soon, and you would no longer have to avoid Clark anymore.

By the time you’re out of the shower, Clark is cleaned up and dressed (well, he’s shirtless, but he did put pants on), and he’s busy sliding the last chocolate chip pancake he’d made onto a pile of steaming pancakes. It’s your favorite breakfast. The jar of Nutella is already out on the table, and he’s got hot chocolate ready for you as well.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder, and you know he put it there on purpose, because you’d told him once that it made you go kind of crazy whenever he did that.

You slide on the barstool with barely a wince. You’re smiling so big your cheeks hurt.

“What’s this?” you ask him.

“Breakfast for my one and only.”

“What happened to you thinking I hated you?”

“Well, I figured if you really hated me, I had better start treating you like the princess you are.”

“Aren’t you just smart?”

He preens under the praise, and the sight of the red dusting on his cheeks makes everything else a little easier to bear.

“I hope you like the pancakes. I tried my best.”

“They look fantastic,” you reply immediately. You’re not lying. And even if they looked ugly, you wouldn’t care, because he’d made them for you, because he knew they were your favorite.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He gets closer to you and kisses you on the forehead. “Anything for you, my princess. I mean it.”

You believe him. You’ve always believed him.

You don’t know what the hell you did to deserve a man like him.

────୨ৎ────

“You okay?” he asks you a couple of days later, completely out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your stupid heartbeat’s going to expose you if you don’t calm it right now.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s attuned to you like he’s a radio and you’re his favorite channel.

“It’s just… I saw two sheets of painkillers in the trash. Empty. I’d never seen you use that many before. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s too kind to mention your heartbeat going crazy inside your ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. It’s a wonder, you think, that it doesn’t actually hurt your ribs.

He knows. He must know about the half dose of his painkillers that you took. Knowing him, he probably checked everything in the shelves behind the bathroom mirror.

You can’t think of a lie on the spot. “My- my headaches were getting worse,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think it too suspicious, because he already knows you’re prone to headaches. It’s why you have so many painkillers in the first place. “But I’m feeling better, now. I think they’re gone for good.”

It’s true, in a way. Your rib pain is almost gone. The bruises are mostly for show, at this point.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you,” he asks, gentle frown between his eyes, and it breaks your heart, to be the one to put that worry there on his beautiful face.

“Sorry… I’m sorry Clark. It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll tell you next time, though. I promise.”

He stands up from the couch and walks over to you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He bends down to kiss your forehead. “And I’m sorry you’ve been hurting this badly. Next time, don’t take that much painkillers, okay? I’m not telling you what to do, but they aren’t good for your health, and I’m worried about you. Come to me, and I’ll make you herbal teas and give you massages, okay?”

“Okay,” you croak out.

The guilt is going to eat you alive.

────୨ৎ────

In a way, you’re almost glad when fate decides to take reigns over your life and exposes your lie to Clark.

It happens like this: it’s Sunday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen washing the dishes you’d used to make Clark his favorite cake while he’s in the backyard doing Clark Kent stuff, and then he comes back inside through the kitchen door, and he’s smiling at you and then standing right behind you. He puts his head above yours, because you’re the perfect size for that, and then, without warning, he wraps his arms around your ribs and lifts you up in the air.

It’s supposed to be cute, it’s supposed to be romantic. He’s happy to see you, and he loves you, and he loves to have you in his arms at all times.

You’re supposed to shriek in surprise to fake struggling while giggling and asking him to (not) put you back down.

What you’re not supposed to do, however, is gasp like he’d just crushed your ribcage, and double over in pain.

The effect is immediate.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?! Did I hurt you?”

You’d never heard him this panicked, this horrified. His biggest fear had always been to accidentally hurt you, physically or mentally, and this must seem like his worst nightmare come true.

Clark puts you down immediately on the ground, and he’s turning you gently so he can look at you, eyes raking up your body up and down to check for injuries.

You try to hide your ribs with your arms but it’s useless against his x-ray vision.

You can tell just from the tightening of his jaw that he saw it. He saw what you’d been trying to hide for the past couple of weeks.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice is strangely cold and distant. It’s — terrifying. “I know it’s not me because it looks old. Weeks old. What happened?” he repeated.

You’re standing there, frozen with fear, hands still soapy and dripping water all over the floor. “It’s nothing,” you reply. It’s your first instinct. To lie and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His voice is quiet but almost menacing. “I can see it clear as day. You’re hurt. Tell me when, why, who or what.”

He’s starting to connect the dots, you think. He’s scared of your answer as much as he’s scared of you lying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for. For hiding it from him? For not hiding it good enough from him?

“Baby, please,” he begs. His voice sounds wrecked.

“When I was taking the shelf down, our cat used the ladder as a scratching post, and it fell. I tried to hold onto the shelf but it broke under my weight. And it fell on my chest.”

He rubs a hand over his face as he starts pacing around the kitchen. “You’ve been hurting for two weeks and I had no idea,” he says. He sounds completely wrecked. “And it’s all my fault. If I’d just— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were already feeling so guilty, I didn’t want to add on top of that. And it’s not your fault I fell and bruised my ribs. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“My emotions are mine alone to manage, okay? It’s not— God.” He stops moving, and he turns to look at you. “You shouldn’t have had to hide your pain from me just to spare me my feelings. I’m a grown man, I can take it. I can take anything you throw at me. But don’t hide from me, especially not because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, God, no, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Did you… did you go see a doctor at least?”

“No. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think about it but by the time I did, it was too late.”

“What if you’d broken a rib?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I checked myself. And it didn’t hurt as bad as it would if I’d broken a rib.”

His laugh is a mixture of disbelief and tears. “That doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It’s just the truth.”

“Can I see?” he asks.

“You already did.”

“No, I need to see you. I need to be able to touch you.”

You lift up your shirt from the bottom and lift it slowly, revealing the nebula of purple and blue across your ribs, and Clark’s breath catches in his throat as he falls to his knees.

His hand hovers your skin. He doesn’t need to touch you for your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I should have known. The painkillers, refusing to let me see you change, refusing to let me undress you. The signs were all there and I was too stupid to see it.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say weakly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make you fall, but I’m the one who pushed you to do something I was supposed to do for you, on your own. I’m the one who made you feel like you had to hide it from me to spare my feelings. I’m the one who failed you.”

“I’m the one who made the decision to hide it from you.” Your voice is weak to your own ears. You can’t blink at all. You’re staring at him, on his knees for you again in two weeks. Him apologizing to you twice in two weeks.

“No— you listen to me. Not any of this is your fault. I’m the one who’s been negligent and irresponsible. I’m the one who kept breaking my promise to you. I’m the one who’s made you bear something that was never yours to handle to begin with. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. Unconsciously, I made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me. And that’s unforgivable.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark refuses to let you lift a single finger. He’s helped you lay down in bed in a way that didn’t hurt your ribs and said,

“You can bully me and refuse to listen to me for the rest of our lives all you want but only after you’re okay. For now, just — please — humor me?”

Who are you to say no?

He calls his parents, and you can hear sweet Martha’s voice right from his phone because she always speaks loudly into the phone, worried you wouldn’t be able to hear her over the distance.

“Ma, I messed up,” he says.

You tune everything out while he asks his mom what he should do. And then he’s handing the phone to you because she said she wanted to talk to you, but Clark’s reluctant because he’s worried making you talk will hurt you more but you just roll your eyes at him and snatch the phone from his hand. Nothing will stop you from talking to her. And besides, your ribs are a lot better than they were. And Martha’s not exactly going to come out of the phone just to squeeze her ribs.

It’s fine.

Martha is lovely as always and she says five times that she’ll come on down to their place anytime you wanted, and that she could make your favorite cookies, and that she and Jonathan missed the both of you, and that she hoped you will be alright soon.

She ends the call with, “Come see us once you’re alright, darling. Smallville misses you.”

And it must be in their genes because you can’t say no to her either.

Clark had been standing there the entire time, probably using his superhearing to overhear the entire conversation. He’s worried, you can see it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and he’s rubbing his thumb across his lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks you for the hundredth time since he found out about your ribs.

“Yes. Believe me when I say it, or I’ll never tell you about my injuries from now on.”

He gasps. “You plan on having more injuries?!”

God bless his poor sweet soul.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Just… make yourself useful and come spoon me.”

His body reacts instantly — so used to obeying you — before his mind catches up with him and he jerks. “But your ribs.”

“They’re fine. As long as you don’t plan on squeezing me again.”

He took off his shirt and pants before crawling into bed next to you. He’s sulking. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know about your ribs, otherwise I never would have tried to lift you that way. Promise me you’ll always tell me when you’re hurt. Or even when you’re not hurt. I just need to know how you’re doing at all times.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very, very lonely because my boyfriend refuses to cuddle me.”

“Ouch, but fair.”

Your words spur him into action and soon, his arms are ever so gently wrapping around you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “And I’m sorry for failing you. But I swear to you that I’ll make it up to you, and keep making it up to you till the day I die.”

“I love you too, even if you’re crazy dramatic sometimes.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers. The worst part is that he means it. He truly feels lucky because you love him. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot. “I’m the luckiest idiot in the entire world.”

It’s not even close to the end of the day and it’s too late for a nap, but your eyes start to flutter shut anyway. All you need is Clark by your side and his arms, light as feather, around you.

“And by the way, you’re banned from ever climbing on a ladder again,” he whispers into your ear, right as you’re about to fall asleep.

Idiot.

masterlist ᯓ★ requests ᯓ★ come say hi! ᯓ★ directory

[cryptictongues]

i don't care if it's 'off-brand' for me to simp for Superman, you can bet i was giggling like a schoolgirl at this moment!!! 😳💖💖💖

[cryptictongues]

i love x reader. 🥹 i think it’s so fun and creative. it’s not a perfect genre by any means, but even with its faults i think the pleasure of ending up on adventure after adventure after adventure with your favourite characters as you, the reader, are continuously reinvented and reimagined over and over again, is worth celebrating and protecting—and most importantly, creating for. 💅🏽📚✨

[cryptictongues]

goosebumps

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader rating: explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 19.7k warnings: movie spoilers, fluff, angst, smut, switched pov's in second person, miscommunication, caretaking, disabled side character, banter, making out, public displays of affection, oral (fem. receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, riding, intimacy maxing, unprotected sex (BC mentioned, no condom), nipple play, Clark curses once, arguments, panic attack, dry humping summary: after ending things over a year ago, you and clark are back in each other's lives due to unforeseen circumstances. things are discovered. author's note: this was heavily based off the song "Cutting My Fingers Off" by Turnover and their record Peripheral Vision. There is also a caretaking aspect that I used that is based closely to my life right now, so if you are a caretaker for a loved one, this is for you. [AO3 Link] Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

There is a sense of delirium in the way Clark’s body weakens.

Like a fly at the precipice of a zap trap, Clark can feel the poison seep under his skin, bubbling to the surface as it slowly courses through his system. Unlike a fly, however, he is all too aware how this ends if this continues. 

He can’t fault Rex as his eyes linger on the baby across his glass cell. Even with his defenses shut down, he hears the baby’s fear; his tiny heart beating so hard and fast that Clark can’t believe it hasn’t overworked itself. Rex’s fear is also quite loud as it pulses through Clark’s ears, and he knows because it sounds the same as his own: the fear for others he can’t protect the longer the Kryptonite soaks up his energy. 

It’s devastating and things look bleak. He shouldn’t think this way, he knows this, but the longer he lays here, the more his mind travels to better times: before being viewed as some sort of fearful God, before knowing his birth parents true intentions, before his responsibilities got in the way of the people he loves. It’s too much for his sickened brain to comprehend. He should be stronger than this, but even though he isn’t from Earth, he is as human as a human can get, which means falling into the past when things become too much.

His left hand, dark veins curling under his skin, goes to his right arm sleeve to gently roll it back. He hears the crinkle of the object he is desperate for, needing some kind of reminder of what the good things are, even if it comes with an aftermath of hurt. He drags it out from dampened skin, a shine glossing over the already glossy coat. His thumb smears the sweat away, his skin lingering a little too long on the smile that welcomes him every time this memory enters his psyche. 

It was such an in the moment photo. You, in your cocktail dress meant for warmer days, deep in his arms as you smile from laughing. He remembers working to bury you under his coat to join his body heat, remembering how cold you kept saying you were. The picture is weathered from the treatment his suit gives it, so much so that he can no longer see the goosebumps on your skin, but he dares to never part with it. You are the heart on his sleeve; a reminder that love doesn’t fade. 

He wishes things could’ve played out differently. He wishes he could’ve been more honest about who he was, but as he looks at the contrast of that moment during New Years to where he is at now, he is comforted knowing you are somewhere safe.

He hears about you from time to time from Lois, who still keeps in touch. She insists that he should reach out, that it would be good for him, but every time he goes to write a message, every time he is only a touch away from making himself known to you once more, he retreats. It is unlike him to back down from something he has already begun, but it goes to show that cowardice is a convincing master. So he just listens. He lets Lois tell him whatever she finds relevant, even when he doesn’t ask.

“Remember that book she’s been wanting to write? Well, she finally got a publishing company to back her! She said she would send us all personal copies. Maybe we can finally have a review for a book worth a damn.”

“I’m hungry. Did you want to get lunch? Weirdly I’ve been craving a tomato sandwich. I think it’s because of these heirloom tomatoes she grew. Look at this picture she sent me!”

“Clark, you have got to listen to this playlist she made. One because it is phenomenal and two it doesn’t have The Mighty Crabjoys on it.”

“You should message her. She asks about you. Boy, if only she knew.”

He wishes he would have told you he is Superman. He wishes you knew everything. He wishes he still had that choice. 

He hears the platform before he sees it, so he weakly puts the polaroid, his heart, back under his sleeve. He brings his arm across this chest, hoping the mere closeness will slow the Kryptonite from making his veins darker and skin less bubbled.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Words, words, words. Oh, how you would like some. Who knew writer's block would be such a pain. 

Writer’s block wasn’t something you found yourself dealing with often. Writing is your passion; your brain a fire pit that burns information to grow brighter. As the fire strengthens in heat and ember, the crisper your fingers move to type clever words and phrases. It can be overwhelming, but it is your utmost strength as a writer. That is, until the information thrown into the pit is nothing but icy, cold water, fraying your mind until you can’t think about anything but the smoke.

You can’t pinpoint the distraction to one thing. Being a caretaker for a loved one is never an easy feat, especially when it’s just you and that person is bed bound. Your grandma’s mobility stems from yours in how you adjust her, whether it be shifting her to a more comfortable position or getting her into her wheelchair. It’s been close to a year of this, and while you never minded taking care of her, you are aware of the pressure it brings. Your body is tired, therefore your mind is starting to receive the after effects. 

But you can’t help but think there is more, especially with the state of the world; full of meaningless greed and apathy. The more you watch the news, a mistake every time you decide to turn on the TV, the more you feel hollowness. It makes matters worse when it seems the epicenter of so much destruction is happening in a place you used to call home, and knowing you have people there you worry for every day. Lois, God bless her, always keeps you in the loop to ensure you know everyone is safe, always making sure to add that Clark is okay too. 

But you have eyes, and you saw what happened on TV a few days ago. Sometimes, it’s a little hard to believe unless you are there yourself, and at one point you had been.

The mouse blinks condescending, laughing at your struggle to create and it makes you roll your eyes with an annoyed sigh, leaning back into your chair with fingers digging into your eyes. You’ve been sitting here for hours in this limbo, and it’s now eleven at night. You used to be up for late night writing and research sessions when you worked at the Daily Planet. Not anymore, it seems.

Your phone starts ringing, the twinkling sound of your ringtone shimmering in the dim light of your room. You don’t need to see a name to see who it is; it’s become a common occurrence for Lois to call late at night for inspiration or casual chatter. She’s lucky you don’t sleep early with the birds.

You pick up your phone, sliding the screen open and bringing it up to your ear, a witty remark on your tongue. “Lois, I fear if you are calling for something inspiring, you are out of luck.”

“I need a favor.” She’s quick to respond. “Like an insanely big favor.”

There is a sense of urgency in her tone, yet there is a firm, calm collectiveness to it. Lois is usually pretty laid back, and while you have seen her have a presence strong enough to shut the whole bullpen up, you’ve never heard her like this. It makes your stomach twist. 

“Lois, what’s wrong?”

“Are you still in Louisa?” 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. “What’s happening, Lois? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I’m going to be there soon.” She overrides, ignoring your unsettled tone. “I’ll explain then. Just prepare yourself and I apologize in advance.”

“Lois! Wait-“ 

The line goes dead, and you sit there frozen, your mind going in all sorts of directions. ‘What is she doing coming to Virginia?’ You think. ‘How is she getting here? By car? No, I didn’t hear other cars. Plane? No, she can’t talk over the phone unless they hadn’t taken off. A train? Maybe? Did something happen in Metropolis? Is she in trouble?’ 

The rapidness of your thoughts freezes time, your eyes staring firmly at your screen. It isn’t until your peripherals catch a bright light through your window that you are thawing into action. You stand from your seat, a cluttering sound shaking your desk from the movement, and walk briskly out your bedroom to the back door of the house. The Virginia autumn breeze hits your skin, goosebumps making themselves known, and as you walk to the bright light, you see a figure coming out of some spherical apparatus. You see the dark hair, immediately knowing it’s Lois as she waves you down. You squint as you get closer, the light growing harsher on your eyes, but Lois’s features become more visible. To anyone else, she looks calm, but you know her too well: she’s worried.

“What is all this?” You ask, now in front of her. “Where did you even get this?”

“That’s not important,” Lois says eerily calm. “What’s important is what I’m about to ask of you.” 

“Okay,” you draw in a breath, releasing as your next words fall. “Out with it then. You are making me anxious.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m going to need some help. Help me lift him.”

Him?

“What?” You mutter under your breath, low enough for Lois not to hear. She’s in the pod by the time you enter, and instantly your heart stops, your eyes deceiving you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”

Emotions are circling your head like ghosts, whispering the past in your ear to relive them in present time. It’s like a slideshow of every moment, the good, the bad, the sad, the best of times, flying behind your retinas. You hadn’t seen him in so long that seeing him like this, skin marred and almost sickly, has ingrained into your mind forever. 

You sense Lois staring at you, but the tension from the reveal had lifted, confirmed by a sigh of relief heard from your side. “So, you knew. Clark never told me.”

“He doesn’t know I know,” you respond immediately, eyes not leaving him. You’re afraid he will disappear if you do. “What’s happened to him?”

“He has Kryptonite poisoning. He needs a place to lay low so he can recover. I was going to take him to his parents but this thing is quite… intuitive.” 

You don’t respond. How can you respond? It has been so long. 

Lois has moved in front of you, hands on your shoulders rubbing up and down. Her eyes are apologetic, lips rolling in like she is thinking. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but he’s in bad shape and your place is secluded. I know you still care about him, so I’m asking you to please look after him.” 

You bite your lip, trying to calm the nerves firing in your body. You nod, looking past her back onto Clark. Your Clark.

But not really. Not anymore.

“I’m guessing the feds are after him?” You say with a shudder as you think about how bad things must’ve gotten.

“A lot has happened over the last few days. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.” 

Oh, you have. It’s a way to keep tabs on him: to see him flourish as he lets his good intentions fly. It’s a way to see that what he is doing is for the betterment of Metropolis and maybe even the world. That’s the kind of guy Clark is to the core. To see how fast the media turned on him has you whiplashed but you can’t blame them. They fear what they don’t understand, but not you. You’ve always understood him, even when he thought you didn’t. 

You wish he knew how much you understood his heart.

“So, what do we do with him? I think we can lug him out of here together.” Lois says, already rolling back her sleeves.

You sigh, moving up to where his legs end. “You can take the heavier half.”

You both manage to carry him out of the pod and into your home, huffing and puffing as you two basically throw him into your bed, the bed spring groaning loudly. ‘God, he is fucking heavy.’

Lois takes her leave, asking you to keep her updated as she continues to dig into Lex Luthor. You don’t ask questions, accepting that you will find out in due time. Besides, you have your work cut out for you.

You assess him. The dim light hides his condition slightly, the yellow toned shadows giving him cover. You crouch beside him, your hand grabbing his right hand lightly, not wanting to wake him. He still feels so warm; truly the embodiment of the sun. 

God, you missed him so much, and yet you feel selfish for feeling as much. You ended things, yet your heart has never stopped longing for him. Lois would always keep tabs on him for you, and you were grateful. You wonder if he ever asked about you. You’ve considered reaching out but it felt wrong to do so. Why hurt him more? All you know is that in the morning, you both will have to confront each other: something you aren’t sure your heart is ready for.

You play with his sleeve, wondering if you have anything that would fit him, when you feel something beneath. Confused, you gently pull at what feels like plastic, only to be met with a photo that has seen better days. Your breath trembles, eyes glazing over as you look at the moment from a little less than two years ago. A moment where nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect. 

It was the moment you two birthed Spring in the cold Delaware Winter.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark always enjoyed the New Years Eve festivities. It was always a time to celebrate the upcoming year, and this year he is attending a party the Daily Planet hosts. From what he’s been told, the catering is always a hit, the conversations flow, and it’s a time where being a journalist isn’t a main priority. 

He was running late though: running towards the party as he fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt and his coat falling off his shoulders in his haste. He couldn’t have predicted that there would be a celestial entity trying to swallow up electricity from the Metropolis Energy Plant on New Years Eve, making him arrive only an hour before the New Year. He didn’t have to be a journalist tonight, but he will always be Superman. That is forever a 24/7 job. 

He looks at his phone, seeing the texts he got from you, teasing in nature due to his tardiness.

New Message 9:30pm: You must be allergic to fun to run late to a NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY!! Haha! Hope to see you soon?

New Message 10:12pm: You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you? Wakey, wakey, Clark!

New Message 10:30pm: Don’t make me kiss Jimmy for New Years. I won’t survive his fangirls :’)

That last message had Clark rushing. He knew you were joking, but the thought of your lips anywhere but on his own gives him the urgency to move fast. He sent you a text instantly to tell you he was on his way.

The two of you have been seeing each other for a few months. You and him had been circling around each other for a while until a late night research session led to him walking you home. A kiss on the cheek, a physiological response he had before realizing, leading to you kissing him as an answer. It was an unspoken thing, never fully confirmed to be official, even though he was exclusively with you. With the amount of time you two spend together, he can only assume the same applies to you. 

Sometimes he can’t get over how someone as smart and beautiful as you wanted someone like him. He is a bit scatter brained, always going from one thing to the next without realizing, causing him to get clumsy and disoriented. You always told him it was endearing and charming, which he supposes is a win for tall, clumsy giants like him.

The building was in sight and he could see people outside mingling in the cold. They acknowledge him, telling him ‘Happy New Year’ as he responds in kind, walking through the doors. The party is lively: there is dancing, people socializing at the bar, people eating at the small standing tables. It makes him smile, seeing everyone enjoying one another.

His eyes scan the main lobby, looking for you amongst the sea of people, only to land on the dance floor to see you dancing with Lois. And good golly, he can feel his pupils grow bigger and his heart skip a few times as he takes you in. 

You are glowing. As cliche as it sounds, the twinkly lights strung up around the room don't compare to how bright you are. Seeing you smiling, dancing without a care in the world, black cocktail dress riding up slightly with every twirl. Pretty black pumps accentuating your calves. You are a sight to behold, and the more he watches you, the more he wants to join you.

Like a moth to a flame, he draws closer, taking long strides to get into your vicinity. He sees you’ve caught sight of him, smiling fully with your teeth as you wave him over. He can’t help but walk faster, almost tripping in the process. Lucky for him, he made it just in time for you to grab his arm to steady him.

“You made it!” You exclaim. “With an hour to spare too!”

“What happened, Clark? Alarm didn’t go off again?” Lois jokes, nudging your shoulder with a laugh.

He feels the red creep up his neck, hand subconsciously going to rub the back of it. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he hears you start, arms wrapping around the arm at his side. “I’m glad you are here regardless, especially now that I don’t have to kiss Jimmy.”

“You know I would never put you through that.” He reassured, a smile tugging on his lips. “Besides, only I’m allowed to do that.”

“Is that right?” You tease. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

“Not jealous,” Clark hums, pulling you into him. “Just know no one else can compare.”

“Oh God, you’ve turned him into a sick puppy,” Lois gags. “Cute but I’m going to go get a drink.”

You giggle into Clark’s chest, and gosh he loves the way you sound and feel against him. He tugs you a little closer, lips brushing against the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth. The music shifts, party music slowing down to something a little more laid back, and perfect for a slow dance.

You look up at him, and his hand goes up to your cheek, which is hot to the touch. He smirks, leaning down till his face is inches from yours. “You look so beautiful tonight. I can hardly handle it.”

You are rocking with him now, you two dancing under the yellow lights, a Jeff Buckley song playing in the background that Clark can’t name off the top of his head. It was romantic, and he loved that he could stay in this moment with you: admiring, adoring, longing. 

“Yeah? I wore this just for you.” You say, biting your lip as your gaze settles on his.

“Did you now? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sight.” 

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be getting a lot more than just a look.” 

Gosh, you are going to kill him.

“That’ll keep me on my toes,” he says, his hand grasping yours as his other settles on your lower back to keep him grounded.

“Well, someone needs to save you from your clumsiness.” You lean up, and place a kiss along his jaw. He swears he could collapse.

“Keep doing that and you’ll make me fall to my knees.”

“Is that a promise?” You hum against his throat, teeth nipping slightly at the skin.

Clark’s self-control is waning, and before he can react, you are already three steps ahead. You are pulling away from his body, hand staying secure in his as you drag him towards the doors leading outside. A laugh escapes his lips, exhilaration coursing through his veins as you pull him out into the cold, winter air. He knows it is getting close to midnight because a lot of people have migrated inside to toast.

He is pressed against the brick wall of the building, your body fitting against his with hands gripping his jaw. Your thumbs draw circles on the edges, lips close to his as you perch yourself on your tip toes. He is overwhelmed, breaths coming out in huffs with fingers digging into your hips. He knows it isn’t twelve, but he wants nothing more to pull you in and kiss the lipgloss off your lips and taste the vanilla perfume lingering on your skin. 

“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs, forehead falling onto your own.

“You can’t wait till twelve?” Your hands travel until they are behind his neck. “Someone is impatient.”

“It’s hard to be patient when I have a gorgeous woman in my arms.” He hums, eyes becoming lidded. 

“Ah, stop!” You laugh flushed, face burying itself into his chest. “Where did this confidence come from? You are making me dizzy.”

“Must be the festivities,” he says with a low chuckle rumbling from his lips, hands pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. “Also, I must be having a real affect with all these goosebumps on your arms.” 

“It’s cold out here!”

“And you didn’t bring a coat.” He teases.

“No pain, no gain, Kent. The coats I own didn’t look right with this dress. Besides,” you place kisses up to his jaw, hot breath dancing along his ear. “I’ve got you to keep me warm.”

“Geez,” he laughs. “You really are trying to kill me.”

You are laughing with him, but then he hears the cheers from inside the building, ‘Happy New Year’ being chanted by the hundreds of people inside. 

“Looks like you can kiss me now, baby.” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice, bending down to meet your glossed lips, being soft in his movements to reacquaint himself after only a few hours of not kissing you. The taste of cherry seeps into his mouth, the artificial flavor melting on his tongue. Something about the combined taste of the gloss and you is addicting, so much so that he doesn’t care who sees the slightly lewd public display of affection. The fireworks in the distance are nothing compared to the fireworks setting off in his brain.

He can’t contain himself with how your fingers brush up into his hair, fisting the strands to draw him closer, like you want to melt into him. It makes him surge, arms wrapping around your middle to lift you, getting you leveled to him. His grip stays strong with one arm, letting one go free to hold the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he continues his ministrations on your lips. You squeal, legs kicking gently with arms grounding themselves into his back. He groans softly, adoring the way you react to him. 

It isn’t until a bright flash goes off that you both simultaneously stop, heavy breaths creating cold smoke in the air. Clark turns his head to see Jimmy, smirking as he quickly airs out what looks to be a polaroid photo. 

“I’m doing a story on New Year's traditions, and I think you two fit the New Year’s Kiss tradition quite well.”

Clark is stunned, setting you down gently and holding you until you have your balance. He hears you hum, curling into his side as you look at Jimmy. “I’m sure Perry will love seeing two of his best journalists making out for your column piece.”

Jimmy throws his head back, laughter filling the area as he shakes his head. “That would give me another story to cover. Two birds with one stone. Even though right now, I think I’m witnessing the beginning of the Birds and the Bees.”

“Jimmy!” You gawked.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” His hands go up in surrender, walking over. “I actually just took this for you both. I thought a memory of tonight would be nice.”

Jimmy hands you the photo, and Clark glances down at it. It is still producing, but what he sees makes him smile. Seeing how you look in his arms, seeing the ease on your face when you kiss him. He is in awe at how you two look together, like everything is in its right place. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to thank you for being a perv, but thanks for being a perv, Jimmy,” you say with eyes glued to the photo. 

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Jimmy says sarcastically. “Well, I’m going to go back in. You two coming inside?”

Clark feels you shiver beside him, and in an instant he opens his jacket and pulls you into it, wrapping it until most of your body is covered. You hum, pressing into him to soak up his warmth. Your eyes lift up to meet him, and immediately he reads what you are wanting. You want to go home. With him.

“I think we are going to head out. It’s a little cold out for this one.”

Another snap goes off, and Clark looks to see that Jimmy snapped another photo, repeating the motions of activating the picture. 

“Here is a parting gift. Thought both of you would like one each so you don’t have to switch it off every week,” he shrugs, handing the photo to Clark. “You two get home safe. Happy New Year!”

Jimmy goes back inside, and the minute the door closes, you speak.

“Take me home, Clark” 

The walk home blurs together. It is full of kisses, not so subtle touches, and silly banter that sends Clark into the stratosphere. Every time he is with you, it feels natural. He doesn’t necessarily have to hide himself, not like he usually does. He always worries his mannerisms will lead others to discover his identity, but with you it's different. He can let his guard down, and not worry that he is putting you in any kind of danger. Because he can be himself with you, you feel like home to him, even in the short amount of time you’ve been seeing each other.

You both arrived at your apartment building, heading up the stairs hand in hand. He can’t help himself when you go to unlock the door, hands resting on your hips rubbing circles with his thumbs. He hears your heart rate quicken, your breath becoming shallow as your hands twist the key and push the door open. 

You both walk in, and once the door shuts, all of Clark’s inhibitions go out the window. He is on you in seconds, hoisting you up in his arms and landing you against the back of your front door. His mouth claims yours, a new found hunger in the way he moves against you. You suck on his tongue, coaxing deep noises from his chest, and then he feels you trying to push his coat off his broad shoulders. 

He uses his hips to keep you up, his hard on pressing into your core, and teasingly takes his coat off. You groan at his pace, hands running down his arms to help push the material off before fisting his shirt and pulling him back in. His hands go to your thighs, moving up to push the black dress up until it scrunches up above your butt. His hands decide to rest there, moulding the flesh until his grip is firm enough to help you grind into him. 

His lips move from your lips to your skin, eager to taste the delicious vanilla perfume that has mixed so well with your pheromones. He kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh one spot at a time. It has you releasing sounds he’s only heard in his wildest dreams, and it makes his pants grow tighter. He can’t believe he is the one causing you to act like this. He can’t get drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: your noises becoming the alcohol that runs through his system. 

“You taste so good, honey,” Clark moans into your neck. “Need to taste every inch of you. Need to suffocate in it.”

“Clark,” you gasp out, causing him to bite down a little harder to hear your voice go higher. 

“Someone’s needy,” he murmurs, tongue soothing the love bite he has granted you. Something inside him hopes it still lingers there in the morning. 

“If you don’t take me to bed right now, I swear to God,” you whine, head thudding against the door. 

“Easy there,” he chuckles, hand going to the back of your head, clutching you so he can carry you to your room. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” 

It takes seconds to get to your bed, laying you down carefully before standing at the edge. He goes to take his shirt off, only to stop when you push yourself up until you are on your knees for him. 

“Let me take it off.”

So he lets you, watching your fingers remove each button diligently. The tone of the night has shifted into something more tender, the hunger simmering down. It’s agonizing but with how you are looking at him, like he is your whole world, makes him want to take care of you like you deserve.

The buttons are undone, and he takes it off, muscles flexing as he does. Your mouth is on his chest, kissing his pectorals while your hands run up and down his sides. He takes the opportunity to take your dress fully off, getting you to release him before reattaching as he flings it away. 

He is becoming overwhelmed with how you touch him, sweet kisses laced with splendor landing all over his chest. Your hands are at his belt, unbuckling it along with the button and zipper of his black pants. It isn’t until you push the trousers down that his hands go to yours, his knee settling between your legs as he pushes you down onto the bed.

“I’m not done tasting you, sweetheart.” He kisses your sternum, smirking when he hears you huff.

“Well, maybe I wanna taste you too.”

“Not tonight, baby. With this being our first time together, I’m going to take care of you tonight.” He trails lower, nipping at your hipbones as he lifts your hips to remove your pretty black panties. “You can taste me another time.”

“Do you promise?” You ask innocently, and it makes his insides churn.

“Mhmm,” he hums, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and settling his free hand at your waist. “Now, let me enjoy this.”

He takes his time, his lips and tongue going everywhere except for where you need him. He wants to savor every last second of him pleasing you, getting you ready for him. He wants to prove to you he is a man that can satisfy his woman, read her wants and needs, and get her to the finish line. You’ve told him about previous lovers, how they never amounted to anything and never took you into consideration. But he was determined to show you how good you can feel with him, and he isn’t going to fail. He will never fail you. 

You smell intoxicating, his mouth watering as he anticipates his own moves. He sees how your slit leaks, like it’s also waiting and craving for him to do something. The sight alone makes him cave, tongue rolling out to lick your clit slowly, causing your hips to bounce up with a shaky moan.

His hand holds your hip down, mouth getting his fill. His tongue alternates with his lips against your clit, sucking to bring you closer and licking to edge you on. He feels you twitch against him, hips shifting in a struggle to keep still. It makes him smile knowing you are feeling good.

The hand by your stomach trails up, reaching your bra only to yank the cups down until your breasts spill out. He grasps at your right one, squeezing it while giving a particularly hard suck to your clit, leading to a visceral reaction.

“Oh— fuck,” you cry out, back arching. 

He pinches your nipple, a thrash of your hips as your answer, and it makes him grunt heavy into your cunt. He steadies your thigh so it stays on him before bringing his other hand to your entrance. He lets both his spit and your wetness coat his fingers before he slides one into you, rubbing against your walls to work you open.

“Clark—,” you draw out, sounding delirious. 

“Mmm you look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” Clark adds another finger in, curling his fingers each time they enter your tight heat. He can tell you are close, seeing how your nerve endings are sparking up, ready for the dopamine release he is about to grant you. However, he doesn’t need to use his x-ray vision to tell with the way you are dripping down his fingers.

“I want you to look at me, honey,” Clark says against your slit. “I want to see you when you release on my fingers.”

He watches you nod, attempting to prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back when he adds a third finger. Something deep releases from you, a mix of frustration and pleasur. “Fuck— I can’t.”

Clark is fast to help you both out, hand releasing your breast to wrap his arm under your body, yanking you up until you're elevated from the pillows on your bed. His fingers are still going strong, working you to tears as he moves up to watch you with his forehead pressed against yours. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing kisses against the apples of your cheeks. 

“I’m so close, Clark— oh God,” you sob, releasing a louder one once he places his thumb on your clit. 

“Let go for me, beautiful.” He steadies your head, fingers in your hair to keep your eyes on him. “Give it to me.”

Your body reacts to his command, your orgasm rushing against his fingers. He feels you spasming, and glancing down he sees the white fluid coating his fingers. His mouth waters, both from how you look falling apart for him and how much you are spilling onto his hand. An urge arises, and he can’t help but go back down between your legs, latching to your clit with vigor and lifting your hips off the bed. 

A shrill wail bounces around the room. Your hands grab at his head, pushing and pulling like you can’t decide if the overstimulation is good for you. But Clark knows it is good; he knows by the way you only grow wetter at his ministrations. Hearing your cries and your babbling as he eats you alive is music to his hypertensive ears, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

He lifts himself from you, easing his fingers out that glisten under the moonlight shining into your room. He slides them into his mouth, relishing in it as he watches you breathe heavy, eye lids lazy. With his fingers clean, he crawls back up to you, hands on your cheeks to draw you back into him. 

“How are you holding up, sweet girl?”

“You are– wow,” you sigh with a laugh. Your hands mirror his, thumbs rubbing into the stubble of his jaw where there is a dampness. It is tender and he leans into the softness of your hand, turning his head to kiss the inside of it. 

“Looks like I’ve taken the words right from your mouth,” Clark teases, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. 

Your fingertips brush up towards his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just can’t believe you ate me out with your glasses on. Thought they would get in the way.”

“O-oh, right,” Clark stutters, brain finally recognizing his glasses are still on. “I guess I like to make sure my world is crystal clear.”

“Oh, are you saying I’m your world?” You jest.

“Now you’re making me seem corny.”

“No,” you draw out, kissing the spot right above the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s very sweet, especially the way you talk me through it.”

He groans, loving the way you are praising him. “What can I say? You look so gorgeous when you fall apart by my hand.”

“Mmm, I bet I’d look even better above you.” 

“Yeah?” He pulls back, thumbs rubbing against your lips, enamored with how pink and swollen they’ve gotten. “You want to ride me, sweetheart?”

“You’d let me?” 

“I’d do anything you want, especially if it makes you more comfortable for our first time together.” And especially if it helps keep his glasses on.

“Oh-okay, then can you take your underwear off so I can see all of you? Please?”

Clark chuckles, moving off the bed. “Somebody’s impatient.” He stands up straight, thumbs hooked under the elastic to relinquish himself of his boxer briefs. His dick smacks heavy against his stomach, hard and drooling.

“Oh God…” he watches you turn on your side with hands on your face.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, snapping out of his horny haze to examine everything.

“You are fucking huge, Clark.” 

“I mean, I guess I’m about average—”

“And you’re uncut!”

Clark gawks. “Is that a turn on for you?”

You turn back to him, patting the bed beside you. “How about you lay down and I’ll show you.”

Clark could pounce on you for how cute you’re being, but he restrains himself. He crawls back into bed to lay flat down, not before grabbing you to have you on top. You adjust on top of him as he kisses you, tongue swiping against your lower lip, begging for you to deepen the kiss. The moment your mouth opens for him, he feels your slit sit firmly on his cock. He groans into your mouth, hands holding the back of your head to keep himself together, your lips grounding him as you rock your hips back and forth.

Your bra is still on you, and Clark can’t have that. His hands go to the middle of your back where the clasp lays, and with ease unclasps it. His fingers trail up your arms, pushing the straps down until you are forced to release him to tear it off. 

Your tongue is hot in his mouth, every grind of your hips sends a pulse through his cock. With every pulse, a moan is fed down his throat, and he swallows every one you grant him. When you pull away from his mouth, he can’t help but whine.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s my turn to make you feel good.” Your fingers brush his lips, slick with spit. 

He loves watching you like this. You are a determined person: always having a sense of control. He sees it in your work ethic, in the way you hold yourself. He loves that he gets the best of both worlds with you: one where you are shaking beneath him and one where you turn him into a complete mess. He doesn’t know what you’ll do, but he knows you will be his ruin. 

He cannot wait to fall apart under your hand.

“I have a condom in my coat pocket.” He says in between kisses he places on your finger tips. “Did you want me to get it?”

“Oh wow, someone knew they were getting lucky tonight.”

“Well, I mean… I didn’t think, um, I mean not exactly—”

Your head is thrown back, laughing fully with your chest. “I’m just messing with you, you goof. Besides,” your hand wraps around his cock, stroking him enough to get him covered with your slick and his pre. “I’m on birth control, so you can cum inside me as much as you want.”

His face is so red. He feels the heat burning his skin at your words. “You cannot just say stuff like that.”

“Awe and why’s that?” You coo, lining him up to your entrance.

“You know exactly why— ah!”

His tip is engulfed, his cock slowly making its way into you. Your hands lay flat on his chest, steadying yourself so you can take the time you need to adjust. His head is thrown back into the pillows, where he smells you so clearly, and it’s driving him insane. He wants to watch you, but shoot, you feel too good. He knows he’s a goner.

“Clark…” He feels your fingertips on his chin, pushing down so he is made to look at you. “I looked at you when I came. You’re gonna do the same for me.”

You ease down a little bit more, and Clark is already losing it. Your walls hug him so well, a perfect fit between two people. He doesn’t know if it’s his abnormal origin or what but the way he is having to hold back is through sheer willpower. He’s had rendezvous affairs before but he has always felt in control: like he’s not going to slip up.

But this? You on top of him, basically sitting on him pelvis to pelvis now, oh he could break. It makes him sweat knowing he could rock into you at such a pace that it would catch you off guard. It would create suspicion and that scares him. His fear nags at him, but his adoration and love are stronger, reminding him that this is you. You trust him, and he’s grateful. 

“What’s wrong, Clark? Why are you crying?” 

“What?” His hand shoots to his face, a wetness under his eyes he didn’t suspect.

“We don’t have to do this, Clark. We can stop—“

“Don’t you dare stop,” he responds immediately. “You’re just incredible. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone like you with me.”

He loves you. He hopes somewhere in there, you understand what he’s saying.

“Oh Clark,” you purr, leaning down until your face is over his. “Trust me when I say this: I’m the lucky one. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

More tears fall, a smile growing big on his face when he feels the kisses on his lips: quick and full of little laughs. His laughs die in his throat, however, because when you start to rock your hips, up and down, they turn into prolonged groans. 

You’re sitting back up, hands pressing down on his chest as you bounce on him, eyes never leaving his. It’s intense the way you look at him, causing him to look down between your legs to see his shaft entering you. 

“You look so pretty, Clark.” You cooed at him, and he watched as you dropped harder into his lap. “I love how needy you are for me.”

“Please, baby— fuck!” Clark throws his head back, hands shooting to your hips like holding you to him will calm him down. Like it will hold him back from slamming into you. 

You gasped. “Wow! What an honor that I can get certified gentleman Clark Kent to curse for me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t— hmph! I couldn’t help it. You feel too good around me, honey.” He knows he’s babbling, his senses consuming him with everything that is you.

“It’s okay, my darling. It’s very hot when you lose yourself like this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Clark can only nod, your pace growing faster. He’s throbbing, and he wonders if you can feel it. You answer his question when a particular drop of your hips has you moaning out into the air, hips stilling for a second. He seizes this opportunity, using his elbows to push himself up until his back is pressed against the headboard. He yanks you back into him until you are sitting in his lap, and he makes it so your legs are wrapped around his waist. 

“Come on, honey. You wanted to watch me fall apart, right? Let’s keep it going.”

He leans you back just a little, enough for his left hand to stay on the mattress to support you under his arm. His feet plant into it, and he rolls his hips back and forth slow and hard. Your hands are tugging hard at his hair, and he grunts low with every pull. Your tits are bouncing with every push, and they tempt him. Saliva produces intensely and giving into temptation, he ducks to latch onto your right nipple. He feels it pebble on his tongue as it curls and lathers it, only sucking harder when he wants to hear you more.

“Music to my ears,” he says with a pop, already going to the other to give it attention as he continues to make love to you.

“Jesus Christ,” you choke. “You are a menace.”

“And you are an enabler,” he laughs, lifting his head back to look at you.

“An enabler?!”

“Yeah with the way you got me cursing. You are a bad influence.”

“You said fuck once, Clark.”

He thrusts in harder at that, shaking a gasp from your lungs. “One too many.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but next thing he knows he is back up against the headboard. Your knees are back beside his thighs, and you are going full force on him. The way you start to ride him, back arched in with hips slamming down on his cock, has his jaw slacked. He sees your hand grab at the headboard and the other goes to his throat. There is no pressure, but feeling it there makes Clark lightheaded. 

“You know what I think, Clark?” You breathe against his ear. “I think you like that I’m a bad influence.”

His head falls forward on your shoulder, shuddering at how you are reading him. 

“You love not being restrained, right? That sweet, gentleman from Kansas persona must be exhausting, yeah?”

His breathing is getting erratic, which isn’t commonplace for him. Granted, the way you make him feel isn’t.

“You know you can be however you need to be with me because I accept every part of you. I accept that you are Superman because I love you.”

His eyes shoot open, head shooting up. “Superman? What?”

He is freaking out. There is no way you know. He had been so good at hiding it, or at least he thought he did. What gave it away? Oh no, this is not how he wanted you to find out. He wanted to tell you personally. He wanted to have a moment of honesty when the time is right. 

“Shhhh,” you hush softly, hands going to his face to soothe. “It’s okay, Clark. I’ve always known.”

“You,” he swallows. “You did?” 

“Yes, and I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”

The sentimental moment should not bring him closer to releasing, but it is. He is so close. So freaking close. 

“You are mine, Clark. You’re my Clark no matter what. And I want you to let go for me.” He feels you place a kiss under his ear. “Let go for me, my darling. Please.”

He is so fucking gone. His ears are ringing. Static is running through his veins as he shakes. His mind is no longer in his control, not with the way he is pounding into you from below. It’s almost an out of body experience, except he is experiencing everything. His senses are blank, yet they are receiving every pleasurable shockwave. He has never felt anything like this, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

But the strange thing is: it does end. The minute his eyes open, he isn’t in your apartment anymore. And the euphoric pleasure he was in is gone and replaced with an incredible ache that covers his entire body. 

‘What was that?’ He thinks. He has dreamed that memory so many times, yet it has never ended that way before. It scared him, but that relief he had felt was still there. Even if it wasn’t real.

He doesn’t move for a second; just takes in everything he sees. There is a brown ceiling fan spinning slowly. There are two windows, one beside the dresser and the other to his direct left, blinds cracked to reveal shimmering sunlight. There is a dark wooden dresser in front of him with little knick knacks on top. There is a table beside it full of perfume bottles, a jewelry box, and a lamp. To his right, he sees a desk with papers and a laptop on it, weirdly familiar in the way it reminds him of his own desk at the Daily Planet. There is art on the walls, paintings mostly aside from a few posters and pictures. It isn’t until his eyes focus in on one of the picture frames that his heart stops, anxiety spiking. 

He gets up slowly, the bed creaking with every movement. He walks over to the picture hung beside the bed, and what he sees shocks him. What he sees is you.

You are in your cap and gown, holding your diploma with that beautiful smile on your face. He looks at another one, and it is of you and Lois from Halloween last year. You two were dressed as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. It had been a month since the break up. It was three months before you moved away.

He walks over to the desk, and even with the clutter he sees two picture frames. One was you when you were younger with your grandma on a bench swing. You were laughing, twisted around in her arms: a beautiful memory. He had met your grandma once when she came to visit Metropolis. It was apparent you two were very close, being the only family you had left, and she was so kind-hearted. It made sense she had been the one to raise you.

He moves on to the other photo and it isn’t until his eyes land on it that he feels a wave nausea course through him.

You had kept the other New Years Eve photo. 

His shaking hand picks it up, eyes scanning it to ingrain it. He hadn’t seen this version of that night in so long, and he was sure you would have thrown it out. Why would you keep it?

Nothing makes sense. Why is he here and where is here exactly?

He hears footsteps coming from across the house and he panics. Does he lay back down and act asleep? Does he apologize for intruding? Does he sneak out the stupid window like some kind of teenager? He isn’t Clark Kent right now. He’s Superman. What can he even say?

It’s too late to act though because before he knows it the door opens and time stops all together. He feels like a deer caught inbetween the headlights, frozen in place because everything about this situation doesn’t feel real. Holding your picture in his Superman attire, staring back at the one person who always brought him back to earth. He’s surprised he hasn’t passed out from the weight.

You closed the door gently, eyes not leaving his. You look nervous and guarded, hands holding some clothes that he recognizes as his own. Some he probably let you borrow a while back. Clothes you didn’t throw away.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah, well I-” he starts before swallowing his own saliva. “Ma’am I’m sorry to intrude. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I got here. Forgive my—”

“It’s okay, Clark. I know it’s you.”

That shuts him up, eyes bulging out of his eye sockets. “What…”

“I’ve always known, so you don’t need to act weird.” You look away from him, walking towards the bed to set the clothes down. “You probably have questions, and I have some too. However, I’m sure you want to shower and change into something more comfortable.”

He’s speechless. What does he even say to that?

“I’m about to cook breakfast, so come to the kitchen when you’re ready. And one more thing.” You are looking back at him again, and he notices how tired you are. It worries him. “My grandma is here. Don’t worry about her as her eye sight isn’t the greatest. She won’t notice anything different.” 

With that you shut the door with a soft click. He hears you patter down the hallway, and he doesn’t dare move. His thoughts are running a million miles per minute. He’s paralyzed because of you and your confession.

You are back in his orbit.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

“Here you go, Grammie.”

“Oh…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like boiled eggs.”

“You liked the boiled eggs I made you last week.”

“Did I?”

“Sure did.”

“What about oatmeal? Do we have any oatmeal?” 

“Um, yeah we do.”

“Can I have some oatmeal, darling? Please?”

“Yeah, no problem.” 

You sigh as you walk into the kitchen, breakfast meant for your grandma now meant for you. You hate when she does that. You should expect it by now, but it still drives you crazy how she will switch up. In reality, it’s not that much of a problem; making oatmeal is super quick. But you also know she needs protein and other nutrients that aren’t just steel cut oats. On the other hand, eating is better than not eating at all 

You grab the Quaker Oats box, prepping a bowl for the microwave before getting out some other products for flavor. You hear the door from the hallway open, the heavy patting of feet hitting the floor, and soon enough Clark is in your line of sight. 

He looks good. You luckily had a couple of his flannels and gym shorts, having packed them by mistake when you moved. He had on the dark blue and brown flannel with light grey shorts. Not a perfect match, but better than him walking around in his boxers or whatever he wears under his suit.

Oh God, if he even wears any.

“Smells good,” he says, voice a little rough. “Oatmeal?”

“The oatmeal is for my grandma, but I made some, um, boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits. There is also some yogurt and berries. I hope that’s okay?” You don’t know why you ask it like a question. 

“Of course it is okay. I appreciate it.” 

“Great, well, plates are up in that cabinet. Please take what you like.” As you finish your sentence, the microwave goes off, taking your attention away from him.

There is a silence between you two. You expected as such, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. The air was tense and uncertain. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him, and a lot has happened. However, a small part of you wish it felt like it used to. Now, it feels like you two are strangers and it kills you inside.

You bring the apple brown cinnamon oatmeal to your grandma, making sure she is sat all the way up in her bed before eating. You tell her you’ll check in on her soon before shutting her door. You walk into the dining room where Clark is, seeing him looking out the window. You see he hasn’t touched his food, and see another plate set up with the food you cooked in the seat across from him. A small smile creeps onto your face. Still ever the gentleman. 

“Thank you for making me a plate. That’s very kind of you.”

Clark looks at you and you see his eyes light up. “It is no trouble. You cooked.”

You nod before taking your seat, taking the time to enjoy your meal. It is quiet again, but it is a silence that is begging to be broken. Lucky for you, Clark has no problem with that.

“So, is this your house or is it your grandma’s?”

“It’s my grandma’s, but I did grow up here. The room you were in was my old room that I kinda made new when I moved back here.”

Clark hums. “So I’m guessing we are in Louisa right now?”

“We sure are,” you confirm. “It’s no Smallville, but there is a charm here I guess.”

“I’m sure it is nice,” Clark suggests. “I am curious as to how I got here though.”

“Hmm…” You lean back in your chair, arms folded. “What do you remember last?”

Clark swallows his food, setting his fork down to clasp his hands in front of him. You can tell he remembers, but doesn’t want to indulge. It makes you think he must’ve seen some horrific things. 

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” you reassure. “All I can say is Lois brought you here. I’m guessing she didn’t really know where to locate your parents, and she didn’t feel like she had the time to figure it out. So, she brought you here.”

“I must have been in pretty rough shape.”

“You had Kryptonite poisoning.” 

He stays silent for a moment, eyes staring at the middle of the table. His jaw works like he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t open for the words to come out. There is conflict in his brow, and you wish you could get up and hug him. But you don’t. You stay glued in your seat patiently.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing through his mouth. His eyes open, and what you see is a vulnerable boy staring right back at you; a side of Clark you rarely ever saw.

“When did you find out I was Superman?”

“I’ve known for a while,” you start, taking a sip of your orange juice before continuing. “I found out on the morning of New Years.”

“How?” 

“I had woken up, and when I went to get up I had noticed you still had your glasses on.” You look down at your hands, uneasy in how you were going to say this next part. “I didn’t want them to break, so I took them off while you were sleeping. I didn’t think much of it but then I saw your face without them and I felt like I had gone crazy because it wasn’t you, but it also was.”

There it is again: silence. God, you hate the fucking silence. 

Clark’s voice chokes, and you wish it was because he had choked on his food but no. It’s from disbelief. You hate the sound of that more. “You’ve known for that long? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like you told me,” you try to reason. “I thought it would be better for me to wait until you were ready to tell me, but as time went on, it seemed less likely.”

Clark’s food remains untouched at this point, plate pushed to the side so there is a place to put his elbows. His face is in his hands, breath staggered like he’s having a hard time keeping oxygen down. You’ve never seen him like this before. Not even when you ended things.

“Clark, I—”

“Is that why you left?” 

You are stunned. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, you didn’t expect him to ask that. Honestly, it kind of pissed you off.

“What? No, Clark. I didn’t leave because of your little secret.” You cringe at how harsh you sounded, but it couldn’t be helped. “I apologize if I never fully explained why I left, but not everything revolves around you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” He raises his voice. Not quite yelling, but emotions are running high. “It has everything to do with me when you end things with no explanation. ‘I have a lot going on’ is not a good answer.” He’s looking at you dead on, and the look on his face is so unlike him. It’s Clark, but it’s a side of him he never let you see: frustration, anguish, distress.

You want to tell him why. He’s going to see for himself soon enough, but there is a pettiness in your heart you can’t seem to get rid of. There is a stubbornness that knows he is right, yet refuses to accept it. You can admit you are at fault, but he isn’t innocent. This isn’t all on you.

“You say all this yet it’s not like you fought for me to stay in your life.” Your words are cold. “I didn’t ask you to, so I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I had my reasons, Clark. Also, by the way, just goes to show how much you trust me with how you told Lois and not me!”

“You think I would tell Lois?” He scoffs. “She confronted me because she connected the dots! I didn’t see a point in lying!”

“But you felt so comfortable hiding it from me? Isn’t that considered lying?” You shouldn’t be this heated but something in you is screaming. “When you cancel plans because ‘stuff’ came up? When you leave in the middle of the night? How dare you ask for an explanation from me when you never gave me one?”

Clark is getting up from the table, aggravation clear on his face. You’ve never had an argument like this. Even when this is not a screaming match, it feels worse: two emotionally constipated adults trying to one up each other rather than saying the silent part out loud. You thought things would be different after a year's time, but you were kidding yourself. How could things be different when nothing was solved to begin with?

Your phone rings, and you look to see your grandma is calling. You don’t answer, looking to the kitchen to see Clark doing the dishes. You couldn’t tell if he was doing them to relieve himself of the irritation, to be polite, or both. Knowing him, it’s probably the ladder.

You walk to your grandma’s room, opening to see her on the phone until she sees you. “What’s the commotion? Who’s here?”

“Oh, um,” you start, scratching your head. “Well, do you remember Clark?”

“Oh that handsome young man? Of course! I didn’t know you two were still together.”

Thanks for bringing it up, Grammie. Twist the knife a little deeper.

You shake your head. “He’s just visiting. He won’t be here long. Now, let's get you into your wheelchair for a little bit, yeah?”

She groans, causing you to roll your eyes. “I know you hate it but you need to get your back stronger so I can take you to appointments.”

“Who needs to go anywhere?” She sighs. “I’m quite content staying here.”

“I know you are, but since specialists won’t come here, we gotta get to them. You may think it’s ridiculous but I promise you’ll thank me later.” 

She doesn’t respond and you are thankful. It’s exhausting having to explain her health to her, and you hate that it exhausts you. It aggravates you that her health coverage won’t cover certain home visits, and the ones they do cover are unreliable, cancelling appointment after appointment. You’ve tried going to see health professionals before but the transport costs an arm and a leg, plus your grandma couldn’t withstand the far drive into town. You wish you could do more for her. You wish you were stronger for her. You wish you had the mental capacity to have more patience. 

You help her sit up, steadying her before grabbing the wheelchair, the gait belt, and the transfer board. You click the belt around her waist, lock the wheelchair breaks and double check that they are secure, and then place the transfer board under her bottom. You set your position, grabbing the belt and making sure you weren’t in the way of her feet.

“Okay, remember to just slide your hand along the board until it reaches the armrest. Once you grab it, pull yourself.” 

She nods and on the count of three, you hold onto her as she slowly moves. You are holding a lot of her weight up, a constant fear that she will slip and you won’t have a good grip. It’s a lot on your body; one wrong move and your back goes out. It’s tiresome but it’s needed. The more you help her with this, the less you’ll have to do in time.

“Alright, good job. Almost there,” you say encouragingly.

“I’m slipping,” she huffs. “I’m going to fall.”

“I got you. I’m going to count to three and I want you to hold on to me, okay? I’m going to pull you the rest of the way.” 

You count to three, and with a deep breath you heave her over into the wheelchair. You adjust her, moving her legs more in and then moving back to pull her more into the wheelchair. 

“You okay? See that wasn’t so bad.” You try to sound convincing, but the elevated breathing didn’t help.

“Y-yeah, I guess.” Your grandma knows you are lying. She always does. “I just don’t like that you have to do this by yourself. I have the money to get a caretaker, darling. We should get one so you can have a break.”

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Maybe once you stop buying stuff from HSN”

“Okay, but what else am I supposed to do? I just lay here all day!” She exclaims, hands in the air.

“You do not. You just don’t want to do anything else, even if it’s good for you,” you say, trying to not get irritated. You take a deep breath, reigning yourself in. ‘Do not take it out on her,’ you think. 

“Listen,” you sigh, hands on your hips. “Maybe once I get my book published, we can look into it. I understand what you’re saying, but finding a good caretaker takes time and the rates add up. I am making very little right now, so all we have is your income from retirement and social security to pay bills. Also, if we need to send you to the hospital again, heaven forbid, you need money for that. I am trying.”

“I know, darling,” she says, looking at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Grammie,” you say, feeling bad because you see how much it bothers her that her independence was stripped away. Now you both live in this dance of highs and lows, which you wish you had better control over. Because at the end of the day, this is your grandma and this isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s.

“Now,” you clap your hands, grabbing the remote off the rolling tray by the bed. “Did you want to watch some TV? We can go into the living room or if you want, you can stay and watch in here.”

Before she can answer, there is a soft knock from the door. You look to see Clark’s head slowly peaking in, hesitantly to assure no intrusion.

“Hey,” he clears his throat. “The dishes are washed and they are drying on the rack. I wrapped your food up too in case you want it later.”

Your heart speeds up at that. The thoughtfulness that is Clark Kent.

Clark steps in, walking towards your grandma with eyes wide and smile quirked. “And look at this young lady here.”

“Oh hi, Clark!” She says excitedly. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

You think back to when your grandma met Clark for the first time. She had come to visit for the holidays, and you introduced her to him. And they just talked, and talked, and talked. It warmed you so, seeing the two people you cared deeply for talking and laughing together. You recall the time Christmas music was playing in your living room, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! playing in the background, and Clark had started dancing with her around the living room. He was good to her, bringing so much life and light that it made your heart spin. It was the moment you knew he was the one, and that you loved him; that no man could ever compare to Clark Kent. 

God, you’re gonna be sick.

“Darling?”

“Huh?” Shaken out of your daze, your eyes refocus. You see Clark has a chair pulled up, hands cradling your grandma’s. 

“You should go lay down, darling. Rest a little bit. Clark and I have some catching up to do,” she chirps happily.

“Grammie, I know you are excited to see him, but he needs to—”

“I’ll be okay. Just leave the windows up. The sunlight is enough.”

Any frustration that Clark had earlier is gone, and a completely new face is there before you. One of understanding and tenderness that leaves you breathless. The one you’d see after a long day of work. The one you’d see when you close your eyes. 

It’s love. It’s the look of love.

“Please,” he begs. “Get some rest.” 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, okay. Can you wake me up in a little bit?” 

“I got you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You don’t know how much more you can take of him.

You make your retreat, walking into your room only to crash onto the bed. Your head feels fuzzy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting lately, but the pillows that welcome you feel divine. But what makes you at ease, body responding as it relaxes, is how Clark’s scent trails up your nose. His scent has infused into your bedding, and it calms you until there is a lull. Sleep consumes you and he infiltrates your dreams.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark feels like a jerk. A big, buttheaded jerk.

He’s not a mind reader by any means, but he has instincts. When he is Superman, he is making decisions based on instinct: what will cause the least amount of damage? What will save the most people? It is second nature to him, so why couldn’t he use that to shut up and listen? Why did he have to jump to conclusions like a freaking idiot?

He felt the hurt the second he stood up to leave the conversation. He saw the way your shoulders slacked, how your heart rate thumped like crazy. He should’ve apologized at that moment, for making rash judgements, for raising his voice, but no. He had to double down. 

He did the dishes, trying to take his mind off of things, but how could he? He is in your vicinity disrupting your life. It didn’t matter how focused he was on scrubbing the plates and putting the cups into the dishwasher. His mind would snap back to how you looked just then: discouraged, upset, sad. It makes him nauseous. And as he wraps your food up, seeing the barely touched plate sitting at the table, he can’t help but know you are right. 

He did lie to you, even if it was to ensure your safety. After seeing what happened to Mali, someone who had simply offered his kindness, only reaffirms he was in the right to hide it from you. If someone like Lex knew of your existence and did something to harm you, he would never recover. Half of his heart would be gone forever. He never meant to make you feel like he strung you along with his vague excuses.

However, the devil’s advocate in him tells him he’d be able to save you, that he can protect you. He would die before he let anything happen to you. Clark doesn’t believe in killing, but if someone dared lay a finger on you, they’d regret it. If there is one thing he is selfish about, it is you. He loves you too much to let go.

So, why did he? Why didn’t he fight harder?

‘Oh, yeah. Because I’m a freaking idiot and a jerk.’

He closed the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel when he heard it: heartbeats, rapid in succession. He knew one was yours, but there was another. It was more elevated, panicky even. It threw Clark for a loop, not hearing any other commotion. So, like the journalist he is, he investigates. 

The door in the hallway is cracked, and the pulses get stronger. He peaks, feeling slightly intrusive without trying to be, and the sight before him makes him sigh sadly. 

He had only met your grandma once, and she is a lovely woman. Full of love, cheer, not a care in the world. It was something he saw in you, and it made sense you were cut from the same cloth. A wonderful woman raising another wonderful woman. It wasn’t that long ago, so seeing her now, legs contracted at the knees and struggling to get in the wheelchair with your help, shattered him. 

It only worsens when he looks at you, struggling to help her. He sees what it is doing to your body, how it is creating tension in your muscles. It is no surprise you are tired, caretaking for another person. It makes him want to burst in there and help, but he stays in place. He can already hear the scolding he’d get if he interferes. For now, he watches, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

Did you leave because your grandma became ill? Have you been taking care of her this whole time?

For the most part, your grandma seemed relatively healthy. Even without X-Ray vision, he sees she’s alert, knows what’s going on, and has some upper arm strength. He wonders what possibly could’ve brought her to this point? Was she worse off at one point? Has she improved any? All these questions run through Clark’s head, and while it is none of his business, he wants to understand. 

So with that, he knocks on the door to let himself in and from then on it’s the start of a world of information. After talking with your grandma, he feels even more like a jerk than before. 

After you’d gone to lay down, they didn’t get too much into anything. She had asked him how work was, if anything was new, why he was visiting, how long he was visiting for. White lies, of course, are what he had to lean on. 

“Work has been great! They got me handling a lot of the press regarding Superman. They seem to think I understand him fairly well.” ‘Who knows Superman better than Superman himself?’

“I wasn’t feeling too well recently, but being away from Metropolis has helped!” ‘I had Kryptonite poisoning because some psycho doesn’t like me.’

“I came to see your granddaughter.” ‘Not on purpose, but I’m glad to see her again. I love her.’

“Probably not for long.” That’s the only thing that’s completely truthful because he’s Superman. The world needs him, and he can’t stay here forever. Even if he wants to.

Then, they got into her circumstances, which are your circumstances. All in all, it’s unfair. He hates how unfair life is to some people.

Your grandma has been bedbound for over a year. She got the flu, and was stuck in the hospital for two months. In that span of time, she lost her ability to walk. It was rehab to rehab after that until Medicare wouldn’t cover it anymore and she has been back home ever since. You’ve been taking care of her ever since.

“She works so hard, but I hate that she has to do this. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I could just get up and walk but I have a hard time sitting up on my own. I wish she would get some help. I have the money.”

Conversation streamed away after that, going into something more light hearted. She talked about the house, what your room used to look like, all the places you liked to hide when playing hide and seek. She talked about how you loved helping her in the garden, and cooking the veggies she would harvest for supper. She said one of her favorite memories was when you were four or five, you would beg for her to sing old nursery rhymes or tell old folk tales. It made him laugh, these stories. 

“It’s strange because she is very much like my mom. The way she takes care of me, is stern yet patient. I took care of her, and now she takes care of me. I feel like her child. It’s funny how these things turn out.”

All he can think is how in love he is with you. An absolute heart of gold.

After what felt like hours of talking, he gets her into bed with ease. He insists on helping her anyway she needs, wanting you to rest more. So he does: he changes her, fixes her a tomato sandwich with the heirloom tomatoes you grew (Lois was right; they are stunning), adjusts her so she is sitting up properly. He gave the works.

It is late in the afternoon by the time he leaves your grandma’s room, the sun pouring through the windows warm and glowing. He walks to your room, and it is ajar. He peeks in and the sight of you asleep makes him soften. The sun is hitting you sweetly, basking you in a light that puts the Angels to shame. You look at ease, peaceful. He is sure you don’t get the sleep you need, so he is glad he gave you the chance to catch up. 

He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep a little longer before he wakes you up. He takes you in, and he can’t help but bring his fingers to your hairline to smooth the baby hairs. He hasn’t touched you in so long, and it is electric the way your skin sends shockwaves through him. He takes a deep breath, following how you inhale and exhale, breathing along with you like it connects him to you somehow.

He sighs. “I’m sorry for not understanding before. For not telling you.” 

You shift, eyes still closed and breathing regular. Your head draws closer to his touch, now cradled in the palm of his hand. He smiles warmly.

“I just hope you know that our time together wasn’t a waste for me, and that if I could rewind time, I would make sure you knew everything. I pushed you away without realizing, even with my good intentions, and in that I failed at showing how much I love you.” He is pouring his heart out, relief flowing from his body.

“You are the one that got away, but I hope you know I still love you. I will always love you.”

You shift again, but this time your eyes slowly start to open. You blink slowly, stretching like a house cat as you yawn deeply. You push yourself up on your elbows, glancing around until your eyes land on him. 

You are so cute when you are sleepy. God help him.

“Hm, what time is it? How long have I been asleep?” You yawn again, rubbing your eyes in the process.

“It is almost five I believe.”

“What?!” You jolt. “Oh God! I need to check on Grammie I–”

“Hey, hey,” he holds you down with the weight of his hand on your thigh. “It’s okay. She is resting right now. She’s been changed and ate lunch.”

You are staring at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You what? I– Clark you didn’t have to do that. You should've woken me up.”

“I wanted you to rest,” he says, squeezing your thigh reassuringly. “Being a caretaker for a loved one is a lot. You deserve a break.”

He can tell you are at a loss for words, eyes looking at where his hand is placed. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t need to say anything. I got you, always.” 

You look up at him and he sees your eyes are glossy, lip wobbling. It devastates him.

“It’s been a lot. When she first went into the hospital, I thought she wasn’t going to make it. They made it seem like she would need hospice care, and that scared me so bad. I wasn’t ready to let her go.” 

“I know that must’ve been scary, especially going through it alone. But sweetheart, I need you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m around.”

Tears are streaming down your face, hands coming up to your face. You were hanging on the edge, teetering on pulling yourself up or letting go. It is when your shoulders start to shake that he gets closer, pulling you into him as you cry. He wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing you carefully to add some pressure. Sobs wreck your body, arms wrapped around his neck gripping on like a lifeline. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, more tears falling. “I– I didn’t want to add more stress. You were so bu– busy I didn’t want to bother you w– with it.”

His jaw locks, teeth grinding to keep himself together. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not being honest. For making you think you couldn’t tell me anything. That was unfair of me.”

You are shaking your head violently against his shoulder, gasping for air like you couldn’t breathe. 

You two stay like that for a while, him rubbing your back and rocking you back and forth to calm you down. Your sobs eventually turn to whimpers, small gasps coming out periodically that shutter your chest. He waits for you to speak, not wanting to break your concentration of peace. 

“I’m okay,” you mutter into his flannel. “I think I needed that.”

“It’s always good to get a cry out,” he says in agreement, still rubbing your back.

“Yeah,” you sniffle, a chuckle coming right behind it. “I kinda feel like I’m floating.”

He laughs, pulling you away enough so he can see your face. His thumbs go to wipe under your eyes, soaking the salty residue into his skin. It’s the way you look vulnerable, cheeks stained from crying, eyes dry yet wet at the edges. It’s a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from you, and he’s happy it’s happening. It signifies change, the start of something new.

“I meant what I said,” he says earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“You know you can’t stay here forever though, Clark.”

He knows you’re right. He will have to leave. He doesn’t know what Lex’s next move is going to be or when Boravia’s next attack on Jarhanpur will happen, but he knows it’ll be soon. But for now, he can enjoy the time he gets with you. Enjoy it until the world decides to implode on itself once more. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

There is a domesticity in the air for the rest of the day. 

After the moment you and Clark shared, you had things to do. You told Clark he should continue to rest, but the man is stubborn like you, so there was no denying him.

Currently, you two are tending to the garden. The first frost has yet to come, and you wanted to prune and harvest some things for dinner. Clark was more than eager, and even though growing up he tended more to animals, he has a pretty good green thumb. 

“I think it’s great you kept up with her garden,” Clark says joyously.

“Well, it beats driving over thirty minutes to the nearest grocery store. Besides, I have found it to be very therapeutic. I like watching things grow."

“Ma always told me gardening brings community.”

“Hmm, guess that’s why you are such a people person.”

You both laugh, and you turn to put some yellow squash in the weaved basket when you see Clark taking off his flannel. The squash falls from your hands, mouth ajar as you see his sun-kissed muscles flex. Golden hour is at its peak, and you watch how the sun makes him shimmer. You’re in awe of how beautiful he looks. An Angel sent to the Earth. 

Which isn’t totally wrong.

“Your gawking is cute.”

You snap out of your haze, looking up to see him smirking down at you. 

“It’s,” you pause. “It’s not even hot out.”

“I’m a thermos. I get hot. Gardening is very hard work you know,” he shrugs, but you can tell he is enjoying the act of making you squirm.

The fucker knows what he’s doing.

“You are a big meanie,” you moan. “You are using your gifts against me.”

He tosses in some regular tomatoes, leaning in close. “It’s not my fault your heart is telling me everything I need to know. She’s very loud.”

He stands up with a brush of his knees, eyes crinkling in success because Lord knows your heart is in overdrive. You know he is fistpumping in his head right now, yelling a ‘mission accomplished. 

“We should pick some Zucchini. Very versatile.” 

Smug bastard.

Once dusk starts to come in with its waves of dark blue in the sky, you both head inside. You let Clark shower, needing him to clear his sweaty model image so your brain can rest. Last thing you need is to feign over him in front of your own grandmother, and be teased about it later.

You cut the veggies, slicing and dicing as you set them all in their proper places. As you finish up, you hear the bathroom door open and the minute you turn around out of instinct, you wish you hadn’t.

Because while he isn’t sweaty anymore, he’s now glistening with water, the steam surrounding him in an aura. He had on the black sweats you luckily found in the back of your dresser, but the green and blue flannel you handed him was absent. The only thing covering his upper half is the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

At least he has some decency.

You turn back around, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the weird pulsing happening in between your legs. “You better put that flannel on before I get my grandma out here. The last thing I need is for her to see you practically naked.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Ma raised me to be a gentleman. I need to at least take her out to dinner first.”

You burst out laughing, stopping what you’re doing to clutch your chest. “Oh, so does this count as taking her out to dinner?”

“Well…” He is right behind you, somehow getting closer without you realizing. “It could, but that would be far from appropriate. Not when there is another lady I’ve set my eyes on.”

You stop cutting again, your breathing coming in deep. You turn around, hands resting behind you on the edge of the counter. You get a good look at him, and see his hair is getting curly as it starts to dry, giving him that boyish look that charms people. His mouth is parted only a little with those pretty blue eyes half lidded. You see them shift down and up a couple times, undecided on where to stay before sticking with your own. Any comeback you had dies in your throat, never to return.

“O-oh!” You cough, covering any sort of effect he has on you. You know it’s a lost cause.

“You seem surprised,” Clark grins.

“I mean no,” you shake your head. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like…”

“Like it used to?”

It’s like you are in sync with each other’s feelings because he is right. The banter, the pull. It feels like old times, where there wasn’t a single care in the world. It was electric, and that feeling is coursing through your body. It is taking everything in you not to grab him by his neck and kiss him right then and there. With the way he is looking at you, you believe it is taking everything in him too.

“What are you thinking right now?” He whispers.

“What do you think I’m thinking?” You reply in rapid succession.

Clark cages you in with his arms, bracing them against the counter. “I’m afraid telepathy isn’t one of my abilities.”

“That’s a shame,” you huff.

“Tell me about it. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

You wonder how different things would be if you told him everything: your grandma getting sick, knowing his secret, the uncorking of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with. If you had opened up about your fears, would you two still be together? If you were honest with yourself, would you have ended things in the first place?

You go to say something, words on the tip of your tongue, until your phone rings. Your shoulders become lax, and you pull your phone from your pocket only to see it is your grandma. 

“She’s calling me.”

“Would you like me to check on her? I can get her into the wheelchair and get her in here,” Clark offers, his eyes having not left you once.

“You really don’t have to do that, Clark.” 

“What did I tell you?” He asks rhetorically. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

You nod, speechless at how straightforward he’s being. “Okay, thank you.”

He smiles at that, leaning down till his face is a breath away from yours. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” Then he places a brief, light kiss on your cheek.

He pushes off the counter, walking back towards the hallway, leaving you stunned with your hand pressing into your cheek. 

“You better put a shirt on before you pick her up!” He laughs. Your chest flutters like crazy.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Dinner goes off without a hitch. 

Everything is lively at the dinner table. Full of conversation, laughter, incredible amounts of joy. It gives  you the same feeling of when you see photos or home movies of families eating together during the holidays. It gives you the same feeling of when you, Clark, and your grandma ate dinner together in your old Metropolis apartment. The atmosphere is light, warm, and extremely comforting. 

While dinner was in the oven, Clark had brought your grandma out in her wheelchair, spinning her around with her squealing with laughter. He had put on the radio, an old-timey station playing Chuck Berry. 

“Oh, I love Chuck Berry!” She had chimed, hand over her chest like she was reliving a different time in her life. “I met my husband dancing! We would go out on the weekends and dance and dance. Ugh, those were the days.”

“Sounds like this young lady wants to dance!” Clark had said, overexaggerating his midwestern draw, before spinning her around slowly, reenacting dances from the fifties.

“Oh gosh! You know that one?” Your grandma had asked, shocked. 

“Ma and Pa raised me on this.”

“Well, they raised you right!”

When dinner was ready, he had lifted her into a dining room chair, helping her adjust. “How does this feel?”

“I haven’t sat in this chair in over a year. Kinda uncomfy though. Not used to the lack of cushioning these days.”

Clark had put a seat cushion under her.

Clark had brought a whole new vibe to the house, and it took everything in you not to get emotional. You often wished you had more energy to do things with her, get her to do something other than watch TV. Clark made it look so easy, the way he’s able to entertain, the way he’s able to get so personal. The thing is though, that’s just who Clark is: sweet, kind, and unabashedly selfless. Nothing can hold him down, even if people tried. He smiles, pushes through it knowing this too shall pass. He makes you want to be better. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

Maybe that’s why you still love him.

You are currently showering, Clark having offered to do the dishes and get your grandma into bed. You let the steam soak into your skin, sighing as you relax under the hot stream. Your mind is in a strange state of peace, something you haven’t felt fully in a long time. ‘It’s nice to have some help’, you think. ‘Even if I don’t need it, it’s nice.’

It’s nice to have Clark back in your life. 

But that’s the thing: he isn’t, not technically. Words have yet to be said, even though you feel them. You can’t get your hopes up because he is him and you are you. His life is dedicated to the world, while yours is dedicated to this chapter of your life. He says you’re not alone, but part of you knows that there will be times where you have to be. He will be off saving the world, and you will be here worrying if he’s okay like you’ve been for the last year.

It’s almost like today doesn’t change things, not definitively. You must accept that.

You get out of the shower, throwing on a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. You do the normal nightly regiment, and then you head to your grandma’s room to finish getting her ready for bed. You knock on the door lightly, entering and beelining for the latex gloves. 

“Oh, darling! It’s okay! Clark changed me!”

“Oh, okay,” you shrug, putting the gloves down. “I’m surprised you let a man you barely know change you.”

“Plenty of men have seen my butt from changing me.”

“Touché.”

“I do need my medicine though. He didn’t want to give me the wrong ones.”

“Smart of him,” you joke, grabbing a pill cup to put the pills in. You hand her the pills, watching her take them before downing them with water.

“Ah!” She exclaims. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course, Grammie,” you smile. “Can I get you anything else before I head to bed?”

“I think I’m good…” she draws out, eyes steady on you, like she is reading you quietly.

“Is something on my face?” You joke, hands touching random spots.

“No, but… I guess I’m just happy. Tonight was just wonderful,” she smiles tiredly.

“I’m glad you had a good night with Clark, Grammie.” You meant it.

“Yes, I did, but it’s more than that. You didn’t just look happy, you were happy. I love when I get to see you like that.”

That makes you pause. “Wow, I must be very transparent.” 

“I raised you, darling,” she reminds you. “It’s not hard to see when you are truly happy.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into yours, squeezing tight. “But I am happy. I am happy here with you. I get tired, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

“It’s a different kind of happiness I see when you are with Clark,” she smiles, so bright it hurts. “You’re in love. It reminds me of how your papa would look at me. Clark looks at you the same way too. It’s clear to see.”

You look at your conjoined hands, glancing at the wedding band she still wears to this day, refusing to ever take it off. She would always tell you it was her promise to him that they will meet again. Love for her is everlasting, meaning even once she’s six feet under the ground, her love has no end. You always wanted a love like that, and the fact she is telling you this makes you wonder if that’s what you had with Clark. Have you always known, but have been too scared to see it?

“There’s no point in running from it,” she says, squeezing your hand to get the point across. “Love like that is rare, and it rarely comes back once you let it go. This is your chance.”

“How could things possibly work out, Grammie? He’s going to have to go back home to Metropolis. He has a life there.” You already know the answer, but you desire her wisdom.

“It’s simple.” One hand releases from your grasp, finger pointing to where your heart is. “Home is where the heart is.”

And she’s right. Clark’s always felt like home. He is home.

You tuck her in, kissing her forehead before making your exit. You go back into the kitchen to see if Clark was there, then the living room, but you don’t find him. You ponder for a moment, only to see the soft yellow light coming from your room, the door opened all the way. You head there, like he is calling to you, begging you to find him. You look in and there he is, holding up the same New Years’ photo you found in his sleeve, as well as the one protected in the picture frame. 

“I still can’t believe you kept the photo,” he whispers, knowing you are present. 

You step in, shutting the door behind you for a privacy you had regardless, and walk until you are a foot away. “Of course, I kept it. I love everything about that night.”

“Even Jimmy Olsen?”

“Especially Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark chuckles under his breath, eyes not leaving the photos, though you see his eyes twitching. “I think about it all the time, you know. How I got to show you how much I love you, how I got to take care of you. I dream about it and I relive the laughter and everything.”

You see his lips quiver, his grip get a little tighter. There is a battle raging inside him, and you aren’t sure who’s fighting who: him vs. him? Him vs. instinct? You aren’t sure, but you wish to calm it. You wish to calm him.

Your hand goes to his shoulder, squeezing him like it’s a comfort. “Clark…”

“I shouldn’t have given up on us so easily,” he grimaces. “I should’ve fought harder but like an idiot I let you go.”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up on this. I ended things,” you say, trying to dispel his fear, but he shakes his head.

“You did, but I just accepted it. That’s the problem.”

“You were giving me space, Clark. You did what you thought was best.”

“Do you wish I fought though? Do you wish that I had fought for us?” 

That stuns you, leaving you speechless. You never considered it a wish, a hope that Clark would’ve called your bluff. However, you think back to the times you’d stare at his back in the bullpen, hoping, praying, he would turn around to look at you. You think back to when you’d stare at your messages with him, wondering if you’ll see the thinking text bubbles appear. You think back to late nights on your balcony, looking out to see if he’d walk by, even if it wasn’t reasonable to. 

You never remember being upset that he didn’t fight. You do remember being upset that he had moved on so quickly. 

“I think…” you start, not sure where to go without striking a nerve. “I think I hated feeling invisible to you after that, which is selfish of me, I know. But there were times where I would look at you, hoping you’d notice, but you never did. It’s like you moved on so fast.”

He finally turns to look at you, eyes glassy, hands twitching. “You thought I had moved on?”

His expression is killing you, consuming you with a guilt that eats away at you. The vulnerability he is displaying makes him look so small, even with him towering over you. It’s the look of a child whose feelings are hurt, lip wobbly and face heated. It’s the face of a man who is heartbroken.

“I was miserable for months,” he whispers, eyes shutting so tight you see tears make their way out. “Being in the same room as you and not being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. It was too much for me to take.”

His eyes open back up, baby blues bright and weeping. “I was distracted for months because I noticed every little thing you did and I didn’t feel like I could congratulate your articles, comfort you when Perry was on you with due dates, just simply enjoy your presence. I was hurting.”

You hated seeing him this way. This is all your fault.

“I thought overtime we would start talking again, maybe get back to a place where I at least had you in my life. But then you moved away…” he chokes up, eyes shutting again with gritted teeth, like he was in physical pain.

“I understand now why you did, and I would never fault you for it. But it all happened so fast, and for the longest time I thought you couldn’t stand being near me.”

You were crying now. He’s the love of your life, and you’ve destroyed him. All because you didn’t want to face the music that things would change on their own, so you forced the change yourself.

“I— I…” he starts stuttering, breath coming in heaves. “I let you go and I shouldn’t have. I never wanted to let you go, and yet I did, like a coward.”

His hands are in his hair, the tight grip creating messy strands through his fingers. You could tell he was trying to bring himself down, but he was losing. You weren’t fairing any better, but he was pouring every ounce of what he’s been feeling for over a year. The more he went into panic mode, the closer you got to him. You were toe to toe.

“Losing you was like cutting my fingers off,” he says with a whimper, hand covering his mouth to try and hold it in.

The second those words fall from his lips, you are on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to your chest. He breaks down, sobbing into your chest, his arms wrapping around you so tight it hurts but you don’t care. You’ll bear the pain for him. You love him. You will comfort him for as long as he lets you. 

“I’m so sorry, Clark.” You kiss the top of his head, hands rubbing circles into his hunched over back. “You didn’t lose me, I promise.”

He only sobs harder, so hard you think his back will snap from the convulsions. It makes you rub circles with more pressure, kiss his head in multiples, your own tears melting into his hair. You want to say something, anything to let him know that the past is behind you two, but you stay silent. You just move to the side, dragging him with you slowly until you both are at your bed.

You both tumble down, your leg wrapping around his hip as you lay down. Clark’s head is buried in your chest, his sobs still coming in waves. Your hands lace into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. Your breaths turn into hiccups, the tears slowly fading away. You use the opportunity to close your eyes, focusing on your breathing, giving you the opportunity to speak.

To tell him you’re sorry. To tell him this isn’t his fault. To tell him how much you love him.

“None of this is your fault, Clark,” you murmur. “You reacted like a normal person would. Even if I was upset then, I’m not upset now.”

His breathing gets shallower, a whimper here and there as he comes down. His hand is rubbing up and down your side with a pressure that makes you feel him through your shirt. He’s so warm, and it feels good to have him pressed against you, even with his tears soaking your shirt.

“You know, when Lois called me asking for a big favor, I didn’t expect this. Not one bit,” you chuckle softly. “There I was writing for my book, well trying to, and suddenly she called me late into the night. I thought she was going to talk my head off about an idea or rant about how Perry has been hounding her ass. But no, she called me to take care of you.”

“Did you really ask about me?” He says, muffled into your shirt. “Lois would tell me you would ask about me.”

You smile. “Of course I did. I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you either.”

“Really?” he sniffles.

“Really, really.”

The hand rubbing your side slows, and you take the opportunity to take it in your own, interlacing the fingers until his big hand engulfs yours. He hums, bringing the conjoined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of yours. He lets them linger for a moment before he pulls both hands close to his chest, curling into you slightly.

“Tell me about the book you're writing,” he murmurs. “I want to know. Please.”

“It’s just a book on how journalism shapes history,” you sigh, looking at your desk full of notes and papers… ideas. “Nothing that fascinating.”

“You’re writing it.” He kisses your hand again. “Everything you write is fascinating.”

Your heart flutters, so much that you can’t help but place a kiss on his temple.

For the rest of the night, you tell him about your book, your thought process. Kisses littered on skin here and there until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept this good.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The emotional turmoil that roared through his body took a lot of his energy, making it impossible to stay awake. However, it was enough, and it’s because he is with you.

You lulled him to sleep, your voice soothing to his ears. There were times where he felt like he was dreaming, but was brought back to reality when he felt your kisses on his head or your hand rubbing his back underneath his flannel. It made his heart pulse, remembering where he was, and eventually it made him sleep easy. He hasn’t had difficulty sleeping for a long time but now that he remembers what it’s like to sleep with you, he doesn’t know if he can go through sleeping alone again.

He slowly comes to, the sunlight twinkling into the room. He’s guessing it’s still early in the morning with the way the sky looks outside your window. His eyes blink open, letting his senses pick up his surroundings. It all comes forward like an avalanche, his senses picking up your scent, your breathing, your skin. He peaks down, seeing you both adjusted during the night, and sees you lying in the crevice of his arm, snoring the morning away with your face squished against his chest. 

It’s crazy how perfect you look against him, how comfortable you look. It’s strange how over 24 hours ago, he wasn’t in your world and now he is here with you cuddled into him. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like how he wants things to stay. It feels like home.

He is so proud of you. Even though he was emotionally exhausted last night, he remembers every word when you talked about your book: how excited you sounded as you continued. He’s glad you are pursuing something you’ve always wanted to try; something you want to flourish in. He knows you will because you are brilliant. You know how to draw people in with every word, no matter the content. It’s why you were so highly beloved as a Daily Planet writer. It’s obvious it will translate to the publishing world too.

He watches you wake up, a stretch running throughout your body that pushes you further into him. A sound akin to a cat vibrates from your throat, a Cheshire smile curling on your lips. All he can think about is how beautiful you look.

“Mmm, good morning,” you yawn, blinking tiredly at him with a lazy grin.

“Good morning,” he mirrors back. “Looks like someone got real cozy last night.”

“Oh hush,” you groan, settling back in. “You’re warm. I can’t help it.”

“You always did get cold very easily. Goosebumps always seem to make a name for themselves on your skin,” he teases, stroking your arm. “You even have goosebumps right now!”

“I don’t think the cold is what’s giving me the goosebumps,” you murmur, sleepy eyes looking up at him in crescents.

“Oh really?” He teases, not being able to help himself. “What could be causing them I wonder.”

“Well…” You push up on your elbow, head leaning into your hand. “Do you have any leads, Mr. Kent?”

“Hmm, I do have one lead,” he says, playing along. “Opposite of the cold.”

“Oh wow!” You chuckle. “You should tell me. I mean, it does involve me. I should be kept in the loop on these kinda things, right?”

There has always been a push and pull between the two of you, and it drives him mad. Especially now, when he has craved you for so long, it’s making him want to pounce. But he keeps his cool, wanting to savor the moment; wanting to savor the lightness.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But…” he smirks, his hand tilting your head to the side, his lips nearing your ear. “I can show you.”

He starts to place light kisses underneath your ear. They are subtle, gentle, restraining himself from being anything but, and it’s worth it in how you just sink into him. Your body chases it, making him pull you up against him until your face is leveled with his. He makes his way down your neck, mouth laving the scent of your body wash. His hand travels to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he makes his way to your throat. He feels the way your vocal chords vibrate against his tongue, making sounds that would drive him to his knees if he were to stand. 

His free hand rubs up and down your side, fingers slipping under your shirt to feel your skin. The tips trail lightly, feeling the bumps raise from under your skin. He grins against your throat. “I think my theory is correct.”

“Yeah? I'm going to have to start calling you R.L. Stine with the way you're giving me goosebumps.”

That draws a laugh out of you both, Clark simmering it down as he nips at your jaw. Your laugh transforms, a high pitched whimper leaving your mouth.

“Gosh, I missed you like this,” Clark whispers low. “I’ve yearned for you for so long.”

“I missed you too,” you sigh breathlessly. “You have no idea.”

His ears perk, nipping more up your jaw until he’s back to your ear. “Tell me.” He nips at your ear lobe, causing your back to arch. “Tell me how you missed me.”

“I’m afraid…” you hum. “I can’t tell you.”

He feels your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up until he is face to face with yours. He grunts at the pressure, looking at you as your face contorts into something cunning that makes his pupils dilate.

Your lips ghost his, your breathing passing through him like oxygen, eyes not leaving his. “But I can show you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your lips are on his and he groans the minute they touch. It’s desperate, ruthless; leaves no room for doubt. There is a hunger that’s consuming him, leaving him raw and opened at the seams. He can already tell he won’t ever get enough.

“Clark, baby…” you moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”

Your words make him needy, tongue playing with your lips before you grant him the pleasure. His hand under your shirt is up to where your chest is, gently cupping your breast and massaging the flesh. Your hips start to roll against his, rubbing against his cock, making him harden. It makes him feel wanted and needed.

“I love you so much, pretty girl,” he moans into your mouth. “I’m never letting you go again. Not for anything.”

“I don’t want you to,” you whine, thanks to a particularly hard thrust of Clark’s hips. It makes him smile. 

“Good because I’m gonna take care of you.” His head moves back to your neck, settling there. “I will come home to you every day. Mark my words.”

“Clark…” Your hands pull his head back up, eyes looking at him dazed. “This life is comfortable, but far from glamorous. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I could care less.” He kisses your lips fiercely, hoping it sticks to your brain before releasing again. “I would move the world for you. Coming home to you is nothing. Coming home to you is easy.”

“You mean that?” You say, the vulnerability lacking. You asked with sureness, like you know he is good for his word. 

“I am never lying to you again. No secrets, so yes. I mean it with everything.”

You beam, a wetness welling in your eyes. A laugh bubbles from your throat, a tear falling with it. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”

He kisses your tears away, humming against your skin. “You’re it for me, honey.”

He continues, until he feels your hips roll again, making his eyes follow suit. He situates you fast, laying you out fully on your back. His hands move to pin yours above your head, keeping you in place so he can finish what you started. His hips roll hard into your clothed center, a gasp leaving you in response. He goes down to swallow your sounds, hands trailing away to his flannel to rip it off, until he hears your phone going off. You both groan simultaneously, with him falling to the side with his head in the pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I need to get her ready for the day anyways.”

He nods, working to calm down all the chemicals and blood that’s rushed to his cock. He sits up, shrugging the flannel back on fully as he watches you pick up your phone. There is a crease in your brow, confusion on your face.

“What?” 

You look up at him, moving to show your phone. “It’s Lois.”

You moved to get up, answering the phone. “Lois?”

Clark watches you listen, watches your face get progressively more anxious.

“Are you sure?” You say, looking at him worried.

More talking ensues, with you nodding your head, saying “uh huh”, “okay I’ll tell him”, etc..

“He’ll be there soon. Yeah. Be safe, okay? Later.” 

You hang up, eyes staring at your phone screen. Clark sees your heart beating a tad faster, physiological responses taking over that represent only one emotion: fear.

“You have to go, Clark.”

“What’s going on?” He moves to stand. “What did Lois say?”

“She said something about a riff,” you say, unsure. “I don’t know what she means, but she says you’d understand what I’m saying. She said Metropolis is in trouble because of it.”

Clark is shell-shocked, but your next words send him spiraling. 

“Also, I got a notification from the Daily Planet news. Boravia is invading Janhanpur.”

“What?!” 

You hand him the phone and he looks at the article, seeing that the Boravian military is at the Jarhanpur border, ready for a full scale invasion. How is this all happening so quickly, and at once? He needs to move fast, he knows he does.

And yet he is frozen.

For a day, he wasn’t Superman. He was Clark Kent, with the woman he is deeply in love with. For a day, he got to rekindle something that was lost. For a day, he got a glimpse of what life could be like. For a day, he forgot what it was like to bear the state of the world on his shoulders. He chose this life, believing that is his purpose, yet he stands here like a statue. Why didn’t he have more time?

He is brought out of his thoughts, feeling a warmth around his waist. He looks down to see you hugging him, the side of your face pressed against his chest. “You have to go, Clark.”

“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you. “Just unfortunate timing.”

You lift your head, a hand coming up to his cheek before lifting on your tip toes to kiss him gently. “We have plenty of time. Just keep your promise. Come back home to me.”

He kisses you back with the same tenderness, softness. “I will.”

“Now, go put on your stinky suit and do some good.”

He groans. “It hasn’t been washed, so it probably does stink.”

“Maybe that will ward any bad guys off,” you jest.

He grins, kissing you one last time before letting go. He rids himself of his clothes etched in your scent, putting on the suit until he is in full form. You both walk out together, hand in hand, the sun no longer golden but a bright yellow. The grass blows, the birds chirp, the wind howls. It truly feels like a perfect day. He hopes to have more days like this.

He flies off, saying final goodbyes with kisses on the face. He glances back, and for a brief moment he sees you waving at him, disappearing amongst the clouds. He looks forward, preparing for the worst as he makes his way to the city. He is ready to fight. He is ready to save. He is ready to defeat.

He is ready to have more perfect days under Virginia skies.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

all writings belong to © cryptictongues - do not repost, translate, claim as your own, use for AI, or anything that would imply my work is yours.

[cryptictongues]

Me every single fucking time Red!Clark opened his whore mouth because WHAT

REBEL YELL | clark kent

Late nights, flirty bullshit, and a tension sweeter than Lois’ coffee. Still, you’re both too stubborn to call what it is. When the Red Kryptonite tears through that rhythm, it flips him inside out.

Now he’s at your door—less Clark, more danger, more electric. He's different, but God, you want him more.

⤿ rebel yell | [READ ON AO3 ]

18+ fem!reader, incorporated details from other supermans (sue me), pining, Clark Kent is a dork, yearning, smut, oral (f receiving), red kryptonite clark, unprotected sex, creampie, dick descriptions, intimacy idk, plot heavy, lmk if I missed anything! [ 15.3k words ]

The newsroom breathes like a living beast—overhead lights flicker in defiance, casting halos over hunched shoulders and half-empty coffee cups. Phones wail like distant sirens. Printers cough paper like dying animals. Somewhere, someone’s swearing into a phone like the person on the other end owes them money (they probably do), and the whole place thrums with the jittery rhythm of too much ambition and not enough sleep. 

It’s chaos, yes—but it’s coordinated. Kinda.

You’re hunched at your desk—half-eaten croissant and a stale coffee to your left, a sticky note graveyard to your right, and a cursor blinking mockingly in the middle of your half-finished headline. 

Your coffee went lukewarm around 3 hours ago at 12:24. It’s 3:51 PM and you’ve been editing the same paragraph for twenty minutes. It’s safe to say that you’re  distracted. 

—but it’s not because of the noise or chatter or Perry’s obnoxious shouting. It’s because of him.

You're stuck mid-rant in a particularly damning op-ed when a blur of navy blue and flustered charm breezes in the direction of your desk.

Clark Kent barrels in from the elevators, all tousled hair and boy scout panic. His tie’s crooked. One shirt button is undone. His cheeks are just slightly flushed, like he’s either sprinted back from “lunch” or had a brush with death. Knowing him, possibly both.

Definitely both.

You don’t even look up at first, still typing like there’s a bomb strapped to your back and you’re hacking away at the wires with every semi-colon and comma. 

Then, deadpan and dry as sunburn, you murmur just loud enough for his super-hearing:

“So, farmboy... What’s it this time? Kitten in a tree or—you know—secret alien summit with the big boys?”

He falters mid-step alongside your desk, blinking once. You glance up just in time to catch the tug at the corner of his mouth—the one he doesn’t let anyone else see. It’s the smile, the you-know-me-too-well-and-it’s-a-problem smile. Disarming in all capacities.

—slightly dangerous, if you let it be.

Your cursor blinks impatiently. So do you.

He offers a soft murmur only you can hear, like a shared secret tucked in the folds of this big, loud city:

“Actually, it was a pigeon… In a sewer drain,” he starts, “then it was this fire breathing dinosaur looking thing… Well it wasn’t a dinosaur but it had spikes… like one… Anyway, Uh.”

You huff a genuine laugh at his ramble before returning to your screen. He lingers and adjusts his glasses for a second before continuing past.

You’ve been playing this game for months. Trading barbs, watching each other from across the room, stolen glances over styrofoam coffee cups, toeing the line between flirtation and something too spark-y to name.

He disappears behind the glass of Perry’s office and you can’t help but bite your lip to swallow down a smile.

You always knew Super-Clark was hiding something. You just didn’t expect him to be so bad at hiding it from you.

—but it hadn’t always been this way.

You and Clark Kent have been journalists at the Daily Planet for years now. Long enough to know the elevator stalls between floors 7 and 8, that the good coffee machine only works when you slam it twice, and that Perry White’s neck veins visibly pulse when someone misses a deadline.

For the longest time, you were just coworkers in the loosest sense—desks on opposite ends of the room, your beats orbiting different corners of Metropolis. He covered charity galas and rooftop rescues—the occasional Superman interview.

—the only one who got Superman interviews, by the way. 

You chased zoning board corruption and bureaucratic malpractice with a vengeance. He was all sunshine and bylines. You were ink-stained fingers and three cups of coffee before 10 a.m.

He always brought you your first though.

Every morning, without fail, he’d drop a paper cup on your desk alongside everyone else’s. Always with a polite smile and your name scribbled on the side with a smiley face, never expecting anything in return. You didn’t even realize he knew your order until you noticed it was always right. And you were too proud to ask he found out

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the room. Briefly. Accidental, at first. The kind of eye contact that felt like being caught doing something you shouldn’t. You’d both look away too fast, cheeks a little warmer, hearts a little louder.

That all changed four months, twelve days, and—yeah, alright—six hours ago. 

—not that you're counting. That’d be crazy…

Perry White fired Janine Hardcastle for libel.

Perry had stormed into the greater office area and waved the termination notice like it was an Olympic torch. Full-on public execution, guillotined and blacklisted right under the spinning Globe. Her desk was cleared before lunch. You didn’t even like her all that much, but the office still buzzed like a hornet nest.

Then he turned to you. And Clark.

“Congratulations,” he deadpanned, “You’re my new local politics column. I want city hall leaks, transit disasters, gerrymandering—shit, I want blood if it bleeds. You two?” Cigar smoldering between his fingers, he pointed at you and Clark, “You’re married now. Move your desks, figure it out.”

Cue countless nights shoved into professional proximity; Staked out in the newsroom long after the lights dimmed and the janitors arrived. Empty pizza boxes, cold takeout cartons, whiteboards littered with names and connections. Heated arguments about tone. Cackling over typo disasters. A shared Google Doc titled “thé grind… and clark” because you refused to let him name it “Notes on News.”

It was just business. Until it wasn’t.

The glances across the room turned into glances across directly parallel desks. Your knees brushing under the table, his tie catching your sleeve, his eyes flicking down to your mouth mid-sentence before snapping back up like he hadn’t been caught red-handed. (He had. Repeatedly.)

He thinks he’s suave, that you don’t notice. You absolutely do.

He stutters more when you’re this close now, when your voice dips or you lean in to point at something on his screen. He blushes, ears pink, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think about the way you say “farmboy” with that lilt in your voice.

You slowly stopped pretending not to know the way he tugged at his tie when he was nervous.

He slowly stopped pretending he didn’t look at you like you were the only other person in the building.

Naturally, you tease him for it. Relentlessly.

“You always look like you’ve got something to say, Kent,” you murmur one late night, spinning in your office chair as he visibly scrambles to form a sentence.

“I—I do,” he stutters. “I mean, I might.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, lazily popping a pen cap between your teeth. “Well, when you figure it out, maybe you’ll use your mouth instead of staring at mine.”

His face goes scarlet. 

Sweet, sweet victory.

As the months progressed being—as he would call it— “Partners in Politics,” you get even closer. Soon, there’s music shared through airpods while Lois is lamenting about a case via whiteboard-presentation, playlists labeled things like “Angry typing” and “Crying over sad dogs.” Half-finished articles delayed because you’re deep in a debate over Batman’s moral code. (He thinks Gotham needs him. You think Gotham needs therapy. Or to be nuked, just to settle the score.)

It becomes routine. Natural, like breathing.

And you’re both aware of the line you're toeing. Of how far you've leaned into each other. Of how close you've let yourselves get. Neither of you mention it. Neither of you dare.

But Clark knows you’re looking.

You know he’s looking, too.

And deep down, you're starting to think it’s only a matter of time. 

—but you’re probably wondering how you stumbled on Clark’s identity. How you know about the totally not-dinosaur aliens and the secret alien summits?

To be frank, how you found out was completely accidental.

No dramatic rooftop reveal. Not catching him duck into a phone booth mid extraterrestrial terrorist attack. No city-wide peril or explosive confession.

Just a Tuesday, about a week after you both got paired up together, the first night you both stayed after hours.

 It started with a trip to the break room at 5:31 PM. Everyone else cleared out like a fire drill the moment the clock struck five—half the staff didn’t even close their tabs, just booked it, coats half on, keyboards still warm. You stood back to work on you and Clark’s first assignment, an implicatory LexCorp exposé—Lord knows you wouldn’t get it done at home. Your feet were already killing you in those new kitten heels, and you were craving one of those Swedish chocolates Lois thinks she hides so well in the top left cabinet.

(Newsflash: putting them behind two Daily Planet mugs isn’t stealthy. It’s an invitation, Lois.)

You headed down the marble hallway, aggressively typing out a text to a source at LexCorp’s PR team who were being cagey about a then-recent “construction incident”—which probably meant an explosion, structural collapse, or moral bankruptcy.

Your heels clicked quietly down the corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights your only company. You had eased the break room door open—

and there he was, like trouble in a pressed shirt.

Clark Kent. 6’5, broad as a barn door, tousled hair still windswept from a “lunch run” across the street—and stood perpendicular to you, sleeves pushed to the elbow. Hands cupped around a mug. Eyes narrowed and focused—

—and a thin red beam, coming from his eyes.

Laser. Beaming. His coffee. Right next to the microwave.

You gasped. Audibly.

His head snapped to you like you’d shouted, the glow in his eyes flickering off so fast you thought you imagined it. The mug hissed and streamed as he set it down on the counter. He slowly stepped toward you with both hands raised like he was trying to soothe a startled animal.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…Did you just microwave your coffee with your face?”

There’s a long pause.

Then he smiled, sheepish. Caught with his glasses off, his cape down.

—well actually not the cape. Not yet, at least.

“I, uh… yeah. Kinda.”

And you grinned, leaning against the doorframe and letting the door close, like this was the most entertaining part of your week (aside from Jimmy face planting in front of Perry, it was).

“Don’t suppose that’s FDA approved.”

He continued staring like he expected you to freak out, to bolt, to demand answers or scream or tragically collapse. But instead, you walked further into the room, reached past him on your tip toes, reached past Lois’s dumb mug forcefield, and popped a chocolate in your mouth like this was just—whatever. Because it was.

 It was still Clark. Still trips over his own feet and files his stories three minutes before the deadline.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That’s what you said before turning to leave, chewing, smiling to yourself.

He was dumbfounded. Completely, utterly dumbfounded. 

He forgot his piping hot coffee on the breakroom counter and drifted back to his desk. You were already parked across the way and pretending to type at your own, watching him like you always do when you think he isn’t looking. Then, with a grin he didn’t see, you casually rolled your chair over to his.

At first, it was quiet—the low hum of the city slipping in through the blinds, the occasional mechanical groan of the copy machine down the hall. Clark trying to ignore your proximity and make himself look busy by searching up “wikihow how to be a better journalist.”

You leaned back in your chair, eyes on his screen but voice casual. “So… you ever drop anyone?”

Clark blinked, caught mid-sip of a 4 hour old cup of coffee. “What?”

You turned just enough to look at him, resting your chin in your hand, leaning on his desk. “While flying. Ever fumble the bag?” A smirk tugged at your mouth. “Literally.”

He huffed a surprised laugh, setting his cup down. “No. I’m—uh—I’m very good with my hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, letting it hang there just long enough before you had tilted your head, expression softening. “What’s it like?”

He didn’t ask what you meant. Didn’t need to. He leaned back in his chair, neck craning toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the tiles.

“It’s… loud,” he said finally. “Like hearing every TV in the world on at once. But you can… tune in, tune out. Most of the time.”

Your brows drew together.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His gaze didn’t move from the ceiling. Didn’t lower. But his voice did.

“Yeah,” he said. “When I don’t make it in time.”

You studied him. He hadn’t bothered to put his glasses back on and before you was just Superman in a 3-piece suit. Except it’s not. It’s just Clark. And there was something in his face that you’ll never forget—like the truth wears heavier than he lets on.

“Do you ever stop hearing people in pain?”

His jaw ticked, just slightly. A muscle moved like he was trying to bite back the truth. Then, quieter this time, almost like it hurt to say out loud:

“No. I just get better at knowing when I can help.”

The air held still after that. Like it was listening too. You studied him, chin perched on your hand, your gaze softer now.

“And what about when you can’t?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just kept looking straight ahead for a beat too long—until the glow of his monitor caught in his eyes, bright and blue and heartbreakingly human.

Then he looked at you. A flicker of that crooked smile returning to his face, trying to cut through the weight of it all.

“You always ask this many questions after hours?”

You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling as you leaned back in your chair, spinning it slightly like you had all the time in the world.

“Oh y’know, only when my… Partner in Politics might be—well, is—an alien.”

He laughed under his breath, but there was something tender in it.

No one had ever got to ask him things like this. Not as Clark. Not even as Superman. Not without an MO.

And then—when the air started to feel heavy with truth and warmth—you offered up your own secret in exchange.

“To be fair, I’ve been lying too.”

You said it lightly, but it hung there. He turned toward you, slow, brow furrowed, head cocked just a little like he was trying to read you beyond your words. “What do you mean?”

You had let out a sigh and leaned back in your chair, dragging a palm down your face, fingers catching at your cheek. “I lied on my résumé.”

Clark blinked.

You exhaled, a dry, self-deprecating huff, “Said I graduated summa cum laude from Met U…”

Clark turned slightly, brows knitting You kept going.

“I didn’t. Dropped out a semester early. Had to lie to get in the door. Perry still doesn’t know.” You gave a sharp little shake of your head. “If he finds out, I’m toast.”

He blinked once, like the thought had to settle. You hadn’t needed to offer up a secret of your own, but the fact that you were thoughtful enough to at least try to even the playing field melted his heart. His features softened, gaze catching on yours in a way that felt… careful. Kind.

“You’re one of the best writers here,” he said assuredly. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

You had  given him a slow shrug, eyes flitting to your shoes just to avoid how intently he was looking at you. “I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, with a curve of his head and the faintest edge of a smile twinging his mouth—

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

From that night to all the nights that will inevitably follow, there is always something hanging between you—like static. Like heat.

Like the kind of silence that’s hungry, just waiting for the chance to take a bite.

Presently, work ended hours ago. Right now, you’re dangling upside down by a single ankle from what appears to be a fraying electrical cord inside the hollowed-out ribcage of a now-dilapidated high-rise.

Your heel (singular—its twin is somewhere down below, probably impaled in a taxi roof) glints under the flicker of a dying overhead light. The other end of the cord is still sparking like it’s deciding whether or not to electrocute you. Charming.

You don’t scream. Mostly because of pride. Also because your blouse is riding up and the last thing you need is this going viral with an undignified noise attached to it.

You’re not even sure how you got here. One moment you were at your grandma’s—mint tea, The Price Is Right reruns, the faint perfume of tiger lilies and Vicks VapoRub. You blinked and Green Lantern and his atrocious bowl cut were bulldozing his entire glowstick ass through the side of the building, chasing something enormous and slobbering and very uninvited. Structural integrity be damned.

Now here you are. Swinging upside down and 24 stories above Metropolis with a solid breeze up—well down—your skirt and a bruised shin that’s definitely swelling. Below, people are scattering, screaming, phones held skyward to film your impending death. You look down—well, up—at your watch. 7:36 PM. Alien invasion hour. Right on schedule.

—figures. After work. No hazard pay.

You mouth “fuck you” to the sky.

And then—whoosh.

A low sonic boom thuds through your bones like the drop in a bassline. You barely register the motion before your feet are on the ground, gently, and a pair of arms are anchoring you. The scent hits you first—something crisp and ozone-swept, like lightning in a cornfield. You look up, but you already know.

Superman.

Clark.

He looks rattled. Not from the rescue, he could do this all day. From you and the way you’re seeing through him right now.

Like the crash of it all just caught up to him—like he forgot you knew who he was, and now here you are, pressed close, reminding him without a word. Like you just saved him.

His arms are still around you, solid and anchored around your body. One hand still splayed protectively between your shoulder blades, like he hasn’t registered the danger’s passed. You’re nose to nose, breath mingling in the air between you—what little space remains is thick with heat, adrenaline, and something that should not happen on a public street.

And when you speak, your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to. 

“Took you long enough.”

His mouth parts slightly with a ghost of a laugh

He's still looking at you like you've stepped out of a dream; Or worse, like you've put him back in one. Like you're some half-remembered thing that doesn’t belong in the real world, and now he’s struggling to tell the difference.

You reach up on instinct, fingertips grazing the dark curl at his temple.

There’s dust in his hair—concrete, ash, god knows what else—and when you brush it away, the debris falls in slow motion. Tiny flecks catch the light like crushed glass, like glitter from a fairytale.

—or a Shakespearean tragedy. Time will tell.

“Got somethin’ right here, hero.”

He falters—just barely. A flicker of tension pulls at his jaw before smoothing out again. His eyes drop to your mouth, linger for a breath too long. He almost leans in.

But then they’re back on yours, mentally chiding himself: Time and place, idiot. 

He won’t. He can’t. Not yet.

One fuck up—just a single misstep—and the whole fragile thing would come crashing down like glass underfoot. He knows the sound of ruin too well, has worn the weight of his own wreckage like a second skin his entire life. Every failure, every fracture, etched into him like fault lines just waiting to split again.

—so instead, he pulls you in.

The hug comes without warning—full-bodied, two-armed, all-in. It feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.

You fold into it without thinking, your fingers curling in the fabric of his cape, your jaw tucking instinctively into the warm swell of his chest. Subliminally telling him that it’s okay, it’s not your fault. For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heartbeats and held breath.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whisper, barely audible above the pounding in both your chests.

And then—right on cue—a guttural roar echoes from somewhere deep in the city, monstrous and pissed off.

Clark tenses. You barely have time to blink before he pulls back, eyes flicking toward the sound.

“Duty calls,” he murmurs, almost apologetic.

And he’s gone.

It takes a while to gather your bearings. A medic checks you over, offers you a blanket and a juice box. You lie and say you’re fine. Your ankle’s tender, your skirt is smeared with concrete debris, and your phone has a bunch of cracks through the screen. You limp on one shoe for two blocks before realizing you’re still holding the juice box.

Most streetlights continue to flick on as the sun sinks lower. Sirens scream in the distance. You take the long way home.

Everything feels louder. Crisper, in the wake of your brush with death. Your heartbeat keeps mistiming with your footsteps. You pass a storefront where the display TV’s in the window replay news footage. There’s your leg, dangling helplessly, your press pass flapping like a flag. You wince. The chyron reads: “DAILY PLANET REPORTER NEARLY KILLED DURING BATTLE.” Underneath: “SUPERMAN SAVES HER LIFE.”

You stare at it for a beat too long, the abundance of colors dancing across your face before you pull yourself away and hauling home.

Your overpriced shoe-box (or extremely humble abode) is quiet when you finally get in. You shed your clothes one item at a time—leaving the one ruined heel by the door, peeling your dust-caked clothes off your body  and tossing it straight into the washer. 

A long shower helps, but only slightly.

You sit on your bed in a bathrobe, hair damp, staring out the window. You can still feel him. The heat of his hands at your back. The look on his face like you were the only person in the city worth saving.

You hate that it shook you. That he shook you.

He always has.

You lie back, dragging the covers up to your chin like armor, even though the room’s too warm for it. The spinning fan hums above you, but it’s useless. You toss, turn, flip your pillow, try breathing in for 7 and exhaling for 10.

But every time your eyes shut, your mind becomes a kaleidoscope—fractured colors and sharp edges tumbling into one another. You’re dangling in the air by your ankle again, the world spinning below, and he’s there—right there—close enough to taste, nose grazing yours, pupils blown wide. A constellation you almost touched, still burning just out of reach.

And it just won’t leave you alone.

You wonder what he would’ve done if you leaned in first.

You wonder if he’s wondering the same.

knock knock.

Two soft, almost polite knocks slip into the quiet—so gentle they barely disturb the air, yet they ripple straight through you. You’re still thinking of his lips when they land. You sit up fast, heart vaulting into your throat. That definitely wasn’t the door. That was your damn window.

You grab your phone in one hand (in case this is how you die) and pad over barefoot. When you yank open the curtain and pull open the window, wind tugs at your robe. You peek your head out, blinking.

It’s Clark—well, Superman.

Hovering twelve floors up like it's nothing.

“Hi,” he says, sheepish, boyish, like he’s just shown up at your dorm room with a six-string and a bouquet of roses.

“Hi,” you echo, smiling in spite of yourself, leaning your elbows on the sill like you’re Juliet and he’s the dumbest, dorkiest, hottest Romeo to ever grace your fine-worthy, prehistoric fire escape.

“How’s the ankle?” His eyes flick over you, sharp and steady, like he’s still taking inventory of every bruise and scrape.

“Sore,” you admit, wincing a little. “But intact. Thanks to yo— wait, how’d you know my ankle was fucked?”

He rubs the back of his neck, a bit awkward. “Oh—uh, I can see through things. And, uh, it looked a little inflamed…” He trails off, realizing how weird that sounds.

“Dork,” You jest softly, voice quieting as you continue, “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” After a pause, he adds, low and genuine, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause—soft, sweet, slightly stupid. You both just grin at each other like teenagers outside a school dance.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, reaching behind his back. “I, uh—think this is yours.”

He pulls out your missing heel, the strap singed and the buckle bent slightly.

Your jaw drops. Where could’ve even kept that? Does he have void pockets in his trunks? In spandex? “You saved my shoe?”

He shrugs, but his eyes sparkle with pride. “Figured you might want it. Looked expensive.”

You take it from him like it’s fragile glass. “It was on sale. But thanks, Prince Charming.” You pause, setting the heel carefully on your windowsill. “You didn’t have to come all the way back just to bring me this, you know.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lingers there, the breeze tossing his hair.

“I wanted to,” he says finally.

“My glass slipper…” you mumble, the words tumbling out half a quip, half a daze, your gaze flicking between the shoe in his hand and the man that had been holding it.

“Didn’t want you hobbling into work tomorrow,” he says with a sheepish grin, voice still a little hoarse. There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, but it’s gentled by concern.

You laugh and bite your lip. The moment hangs there; It stretches like it’s waiting for one of you to finally do something about it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits after a beat. “Kept thinking about today... About you.”

Your breath catches and you mentally pray for the willpower to not gasp.

You glance over your shoulder at the dark hush of your apartment, then back at him—his silhouette cut in sharp relief against the spill of city lights, like the skyline itself decided to take human shape.

“Well,” you say, voice husky with sleep you haven’t gotten, leaning just a fraction closer to him, “I’m awake now.”

Clark huffs a soft breath that could almost be a laugh. He’s close. Closer than he should be. His presence fills the foot-long space between you like warmth seeping in through the cracks. 

You lift your hand slowly, without much thought, and brush a curl from his brow. It’s soft, out of place—curling stubbornly like it always does after flight. He doesn’t move. Just watches you with those eyes like storm clouds full of patience and pull.

Then he reaches up, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before it drops, not to stop you, not to move you, just… to feel. To hold. As if your hand might dissolve into smoke if he doesn’t hold it close.

He brings it to his cheek. Presses into your palm like it means something.

Your skin burns against the warmth of him. His stubble is rougher than you expected. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, the furrow in his brow slowly smoothing out. Like your touch is the only thing that’s let him breathe all day.

He turns his head slightly, and his lips find the inside of your wrist—feather-light, reverent. It’s not rushed, not a tease, but something slower, weightier, like he’s tasting a secret. Heat blooms where his mouth lingers, and your stomach knots tight, your throat drying as if the air between you has thickened.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

He opens his eyes and looks at you again, still holding your hand in his own.

Your foreheads could meet with the barest tilt, the smallest surrender. He’s so close you can feel the pull of him, that quiet, electric hum threading through the air—like static tangled in the night breeze, like a storm trapped in your ribs. Neither of you moves, suspended in that fragile, dangerous inch.

“I…” he starts, voice scraped thin, frayed with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

But it dies in his throat.

Whatever it is—whatever he wants—it ghosts through his eyes before he buries it again. Pushes it down where it can’t surface. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s full. Heavy. Like the space between lightning and thunder.

His hand lingers at your wrist a beat longer, then slips away—fingers trailing down the length of yours in a slow, reluctant glide, each touch a quiet imprint. It’s not just letting go; it’s an act of remembering, he’s committing the shape of you to muscle memory.

You think that’s it. That he’s about to disappear into the night again.

You brace for the goodbye. The loss of it. The empty window.

But he stays. You see it in his mouth first—words pressing at the seam of his lips, fragile things he’s afraid will shatter if they come out wrong.

“I think about you,” he says, barely above the hum of the city outside.

You blink, the sound of it loud in your own ears.

He swallows. “When I’m up there. Or fighting. Or when it’s too quiet. Or when I’m moving so fast the world’s just a blur… I still think about you.”

Your robe flutters against your legs, a soft betrayal of the wind—and suddenly you feel bare in more ways than one. Seen all the way through.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice almost breaking into a whisper. “But I know I don’t want to stay away from it.”

Your breath catches, sharp and telling. His eyes flicker—he heard it.

“Then don’t,” you breathe.

His eyes soften, and something shifts in his whole body—like the tension he wears like armor suddenly gives way. His shoulders drop. His breath stutters.

Then he’s moving closer. Tangibly, undeniably closer. His knee bumps the wall beneath your window. His hand comes up, and this time it doesn’t hesitate.

His knuckles drag along your jaw, warm and calloused, grazing the curve just beneath your ear. The touch is solid. It makes your spine go rigid, then melt. Makes your lips part on reflex.

He lingers, thumb tracing the fine arc of your cheekbone like he’s mapping constellations only he can see. His palm hovers—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from it—like he could cup your face, draw you in, and kiss you senseless… but instead, he just looks.

Really looks.

It’s the kind of gaze that strips you bare without a single touch. That makes every inch of you feel claimed, cherished, and dangerously alive. The ember in your belly doesn’t just smolder now—it ignites, a wildfire licking up your ribs.

And then, as if he’s the one who might burn, he draws back.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, voice a soft weight in the space between you. “Long day.”

You nod, small and hesitant, afraid your voice might crack if you try to use it. Your palm still tingles where he touched you, and you fold your arms like the gesture might hold you together.

He lingers at the window, caught between staying and leaving, his presence hovering like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. You feel the faint pinch of disappointment, but you won’t tug him closer if he’s not ready.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s something raw in it, that pulls low and deep in your chest.

Your lips curve, gentle. “Yeah… tomorrow.”

He dips his head once, as if sealing a promise, before the night starts to reclaim him.

“Goodnight,” he says, backing into the sky, “Cinderella.”

Then he’s gone—swallowed by the clouds, like a wish you never thought to make until it was too late.

For the first time in hours, your heartbeat begins to loosen its frantic grip. You set the heel gently on your dresser, shut the window, and turn the latch until the wind outside is only a memory. The city hums far below. Your room exhales into stillness.

You stay there, fingers resting on the cool pane where his warmth just was, as if you could trap it a little longer.

Slowly, you bring your wrist to your lips. It still tastes faintly of him—heat and stubble and something unnameable—like proof that he’d been here at all.

It still feels like him.

You wake sore—ankle stiff and puffy, ribs aching like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed all the way. There’s a tightness curled inside you, coiled and buzzing, like sleep only paused the adrenaline, not chased it off. It lives in your joints, your muscles, your marrow.

In the shower, you tilt your face to the stream and let the water burn. You stand there longer than necessary, until the mirror fogs, until your skin prickles. You scrub until you’re pink, but it doesn’t erase the feeling of him—his voice, his eyes, the way he said “I wanted to” like it meant more than a shoe and a quiet midnight visit.

When you close your eyes, he’s still there. On the other side of the glass. Wind in his hair. That look on his face—soft, stunned, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You towel off slowly. Everything aches in new, interesting ways, like your body just realized it’s not built for being manhandled and dangled off a skyscraper like a ragdoll in a soap opera. You wrap your ankle with some old gauze from when you broke your arm 3 years ago. You slide on straight-leg trousers, a cute poplin top. You opt out of heels today and settle for some clean sneakers.

Your fingers hesitate at your  messy vanity, brushing over lip gloss before settling on concealer. Practical. Unsentimental. But when you catch your reflection, you pause because your hair’s a little messy, falling over your shoulder the exact same way it had that one late night at The Planet when Clark had looked at you like you were doing it on purpose.

"You are… Dangerously distracting," he had muttered, glasses slipping down his nose all cutely.

You groan. “Jesus,” you mutter to your reflection. “Get a grip.”

Because you’re running late and smiling like a lovesick teenager over a man who floats.

Perry’s probably going to rip you a new one for showing at half 10, but considering you're front-page news today—with a headline that might as well read DAMSEL IN DISTRESS SAVED BY SUPERMAN—you figure you’ve earned a buffer.

Your trip to The Planet is uneventful. You walk in at 10:32 on the dot, tote bag slung lazily over your shoulder. Your ankle twinges with every step. The newsroom buzzes as usual—phones ringing, keys clacking, too much caffeine and not enough grace. Eventually, you get to your desk.

Your coffee's already there.

Slightly cooled from where Clark probably dropped it off at half 9. 

You look up, and there he is. Across from you, leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie already a little loose. Clark Kent. Looking at you like he already knows how you slept. Like he never stopped thinking about last night either.

God he’s gorgeous

He opens his mouth, “How’re you fe—”

“KENT!!”

Perry’s bark slices through the room. Clark flinches slightly, offers you a sheepish, apologetic smile, then jogs off toward Perry’s office, one hand holding his notepad.

You sink into your seat and wrap both hands around the lukewarm cup. It’s stupid, but it feels warm anyway.

Plus, he got it for you.

The rest of the morning passes in a haze of near-misses and stolen glances. The newsroom buzzes around you, but you’re somewhere else entirely—half-lost in the static charge that builds every time your eyes meet.

It starts innocently enough: your foot nudges his under the table. He’s on the phone and freezes mid-sentence, barely blinking. You don’t look up—just keep talking into the phone, your voice steady as the tip of your shoe trails up the sharp line of his shin. His breath hitches. You feel it more than you hear it.

Your calf brushes his, heat sparking where skin meets through the thin fabric. You leave it there, the connection thrumming like a live wire. He shifts in his chair—a small, betrayed movement, like his body’s giving him away before he can hide it.

His eyes find yours. Dark. Wide. A silent plea wrapped in restraint.

You only smile, saccharine and knowing, fingertips still dancing over the keys as if you’re blissfully unaware. Your composure stays even, but there’s a thread of velvet in it he can’t miss.

Underneath the desks is a different story. A secret strung taut between two pairs of tangled legs. A private little war

—no casualties, of course.

You tease him again at 12:12:

“Mind reheating my coffee?”

He immediately stands up in that classic chivalrous farm-boy way, pushing up his sleeves, ready to get his hands dirty. He starts around his desk toward yours, reaching for your cup, always the gentleman, but you stop him. Hand to his abdomen. Not exactly trying to cop a feel… but also, you're just a girl.

He stills.

You look up at him, all big framed and baffled expression. His tie’s askew. The corner of his glasses catch the light.

“Not with the microwave,” you murmur.

His brows pinch, then—oh. He catches on. His hand lifts instinctively, thumb brushing the frames of his glasses like a tell.

He quirks a brow. “Really?”

You nod, sweet and slow.

“Right here?” he asks, hushed. “Right now?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your shit-eating smirk gives it away.

“You trying to get me outed,” he mutters, a glint in his eye, “or are you just desperate for hot coffee?”

“Both,” you say, lips twitching into a grin. “But mostly the coffee.”

His laugh is low and a little dangerous. Lopsided smile. One damning dimple cocked at full power.

He takes the cup from your hand like it’s an excuse to touch you, even if it’s not. His fingers brush yours and linger. You hum a little thank-you under your breath as he turns to leave.

He doesn’t answer—but you know he heard it.

Instead, he moves with a measured stride and slips through the work room like a shadow. By the time you look up again, he’s vanished past the breakroom door, nerves almost visibly trailing behind him.

Twelve minutes later, at 12:24, the building shakes.

You feel it first in the soles of your feet—then the windows rattle, and someone screams. Every head turns toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

The street is utter chaos.

Cars flipped. Civilians scattering. Smoke is already curling in ribbons through the avenue. And then it appears again—towering, grotesque. The Slobbering-Giant-Extraterrestrial (Lois’s exact words in the morning write-up) returns with a vengeance, fists slamming into pavement, claws scraping metal and bone.

The newsroom freezes.

Reporters crowd at the window. Phones recording. Mouths gaping. Perry swears. Lois grabs Jimmy by the collar and starts dictating captions.

You whirl to find Clark.

Still not back.

You spin back to the window—and sure enough, he’s there.

Superman.

You swear the air leaves the room. At least for you.

He crashes into the monster at full speed, and they go tumbling through a glass façade across the street. Brick and dust cloud the air. Then—WHAM—he’s thrown back hard into the side of a bus. The metal groans and collapses under his weight. The thing lunges again. Heat vision scorches its hand off. It shrieks.

But it’s not enough.

The decapitated hand hits the pavement with a sickening slap. Within seconds, the monster's stump begins to ripple, bubble—something festering just beneath the surface. Then, with a wet, splitting crack, the first spike bursts through. It tears the skin like overripe fruit, and more follow, small, but still jagged and glistening, jutting out in violent succession.

Gnarly, mucousy sounds echo even through the sealed glass. You can hear it all—the slick gurgle of tissue giving way, the crunch of bone fracturing. 

You finally unglue your feet from the floor and run up to the floor-to-ceiling window with everyone else.

[scene inspo]

The largest spike glows an acrid, seething green, like poison given shape. The alien roars, a guttural, reverberating snarl that rattles the air.

Then it strikes. The crystalline spike punches clean through Clark’s abdomen, shattering skin and muscle like glass. There’s a wet crunch, a series of screams, and the hiss of burning as the (what you could only assume is) Kryptonite laces into him. His body jolts and for a terrible second, his eyes go wide with something close to fear.

You let out a noise you don’t recognize. Someone else in the office screams. Probably Cat.

He falters, knees buckling in the air, arms limp. The spike pulses green, the protruding tip stained red with the blood of a God.

You feel your heart drop into your stomach. He’s stuck on the spike like a human—alien—shish kabob.

Then—something changes.

The green begins to shift. Burn.

An enchanting red hue replaces the green, radiating outward from the spike, bleeding into the veins of his chest and arms, like poison, like fire. His skin flushes with it—veins all illuminated like live wires. He looks…wrong. Strained. Consumed.

The creature’s monstrous grip rips him through the air like a ragdoll, slamming him with brutal force into the towering glass wall of the Daily Planet. The impact reverberates through the building—a shattering collision that sends tremors underfoot and cracks spiderwebbing across the gleaming surface.

You all scream and back away from the splintering glass. Dust rains from the ceiling. The impact leaves a massive crack right between you and him, and for one breathless second—he’s right there, mere feet away, his hand splayed against the glass, blood on his lip, eyes half-lidded, glowing red like his veins.

Then the creature tries to shake him off, flinging him away, like swatting a pesky fly away from your dinner.

Silence swallows the chaos as Clark’s body arcs through the sky, carried miles away by brutal force. The building creaks and groans, its steel bones protesting. Lois clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. Jimmy stands rooted, breath caught in his throat. Even Perry, usually unshakable, is frozen, momentarily stripped of command.

Your knees feel weak.

Then, finally—seconds later—the Justice League arrives. Flash, Wonder Woman, Batman—the works. They descend like angels and tear the monster apart with the kind of precision you’d expect from living weapons.

People cheer. The room erupts in whistles and applause.

But not you.

You can’t celebrate. Not with the ringing in your ears. Not with the sight of him being ripped apart still burning in your mind. Sure Superman has gotten the shit kicked out of him before, but nothing like this. Never like this. 

Your vision blurs. Your hands shake because he’s not here, no one even knows if he’s still alive.

Because you’ve never wanted to run to someone so badly in your life.

Clark doesn’t come back into work after the monster is hauled off.

No texts. No calls. Just utter, agonizing silence.

Lois is already calling the alien freak Doomsday in the drafts column. You’re still at your desk, half-heartedly tapping out captions, biting your nails and lips raw, checking your phone every five seconds, texting him relentlessly—

>> where are u? are u alive >> just please say ur okay >> clark, answer me >> please

—until a faint buzzing catches your ear.

You glance over and your stomach twists:

His phone is still on his desk.

You glance at his desk for the twentieth time. It lit up once when you called, then dark again. Your heart drops, each minute drawing out like molasses.

You try not to panic and remember who you’re dealing with.

You try to have hope.

The shift limps on.

You answer emails. You scribble on your notepad. You stare blankly at the same paragraph for hours.

You don’t remember shutting down your computer, don’t remember slinging your overstuffed bag over your shoulder. Just the soft click of the office lights dimming overhead. The elevator ride that feels like it’s someway, somehow taunting you.

The city hums as you step outside. The worst rain you’ve had all year colors the concrete pavement with neon colors from reflections of old storefronts. Cabs blur past in streaks of yellow. Somewhere, a siren wails, calling for Superman’s attention.

Your coat collar digs into your neck as you step out into the cold, a poor match for the churn in your gut that won’t quit. Not anxiety. Not quite grief. Just something that feels a lot like waiting.

—the commute is … Ugh

The monster—Doomsday, you hate how fast that name’s catching on—tore a path straight through the L line, leaving half the city snared in chaos. Your train stalls two stops in, the whole subway path is rubble. No buses, no cabs this way either. You walk the rest of the way, forty minutes to home in the pouring rain.

Every block feels heavier than the last. By the time you reach your apartment, your shoes squish, your fingers are stiff, and your clothes stick to you like wet paper. The cold creeps into your bones. It’s dark now—Metropolis is never dark per se, but tonight it feels dimmer without your Man of Steel keeping watch.

And you’re shivering from the cold, from that hollow, gnawing pit in your stomach that just wants him home.

You jam your key into the lock, shoulder the door open, and shut it behind you with a soft thud. The chain slides into place with a practiced flick. Keys drop in the bowl by the door.

Dense quiet swells in the apartment immediately.

You don’t move—just stand there, dripping like a soggy mess, and wondering how the hell this became your new normal.

Your hair sticks to your cheeks, water tracing lazy rivers down your spine and puddling around your feet. 

Then, with zero grace but all the determination, you start peeling off the wet mess.

Shoes, jacket, shirt, pants.

They hit the floor with a wet, pathetic plop. Like they’re laughing at you, mocking all that hope. You gather them in your arms and shove them into the washer with more force than necessary, water slapping the sides as you slam the lid shut.

You stand there for a second, blinking at nothing.

Having your clothes ruined is becoming a habit, you think bitterly.

It’s 9:45 PM when you finally drag yourself into the shower.

You don’t bother with the water temperature—you just turn the knobs and let the spray hit you, scalding at first, then lukewarm, then cool again. You stand under it until your skin starts to prickle, until the day starts to melt off you in clumps: soot, sweat, rain, fear. You press your forehead to the tile and exhale, eyes shut, mouth set. The ache in your chest hasn’t budged. If anything, the silence makes it louder.

You go through the motions.

Dry off. Moisturize. Pull your hair back. Brush your teeth. Wipe the fog from the mirror like you’re expecting to see something different.

—you don’t.

You pull on the old Mighty Crabjoys tee you’ve had since high school—the one with the faded logo and holes in the collar and frayed hems—and a plain pair of underwear. You’re not going anywhere. No one’s coming over. No one’s—

No.

You wander to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a bowl of cereal with shaky hands . The milk sloshes over the rim, but you barely notice. You don’t even sit at the counter. Just trudge to the couch, slump down, and flick on the TV like maybe it’ll tell you something you don’t already fear.

It lands on the news.

Of course it does.

The anchorwoman’s voice is soft, trembling but composed. You can tell she’s holding back something—maybe tears, maybe rage. You watch her mouth move. You don’t even process most of it. Just flashes and chaos. Unidentified alien entity, unknown casualties, structural collapse, missing persons, emergency protocols.

And then the chyron changes.

SUPERMAN DEAD?

The words stretch across the bottom of the screen in red like they’re bleeding.

Your thumb hits the power button before your brain does.

The TV cuts to black.

You sit there staring at the reflection of your slouched frame, tired eyes back at you in the dark screen. A single tear slips breaks free, scorching your cheek like a match to porcelain. It catches you off guard—so sudden and so stupid. You wipe it away like it offends you. Because it does.

You curl into yourself.

Press your knees to your chest, the fabric of your tee pressed against the tops of your thighs. The bowl of cereal shakes slightly on the coffee table when you set it down—milk rippling against ceramic. You don’t even want it anymore.

You hate yourself for caring this much.

You should’ve known—

— actually, you did know.

This comes with the territory, doesn’t it? He was never yours to keep.

Still, you run through every possible scenario. Every maybe. Every what-if. He’s unconscious. He’s in hiding. He’s recovering. He’s with someone who knows what to do. He got out, he escaped, he had to’ve.

You shake your head, lips already trembling, and bury your face in your arms.

Death is not an option.

After Potential Reality™ No. 34—where he was dismembered in orbit or black-holed into oblivion or swallowed by some godless alien thing or turned into dust at the snap of some purple alien’s fingers—you finally start to accept that you might never know what happened to him, that you might never find out. Your brain aches. Your stomach's in knots. You’ve curled in and out of fetal position so many times your couch has a dent shaped like you.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

It’s rhythmic. Almost sing-songy in nature and wholly too bright for the emotions you’re feeling right now.

It startles you.

Your head lifts like a deer’s. Nobody knocks like that. No one has knocked like that in your entire life—except maybe your parents, and even they don’t show up without texting first. You're frozen for a second, unsure if it's real or part of the mental spiral.

Then it comes again.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

You drag yourself off the couch, wiping your face with the hem of your Mighty Crabjoys tee, your body moving before your brain catches up. Every step to the door feels heavier, loaded with dread, like walking through molasses.

You keep the chain on—because you’re alone, and a girl, and maybe not—gee I dunno—stupid. You crack the door open as far as the chain allows, not even meeting the other person's eyes through the gap. They don’t need to see your puffy eyes and red face.

“I don’t want whatever boof-ass bible study program you’re offerin—”

You look up with an air of indignation and time just… bends.

—it slows like honey down a cold spoon.

Because there he is.

Clark Kent in the flesh.

—maybe steel. You’re sure you’ll find out soon enough

Leaning in the hallway, broad-shouldered and still with a hand at the top of your door frame like he owns the very idea of time. Like clocks tick for him and not the other way around.

He’s drenched to the bone. Ash grey shirt soaked and clinging to his chest like second skin, jeans dark and heavy with rain. Muscles pulled tight like wire beneath it all. Hair dripping and wild and curly. There’s a smirk on his face—lazy, cocky, and utterly misplaced—and his eyes… God, his eyes are burning into you like you’re a star he’s been staring at for centuries, even without the glasses.

Everything about him is just utterly different. Too confident. Too smug. Even for his superhero counterpart.

You stare.

He raises his brows like well?

The chain rattles, loud and frantic, as your fingers claw at it—slipping, fumbling, cursing because it’s taking too damn long. Your pulse is a war drum in your ears, breath ragged, hands shaking so hard you nearly miss the latch entirely.

The second it’s free, you rip the door open so fast it bangs against the wall, and then you’re on him—launching yourself forward like gravity’s been cheating you all this time and he’s the only thing that can hold you down.

He catches you without so much as a stumble, the impact barely rocking him. A breathless chuckle rumbles through his chest—half amused, half relieved—like he’d been expecting you to launch yourself at him the second he knocked.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words trembling against his shirt, voice splintering in the middle. “I thought you—”

His arms cinch tighter, closing around you like he’s trying to press you into himself. One broad palm spans your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, his fingers threading into your damp hair, keeping you close. 

“I’m very much alive,” he says, and even his voice is different. Lower, rougher. Like it’s been dragged through ash and rubble and whiskey and whatever else the universe chewed him up with before spitting him back out. Though, Clark doesn’t even drink.

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands go to his face, checking him for cuts like a startled parent, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, palm pressing to his jaw, fingers skimming through his soaked hair. You want proof. You want touch. You just want him.

His hands catch yours. Still warm despite the rain. He pulls them away from his face and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and then, without warning, crushes his mouth to yours.

It’s not sweet, no, it’s more like a stolen drag of a cigarette, Eve biting the apple. Definitely not how you’d expect a kiss from Clark Kent to be.

You gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, slipping in his tongue with a low, needy groan that shoots straight to your core. Your fingers can’t help but tangle in his wet hair, tugging slightly, and he moans as he starts walking you backward into your house.

You don’t even notice he’s moving you both until he kicks the front door shut behind him.

His hands are on your waist, pulling you flush to him, lips still devouring yours as the thud from the door echoes through the apartment.

That sound snaps you out of it.

You tear your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, palm flattening against his chest—hot, slick, muscles jumping beneath your touch with every sharp breath he drags in.

“Wait—Clark—what the fuck is going on?” you manage, lungs still clawing for air.

But he doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around you, iron and desperate, and he dips back toward you like he’s following some invisible pull—like the only thing keeping him upright is the taste of you, and letting go would mean losing his way entirely.

“This is long overdue, baby,” he murmurs, lips tantalizingly grazing against yours.

You blink at him, at this wet, smirking stranger with Clark’s face and Superman’s body—parked in your foyer like he just got rained out of a GQ cover shoot. He’s a fever dream stitched together from heartbreak, exhaustion, and half a bottle of NyQuil… the kind that makes you wonder if you should call a doctor or just start unbuttoning something.

Your hands clutch at his like you’re afraid this is just a dream—one you’ll wake from and find yourself grasping at nothing but cold sheets. Your fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, nails biting into his skin as if you can anchor him here by sheer will alone.

“Clark, I thought—God—” your voice fractures, the words tumbling out jagged, frantic, “I thought—”

“I’m right here, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a thumb brushing over your jaw, the other settling right on your lumbar. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, and his gaze dips and scans you in a way that makes your chest ache. “Mm… you’re so cute when you’re all… worked up.”

With a pitiful whine, he finally closes the gap, his mouth sliding over yours with a fierce, aching hunger that steals your breath, and every other thought—panic, grief, reason—melts and drips away like satin sliding over bare, heated skin.

But one kiss can’t drown the storm raging inside you. The taste of him lingers, but it ultimately only fans the fire of questions clawing at your mind. The journalist in you demands more—answers you need now, before the moment unravels.

With a shaky inhale, you pull back, your fingers digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your heart pounds, your pulse screaming louder than your voice.

“Clark—wait,” you gasp, voice trembling yet fierce, eyes searching his as if trying to read the battle scars behind those storm-darkened blues. “Seriously—are you okay? Like, really? What happened out there? How are you— how did you—?”

The words burst from you, a jagged crack slicing through the fragile silence in your too-small apartment.

His eyes glaze over, distant yet unblinking, glassy but tethered to you. His hands press firmly against your waist, grounding you with a subliminal insistence. “I’m okay. Better than okay.” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile—sharp and stripped of the usual dis-ease. 

“Honestly, I haven’t felt this alive in a long time.” His voice drops lower and something beneath it hums, a current you didn’t know was there. Your skin prickles, hair standing on end, as if some silent pulse is thrumming just beneath your flesh.

You lean in, eyes tracing the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint flicker of restless fire behind those baby blues. But his chest just continues to rise slow and steady. If you knew him any less, you’d think nothing was wrong. He has a good poker face—you’ll give him that. 

You reach up, fingertips brushing the line of his neck, testing, teasing the heat beneath his skin. He catches your wrist, thumb sliding over your pulse, anchoring you in place.

This isn’t the Clark you knew, it’s the deluxe edition, all wild hair curling damp over his forehead, eyes too bright and almost glowing, yet somehow darker, with way more trouble and zero chill. Something you’re not sure you’re ready for—but let’s be real, you’re already hooked.

You mumble, needing something to say, something to break the strange spell he’s got you under. “I’ll go get you something dry… To uh… To wear…”

You peel yourself away from him. He lets you go, but not without a little resistance; a hand lingering on your arm until you’re fully out of reach.

Once your hand falls from his, you dart to your bedroom and dig through your drawer for the baggiest shirt you have; one of those oversized hoodies you bought three winters ago, plus a pair of plaid sleep pants you’re not sure he’ll fit into. You pad back with the bundle of clothes tight in your arms, heart hammering, only to stop short of the living room he’s standing in.

He’s already shirtless.

The wet t-shirt is discarded in a pile on your floor, and he’s standing there, bare from the waist up, each droplet carving its pilgrimage down the sculpted terrain of his torso, as if the water itself knows to worship the body it graces.

You stare. 

Eh no, it’s more of a gawk.

He just smiles, that same smirk that makes you want to bite your fist and throw yourself off the nearest cliff (he’ll save you a thousand times over). “You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before.”

You haven’t, you think. Not like this. Not with so much… promiscuity.

You clear your throat, gripping the bundle of clothes to your chest like a shield. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” you say, which is stupid—he’s literally Superman, but it’s something, and it keeps him grinning like a devil.

His gaze drags down to your thighs, lingers, sinks lower before climbing back up. Each pass feels like he’s etching you into memory, committing every inch to some private archive. Or spank bank. You’re none the wiser.

“You always sleep in things like this?”

“Didn’t think I’d have company,”

He steps forward slowly, eyes roaming down your body with no attempt at subtlety. “That shirt…” His fingers lift the hem of your band tee, rolling the fabric between two fingers with a feather-light touch. “Like you planned this,” he teases.

You swallow hard and thrust the dry clothes at him in attempt to put some space between you. Your heart races, and you pray your flush goes unnoticed. “These, uh, should fit.”

You try to reset the energy in the room, to make it normal again, whatever normal even is. His eyes drop to the bundle in your hands, and he chuckles like it’s all a joke. He takes them from you, one-handed, tossing them on the slope of his bare shoulder like he’s mocking modesty.

“Thanks. You’re sweet.”

You can feel his eyes on you—burning. Following every flutter of your lashes, every twitch in your jaw, every flicker of your pulse. He’s probably x-raying you right now (he is).

“You’re staring,” you mumble, suddenly aware and insecure of how little you’re wearing.

Clark hums, then reaches out. Just two fingers—hard callouses gently brushing your neck as he trails them to your jaw tilting your head to face him. “‘Cause I like what I see.”

Your lips part slightly, and the faintest nervous smile plays at the corner of your mouth as he feels your pulse quicken. The silence between you hums, carrying the weight of all the words you’ve both holding back.

You try to look away, but it’s futile. He gleams—muscles rolling like ancient boulders beneath sunlit skin. Your eyes drift down, then dart away, only to return, drawn by quiet gravity you can’t resist. The longer you stand before him, the closer and further you get dragged to the Kent Solar System™. 

He notices your apprehension, your disquiet. Of course he does.

His finger moves from your jaw and hooks beneath your chin, lifting your face until your eyes are back on his.

“It’s okay to look, honey,” he saunters closer to you, whispers, “I’m not shy.”

Your lips are a breath apart. You sense him lean into you, and you wait for the feel of his lips on yours, your eyes half lidded in anticipation.

Instead, he leans back and undoes his belt with maddening calm.

“I—Clark!” you whisper-shout in shock, scandalized, as his pants hit the floor in a heap.

He raises a brow. “What?”

“Oh my God,” you hiss, spinning on your heel, fleeing to the kitchen with heated cheeks like it's a sanctuary. Your pulse is jackhammering and your nerves are so taut they sting under your flesh. You busy your hands, filling the kettle with water, trying to focus, to breathe, to think for a second

“I’m— I’m making tea,” you stutter, trying to convince yourself more than him. “You probably need to warm up. Mhm, of course, you just walked through a storm, I’m sure you’re freezing.”

You grab the kettle and reach for a mug—hands trembling—and you turn to ask if he prefers Chamomile or Earl Grey—

You bump into his chest and nearly scream. “Jesus! Clark!”

His hands come up to settle on your hips, steadying you. “Relax,” he coos, voice low, thumbs toying with the top hem of your panties. As if he read your mind, “I like Earl Grey.”

He leans to your ear, “Reminds me of the sun.”

You exhale his name, just exhausted. “Why are you acting like… this? Whatever… this is?”

He dips his head, brushing his nose along your jaw, lips ghosting just over your skin.

“Because,” he murmurs. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t hesitate. Definitely doesn’t hold back. He just takes. Tongue and teeth dance like wild fire against your mouth, breathy groans tumbling like thunder through the storm of your skin, pushing you backward until the kitchen counter cuts into your spine—sharp as a cliff’s edge beneath a crashing sea.

You moan, high and a little startled, one hand fumbling behind you to brace against the surface, the other fisting in his damp curls. He crowds into your space, utterly unbothered by the chill still clinging to his damp boxers, the faint metallic scent of city rain steaming off his skin.

Eventually, you can’t help but melt into it, let him devour you. His hands—God, those hands—trail low from your waist, firm and greedy, until they find your ass. He squeezes, shameless, pulling you somehow further into him with a groan that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees go wobbly.

Everything after that is a blur—heat, wet fabric brushing your thighs, the sharp edge of the counter digging into your spine. He eventually lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh no more than a breath of wind, hoisting you onto the countertop with only one hand slotted at the back of your thigh. 

Your back bumps a salt shaker and it clatters sideways, the faint tik-tik-tik of it spinning unnoticed. You turn your head just long enough to set it upright, heart pounding, and when you face him again—his mouth is already on your throat.

He groans like he’s been waiting millenia just to taste your skin.

He marks your neck with everything he has; Down your neck, over your collarbone, mapping you in wet, hot paths, like every suck and bite and lick will eventually lead him to his salvation. His breath is heavy as he hums, like he likes how fast your heart is going. Like he did that. Like he needs that.

Then his voice drops low, murmuring against your clothed chest. “When I got stabbed,” he says, slow and syrup-thick, “it wasn’t just green.”

Your brows knit, dazed but present enough to blink down at the top of his head. He keeps going. “There was something else, something red.” he moves feverishly, another kiss up to your jaw. Another groan. “It’s still inside me.”

Your fingers rake through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. “Clark,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a question or a plea. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He moves to nip beneath your ear, making your thighs jolt around his waist.

But still—you’re melting. Still—you’re trying to think. “Clark,” you gasp, pulling his face back to look at you. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you. If this is because of the kryptonite, if this isn’t really you—”

He cuts you off by grabbing your hand.

And placing it right on his cock.

Your eyes go wide. Your mouth parts in shock. He’s hard. So hard. Thick and hot beneath your palm, barely restrained by his boxers. You can feel every ridge and every vein as they thrum with need… God it makes your cunt flutter.

He whines at the contact, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you, still nuzzled deep into the warm crook of your neck like he can’t get close enough. His breath comes quicker now, hot and uneven against your skin, each exhale fanning over you in frantic bursts. You feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his chest presses tighter to yours, and you realize—he’s not just breathing. He’s panting. His hips give the smallest grind against your hand, a restless, involuntary push that betrays just how bad he needs you.

“Please,” he breathes.

The small rational part of your brain tells you you should say no. You know that. Your brain is screaming it somewhere far off in the distance. But the rest of you? The warm, wet, aching parts of you? Well…

… Once again, you’re just a girl.

And Clark-fucking-Kent is practically trying to eat your soul through your neck, whining so prettily in your ear.

“Okay,” you whisper.

The moment you give him your confirmation, his breath catches like a held storm breaking free. His eyes flutter shut, lashes casting delicate shadows against his high cheekbones. Then he reverently sinks to his knees, like you’re the gravity pulling him down.

His lips press a slow, heated trail of kisses along your inner thighs starting from your knees, each one an electric shock that makes your breath hitch involuntarily. His mouth moves with a fierce hunger that’s equal parts desperate and worshipful. 

He won’t bow to the altar of anyone, of any God, but he’ll kneel for you. It’s all for you. 

“Fuck baby, you don’t even know what you do to me… Could stay here forever.”

Your fingers tangle deeply in his damp curls as he rips off your soaked panties without a second thought, clutching as if holding on to keep from falling apart. He whines, his mouth immediately working your folds with fervor, lips and tongue revere every inch, pulling and sucking with an urgency that makes your knees buckle.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice almost a growl as his eyes meet yours, “I was gonna wait… Do this right... But after tonight you have no idea how badly I need you. Fuck, I need you… Can’t even think straight without you.”

Then he’s back, diving in with wild abandon like your skin is the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. He works your clit masterfully, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing ever so gently, each of your gasps and whispered pleas of his name stoking the blaze until you both burn brighter than before, caught in a fierce, unbreakable tempest.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where your legs meet your hips, holding you wide for his mouth. The heat of his breath against your soaked skin sends a shiver through you, your body tensing in anticipation even as he pins you in place.

He doesn’t tease. No slow, torturous licks—just a deep, desperate open-mouthed drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him alive. His lips seal around your swollen bud, sucking hard, and your back arches off the cabinet, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

“Taste so good,” His voice is wrecked, muffled against you as he laps at you with rough, messy strokes. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck just shy of too much, but he doesn’t let up, drinking you down like he’s starving. His nose bumps against your clit as he buries his face deeper, and your hips jerk, but his hands tighten, keeping you spread, trapped in the brutal rhythm of his mouth.

You can hear him—the obscene, wet sounds of his tongue working you open, the ragged breaths he takes when he pulls back just to dive in again, his low, broken moans vibrating against your cunt. His fingers flex, pressing bruises into your skin, and you already know you’ll feel the marks tomorrow.

“Baby, please— shit!”

The words tear from your throat, ragged and desperate. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—more, less, mercy—your thoughts fracturing under the relentless heat of his mouth. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. His grip shifts, fingers digging into your thighs as he literally grinds you harder against his tongue

And god, does he.

He licks into you like he’s trying to carve himself inside you, like he wants to brand every inch of you with the shape of his name. Each flick, each deep, languid stroke of his tongue in your hole drags another broken sound from your lips. Your hips jerk helplessly, torn between rocking into his mouth and twisting away from the overwhelming pleasure—but he holds you firm, refusing to let you escape.

When you finally cum, it’s with a wretched sob. Your body trembles, sweat-slick and shuddering, as pleasure crashes over you in waves. His tongue doesn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you’re gasping, until your fingers tangle in his hair—pulling, pushing, clinging—because you can’t tell if you’re trying to drag him closer or shove him away.

By the time he lets you go, you’re a dazed, breathless mess, every coherent thought obliterated. Your chest heaves, your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. And all you can manage, voice raw and wrecked, is—

“Fuck, Clark… I’m yours—all of me.”

He rasps at your surrender, a sound drenched in satisfaction and utter salacity. He stands and his lips find yours again—wholly intoxicating. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and heady, and you pull him closer by his neck, heart pounding like a drum.

He doesn’t hesitate. With one arm, he lifts you up as if you weigh nothing at all, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. His breath fans against your skin as he carries you to your small bedroom.

He lays you down gently against your unmade sheets, eyes dark with want and a vulnerability you’ve yet to see. Towering over you, he fills the cramped room, a presence too immense, too overwhelming to even fully grasp in this moment. He’s a giant here, not just in stature but in everything that hangs heavy between you.  For a moment, all the wild tension between you holds still. 

Clark slowly settles himself on the bed, straddling you with knees planted firmly on either side of your thighs. His strength is undeniable, but there’s a careful gentleness in the way he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours, eyes searching yours with quiet intensity.

His fingers brush a stray lock of hair back from your cheek, soft as a whisper. His voice is low and vulnerable as he murmurs, “If it ever gets to be too much… you just say the word, okay?”

You nod, your heart drumming a frantic tattoo beneath your ribs, breath snagging on the fragile thread of tenderness entwined with the warning in his gaze. His smile unfurls like dawn breaking through a bruised sky, a rebellion against the storm that churns beneath the surface.

He lowers himself with the careful weight of a tidal wave pulling back, his lips a whisper of smoke and honey, tracing a kiss that tastes like the promise of calm in a world that’s always on the brink of breaking.

His forearm presses against the mattress beside your head, grounding him, while his hand tangles gently in your hair, fingers threading through the soft strands like he’s memorizing their texture. The other hand slips under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of your ribs. The warmth of his touch contrasts deliciously with the cool air, making every nerve sing.

He kisses you deep, not with nearly as much fervor as he did before, but with unrelenting passion. His lips lock with yours and it's as if you’re breathing for the first time, as if you’re consuming his very essence like ambrosia, conferring you to stay like this with him for eternity. 

His hand trails higher, fingers gently tweaking your perked nipples until you’re whining into his mouth. He greedily swallows them all before carefully hiking your shirt up and off your frame. 

You let him—you lay before him completely bare and he can’t help but sit back on his haunches and take you in. Leonardo, Monet, Dalí, Kadinsky—not a single one of their works could absolutely wreck his extraterrestrial nervous system the way you are right now. 

His eyes—wide, dark, and glazed with awe—lock onto yours, as if he’s caught between reverence and hunger. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

You don’t give him the chance.

Pushing up onto your elbows, you close the distance between you before he even thinks to move. The heat of his skin seeps into yours as you trail soft, open-mouthed kisses along the strong column of his throat and his pecs, tasting salt and the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. Your fingertips skate teasingly along the hem of his boxers, tracing the defined V of his hips, dipping just beneath the fabric to graze the coarse trail of hair leading lower. A silent invitation.

His breath hitches, his stomach tensing under your touch. When you glance up through your lashes, his gaze has darkened—not just with lust, but with something possessive. Understanding.

Without a word, he stands. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his thick thighs, letting them drop to the floor. The air between you crackles as your eyes drag over him, taking in the full, breathtaking sight of him.

His cock stands heavy and proud, jutting from the thatch of dark curls at his groin. Thick veins rope along the length, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum, the evidence of his need for you. It’s big—intimidatingly so—the kind of size that makes your pulse stutter, your thighs clench instinctively. The sheer girth promises a stretch that borders on painful, and yet… the thought sends a rush of heat pooling low in your belly.

Your lips part on a shaky exhale, shock flickering across your face.

He knows. Of course he does.

A low, rough chuckle escapes him as he reaches down, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. “It’ll fit, doll.” His voice is smoke and gravel, leaving no room for doubt.

You believe him.

With a slow nod, you surrender completely, your body arching toward him in silent supplication. He rewards your trust with a quick, tender kiss—soft, almost sweet—but it tastes like a promise, like a prelude to something permanent.

Then his hands slide under your thighs, lifting your legs with effortless strength. He folds you effortlessly, crossing your ankles over the solid planes of his shoulders, the position leaving you exposed, vulnerable. His thumbs press into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you wider, and the first brush of his cock against your soaked entrance wrings a whimper from your throat.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with restraint.

You obey and look at him with a stripe of anticipation in your furrowed brow. He reciprocates by fisting the length of his cock before guiding it to your sopping cunt, gently teasing the sensitive bud of your clit, your folds. A gasp tumbles from your lips at the feel of him—hot and thick in all the ways that matter. 

He looks at you once more, his free hand simultaneously looping over your legs to hold them flush to his chest. 

“Please, Clark, I need… Shit— I need you,” You whimper.

He responds by turning his head and placing a soft kiss to your ankle before pushing in. You immediately grasp the sheets, fisting the cotton as he stretches you wider than you’ve ever been. You can feel him pulsing inside of you, your walls responding in kind as they flutter in attempts to adjust to him. 

His grip on your hips tightens as he pauses, his breath ragged. The stretch is achingly slow, every inch a sweet torment. His head lulls forward, dark lashes fluttering as he fights for control. A low, broken groan escapes him when you clench around him and his cock twitches in response.

“F-fuck—” His voice is rough, strained, like the word was dragged from his chest. “So tight, love. Gotta relax for me.” He strokes your side with trembling fingers, soothing, worshipful. “That’s it… just like that.”

You gasp when he lets go of himself to lace his fingers with yours, palm pressing warm and grounding against your own. The intimacy of it—the way his thumb brushes your knuckles—unwinds the tension coiled in your belly. He murmurs praise against your skin, lips skimming your calves as he pushes deeper, deeper, until your body yields, taking him in with a shuddering sigh.

And then he’s fully sheathed, hips flush against you, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. You hadn’t even realized you were holding yours until it rushes out of you in a trembling exhale.

The fullness is overwhelming, consuming. It’s not just the physical stretch—it’s the way your body seems to recognize his, like something inside you has slotted into place. Your fingers clutch his, anchoring yourself as pleasure hums under your skin, bright and dizzying.

“You okay?” The question is tender, almost reverent. His free hand skims up your ribs, pausing over your frantic heartbeat. “Feel so good… fucking perfect.”

You blink yourself out of your daze and meet his eyes. He looks anxious and worried, like the Clark you know. “Yeah. Fuck me, please.” 

He chuckles softly, “I’m tryin to.”

“Clark, just move, please… I can feel you in my throat,” you mumble half-coherently.

Needing no further instruction, he gently eases out of you before pushing back in, and you hand help but dig your nails into his hand. He bites his lip as he moves against you, trying (but failing) to stifle the soft groans that leave his lips. 

Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs in ragged gasps, his hips moving with a controlled power that reminds you that he’s holding back. A fraction of his strength, and yet you’re unraveling beneath him, reduced to a trembling mess. Each drag of his cock inside you is deliberate, the swollen head stroking your g-spot with precision, and with every pass, your mind rewrites the future: elopement, courthouse, honeymoon—how could you wait another second when he fucks you like this?

The air is thick, charged with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you in the kitchen, the way he’d ate you over the counter like an afterthought and dragged his tongue through your folds until your thighs shook and you nearly sobbed. Even now, the memory coils tight in your belly, your body clenching around him in helpless recognition.

A low, rough groan escapes him as you suffocate his cock, his grip tightening on your thighs as he unfurls them, re-wraping them around his hips and leaning over you, spreading you wider. The new angle wrings a broken, hoarse cry from your throat, his cock sinking deeper until the stretch borders on unbearable.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his breath hot against your ear. “So fuckin sensitive.”

You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth. Your fingers dig into the hard planes of his back, nails carving half-moons into his sweat-slick skin, the salt of him sharp on your tongue where your teeth are buried in the meat of his shoulder. He groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest as he rolls his hips against you in a slow, deliberate grind.

The friction is maddening. Every drag of him inside you is a study in exquisite torture—the stretch, the burn, the way your body yields and clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there forever. The tufts of hair at the base of him tease your clit with every thrust, the rough-soft contrast sending jolts of pleasure so sharp your thighs tremble. 

You’re so wet it’s obscene, each time he pulls out, the air kisses your slick flesh for a split second before he’s driving back in, the filthy squelch of it echoing in the space between your ragged breaths.

And god, the way he moves like he knows exactly how to ruin you. Slow, then punishing, then slow again, his rhythm erratic just to hear you whimper. Every push and pull of his cock sends sparks up your spine, your nerves alight, your toes curling into the sheets. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he leans down to mouth at your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, his voice wrecked, “you take me so well, baby,”

You can’t even reply—just arch into him, your body singing with the need for more, more, more—

“Clark please—” the word barely even leaves your mouth, but he hears it.

His lips curl against your jugular. "Please what?" Another punishing thrust, "You gonna come again? Just from this?"

You whimper, your body betraying you with another flutter around him and he has his answer. He groans, his rhythm turning ruthless, each snap of his hips stealing your breath. The whole mattress rattles in its frame, but the sound is lost under the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin.

It’s too much, yet somehow not enough. Pleasure twists and coils beneath your skin like a live wire sparking in the dark, raw and electric. You’re unraveling and he watches with a burning intensity—his gaze a furnace that fires every piece of you down into something molten, holding you captive in the heat of the moment.

His hand reaches between you and finds your clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles in perfect sync with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is unbearable, too much, and your back arches off the bed, your chest to his, as pleasure crackles through you like live wire. Desperate for contact, you fist a hand in his hair and drag his mouth to yours, intertwining his groan with your own as your hips jerk against him. “I’m—fuck baby—I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish, the words dissolving into a whine as your orgasm slams into you, blinding and violent.

He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, his own breath hot and uneven against your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls, “take it. Feel it.” And you do: every pulse, every shockwave, until you’re boneless beneath him, trembling with aftershocks.

The night stretches on in a delicious blur—two rounds, then three, then maybe even four. Your bodies move together with an ease and urgency that’s almost intoxicating. Every touch, every whispered word, every heated kiss peels back another layer of the barriers you’d both been holding up for far too long. His hands explore like he’s memorizing you, and you match him with equal fervor—fingers tracing the sharp planes of his back, lips finding the sensitive spots on his body that make him shiver.

You lose count of how many times you both cum, a tangled mess of limbs, soft gasps, and ragged breaths filling the space between you. You think your legs might give out on you, but Clark just laughs—breathless and wild-eyed—and somehow pulls you close again, like he’s powered by something beyond just his Kryptonian physiology.

Eventually, when it cracks midnight and when you’re tearing up from overstimulation and practically begging for a noise complaint, then —and only then—is he collapsing beside you, body against yours. His eyes flutter, blinking slowly as if waking from some surreal dream.

He rolls onto his side to face you, and the faintest crease of uncertainty lines his brow. Running a hand down his face, he mutters, “T-that wasn’t how I wanted this to happen…”

You can’t help but giggle softly, your fingers brushing a damp, rebellious curl from his forehead. The simple touch seems to soften the tension around his eyes. He smiles at you then—a smile full of something deep and tender—but there’s a flicker of worry in his gaze, as if he’s silently asking if you’re really okay.

You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and lean up to press a sweet, tired kiss to his lips. He returns it gently, the softness of it melting all the raw edges of the night away for a moment. When you pull back, he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, eyes flicking down and away, cheeks flushing faintly.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t more special,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want you to think this was just some fling or—”

His voice catches. “I care about you. More than I ever thought possible.”

You smile, warmth flooding your chest, and reach up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Clark, I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you whisper. “And honestly, I’m just glad that red stuff was good for something.”

His cheeks flush deeper, and he scratches the back of his head like a bashful schoolboy. “Yeah… so… funny story. The red kryptonite actually wore off about halfway through eating you out...” He shoots you a sheepish grin. “But I was still riding that high, so… Uh, yeah… But I think everything ended up okay.”

You burst into laughter, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips, the fondness in your eyes unmistakable. “Clark Kent, you absolute dork.”

His laugh rumbles deep and warm against your skin, and you find yourself thinking, maybe after filling you like a Twinkie four times over, he’s officially your dork now.

After about another fifteen minutes of tangled pillow talk—shared secrets, lazy touches, soft laughter—he helps you up. Your legs wobble like jelly, and he doesn’t hesitate to catch you, lifting you into his arms with effortless strength. You rest your head against his chest as he carries you toward the bathroom, fetching you water and gently cleaning up the little (big) messes you both made.

When he’s done, you both settle into your bed, flicking off the lamp and settling into each other. You lay practically half your body on his, half your torso on his chest (Lord knows there’s enough real estate there), and you both sigh contentedly. 

You nuzzle into the warmth of his skin and after a few silent moments, you smirk. “You’re kind of a rebel, you know that?”

Clark’s brow lifts in amused confusion. “Huh?”

You shift your weight, meeting his tired gaze with a teasing sparkle in your eyes. “Sex before marriage, Clark? Pretty non–Midwestern farmboy of you.”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Oh please. I’ve been breaking rules my whole life.”

“Yeah? Like what? Forgetting to return library books?” You tease.

A slow, smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay fine… Guess I learned how to sin.”

You snort. “And who taught you that?”

He shrugs.

 “Only girl I’d go to hell for.”

[cryptictongues]

goosebumps

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader rating: explicit (MINORS DNI; 18+) word count: 19.7k warnings: movie spoilers, fluff, angst, smut, switched pov's in second person, miscommunication, caretaking, disabled side character, banter, making out, public displays of affection, oral (fem. receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, riding, intimacy maxing, unprotected sex (BC mentioned, no condom), nipple play, Clark curses once, arguments, panic attack, dry humping summary: after ending things over a year ago, you and clark are back in each other's lives due to unforeseen circumstances. things are discovered. author's note: this was heavily based off the song "Cutting My Fingers Off" by Turnover and their record Peripheral Vision. There is also a caretaking aspect that I used that is based closely to my life right now, so if you are a caretaker for a loved one, this is for you. [AO3 Link] Please read my pinned post before following me! Minors and ageless blogs will be blocked as this blog’s content is NSFW.

There is a sense of delirium in the way Clark’s body weakens.

Like a fly at the precipice of a zap trap, Clark can feel the poison seep under his skin, bubbling to the surface as it slowly courses through his system. Unlike a fly, however, he is all too aware how this ends if this continues. 

He can’t fault Rex as his eyes linger on the baby across his glass cell. Even with his defenses shut down, he hears the baby’s fear; his tiny heart beating so hard and fast that Clark can’t believe it hasn’t overworked itself. Rex’s fear is also quite loud as it pulses through Clark’s ears, and he knows because it sounds the same as his own: the fear for others he can’t protect the longer the Kryptonite soaks up his energy. 

It’s devastating and things look bleak. He shouldn’t think this way, he knows this, but the longer he lays here, the more his mind travels to better times: before being viewed as some sort of fearful God, before knowing his birth parents true intentions, before his responsibilities got in the way of the people he loves. It’s too much for his sickened brain to comprehend. He should be stronger than this, but even though he isn’t from Earth, he is as human as a human can get, which means falling into the past when things become too much.

His left hand, dark veins curling under his skin, goes to his right arm sleeve to gently roll it back. He hears the crinkle of the object he is desperate for, needing some kind of reminder of what the good things are, even if it comes with an aftermath of hurt. He drags it out from dampened skin, a shine glossing over the already glossy coat. His thumb smears the sweat away, his skin lingering a little too long on the smile that welcomes him every time this memory enters his psyche. 

It was such an in the moment photo. You, in your cocktail dress meant for warmer days, deep in his arms as you smile from laughing. He remembers working to bury you under his coat to join his body heat, remembering how cold you kept saying you were. The picture is weathered from the treatment his suit gives it, so much so that he can no longer see the goosebumps on your skin, but he dares to never part with it. You are the heart on his sleeve; a reminder that love doesn’t fade. 

He wishes things could’ve played out differently. He wishes he could’ve been more honest about who he was, but as he looks at the contrast of that moment during New Years to where he is at now, he is comforted knowing you are somewhere safe.

He hears about you from time to time from Lois, who still keeps in touch. She insists that he should reach out, that it would be good for him, but every time he goes to write a message, every time he is only a touch away from making himself known to you once more, he retreats. It is unlike him to back down from something he has already begun, but it goes to show that cowardice is a convincing master. So he just listens. He lets Lois tell him whatever she finds relevant, even when he doesn’t ask.

“Remember that book she’s been wanting to write? Well, she finally got a publishing company to back her! She said she would send us all personal copies. Maybe we can finally have a review for a book worth a damn.”

“I’m hungry. Did you want to get lunch? Weirdly I’ve been craving a tomato sandwich. I think it’s because of these heirloom tomatoes she grew. Look at this picture she sent me!”

“Clark, you have got to listen to this playlist she made. One because it is phenomenal and two it doesn’t have The Mighty Crabjoys on it.”

“You should message her. She asks about you. Boy, if only she knew.”

He wishes he would have told you he is Superman. He wishes you knew everything. He wishes he still had that choice. 

He hears the platform before he sees it, so he weakly puts the polaroid, his heart, back under his sleeve. He brings his arm across this chest, hoping the mere closeness will slow the Kryptonite from making his veins darker and skin less bubbled.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Words, words, words. Oh, how you would like some. Who knew writer's block would be such a pain. 

Writer’s block wasn’t something you found yourself dealing with often. Writing is your passion; your brain a fire pit that burns information to grow brighter. As the fire strengthens in heat and ember, the crisper your fingers move to type clever words and phrases. It can be overwhelming, but it is your utmost strength as a writer. That is, until the information thrown into the pit is nothing but icy, cold water, fraying your mind until you can’t think about anything but the smoke.

You can’t pinpoint the distraction to one thing. Being a caretaker for a loved one is never an easy feat, especially when it’s just you and that person is bed bound. Your grandma’s mobility stems from yours in how you adjust her, whether it be shifting her to a more comfortable position or getting her into her wheelchair. It’s been close to a year of this, and while you never minded taking care of her, you are aware of the pressure it brings. Your body is tired, therefore your mind is starting to receive the after effects. 

But you can’t help but think there is more, especially with the state of the world; full of meaningless greed and apathy. The more you watch the news, a mistake every time you decide to turn on the TV, the more you feel hollowness. It makes matters worse when it seems the epicenter of so much destruction is happening in a place you used to call home, and knowing you have people there you worry for every day. Lois, God bless her, always keeps you in the loop to ensure you know everyone is safe, always making sure to add that Clark is okay too. 

But you have eyes, and you saw what happened on TV a few days ago. Sometimes, it’s a little hard to believe unless you are there yourself, and at one point you had been.

The mouse blinks condescending, laughing at your struggle to create and it makes you roll your eyes with an annoyed sigh, leaning back into your chair with fingers digging into your eyes. You’ve been sitting here for hours in this limbo, and it’s now eleven at night. You used to be up for late night writing and research sessions when you worked at the Daily Planet. Not anymore, it seems.

Your phone starts ringing, the twinkling sound of your ringtone shimmering in the dim light of your room. You don’t need to see a name to see who it is; it’s become a common occurrence for Lois to call late at night for inspiration or casual chatter. She’s lucky you don’t sleep early with the birds.

You pick up your phone, sliding the screen open and bringing it up to your ear, a witty remark on your tongue. “Lois, I fear if you are calling for something inspiring, you are out of luck.”

“I need a favor.” She’s quick to respond. “Like an insanely big favor.”

There is a sense of urgency in her tone, yet there is a firm, calm collectiveness to it. Lois is usually pretty laid back, and while you have seen her have a presence strong enough to shut the whole bullpen up, you’ve never heard her like this. It makes your stomach twist. 

“Lois, what’s wrong?”

“Are you still in Louisa?” 

“Y-yes,” you stutter. “What’s happening, Lois? You’re kinda freaking me out.”

“I’m going to be there soon.” She overrides, ignoring your unsettled tone. “I’ll explain then. Just prepare yourself and I apologize in advance.”

“Lois! Wait-“ 

The line goes dead, and you sit there frozen, your mind going in all sorts of directions. ‘What is she doing coming to Virginia?’ You think. ‘How is she getting here? By car? No, I didn’t hear other cars. Plane? No, she can’t talk over the phone unless they hadn’t taken off. A train? Maybe? Did something happen in Metropolis? Is she in trouble?’ 

The rapidness of your thoughts freezes time, your eyes staring firmly at your screen. It isn’t until your peripherals catch a bright light through your window that you are thawing into action. You stand from your seat, a cluttering sound shaking your desk from the movement, and walk briskly out your bedroom to the back door of the house. The Virginia autumn breeze hits your skin, goosebumps making themselves known, and as you walk to the bright light, you see a figure coming out of some spherical apparatus. You see the dark hair, immediately knowing it’s Lois as she waves you down. You squint as you get closer, the light growing harsher on your eyes, but Lois’s features become more visible. To anyone else, she looks calm, but you know her too well: she’s worried.

“What is all this?” You ask, now in front of her. “Where did you even get this?”

“That’s not important,” Lois says eerily calm. “What’s important is what I’m about to ask of you.” 

“Okay,” you draw in a breath, releasing as your next words fall. “Out with it then. You are making me anxious.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m going to need some help. Help me lift him.”

Him?

“What?” You mutter under your breath, low enough for Lois not to hear. She’s in the pod by the time you enter, and instantly your heart stops, your eyes deceiving you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”

Emotions are circling your head like ghosts, whispering the past in your ear to relive them in present time. It’s like a slideshow of every moment, the good, the bad, the sad, the best of times, flying behind your retinas. You hadn’t seen him in so long that seeing him like this, skin marred and almost sickly, has ingrained into your mind forever. 

You sense Lois staring at you, but the tension from the reveal had lifted, confirmed by a sigh of relief heard from your side. “So, you knew. Clark never told me.”

“He doesn’t know I know,” you respond immediately, eyes not leaving him. You’re afraid he will disappear if you do. “What’s happened to him?”

“He has Kryptonite poisoning. He needs a place to lay low so he can recover. I was going to take him to his parents but this thing is quite… intuitive.” 

You don’t respond. How can you respond? It has been so long. 

Lois has moved in front of you, hands on your shoulders rubbing up and down. Her eyes are apologetic, lips rolling in like she is thinking. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but he’s in bad shape and your place is secluded. I know you still care about him, so I’m asking you to please look after him.” 

You bite your lip, trying to calm the nerves firing in your body. You nod, looking past her back onto Clark. Your Clark.

But not really. Not anymore.

“I’m guessing the feds are after him?” You say with a shudder as you think about how bad things must’ve gotten.

“A lot has happened over the last few days. I’m sure you’ve seen the news.” 

Oh, you have. It’s a way to keep tabs on him: to see him flourish as he lets his good intentions fly. It’s a way to see that what he is doing is for the betterment of Metropolis and maybe even the world. That’s the kind of guy Clark is to the core. To see how fast the media turned on him has you whiplashed but you can’t blame them. They fear what they don’t understand, but not you. You’ve always understood him, even when he thought you didn’t. 

You wish he knew how much you understood his heart.

“So, what do we do with him? I think we can lug him out of here together.” Lois says, already rolling back her sleeves.

You sigh, moving up to where his legs end. “You can take the heavier half.”

You both manage to carry him out of the pod and into your home, huffing and puffing as you two basically throw him into your bed, the bed spring groaning loudly. ‘God, he is fucking heavy.’

Lois takes her leave, asking you to keep her updated as she continues to dig into Lex Luthor. You don’t ask questions, accepting that you will find out in due time. Besides, you have your work cut out for you.

You assess him. The dim light hides his condition slightly, the yellow toned shadows giving him cover. You crouch beside him, your hand grabbing his right hand lightly, not wanting to wake him. He still feels so warm; truly the embodiment of the sun. 

God, you missed him so much, and yet you feel selfish for feeling as much. You ended things, yet your heart has never stopped longing for him. Lois would always keep tabs on him for you, and you were grateful. You wonder if he ever asked about you. You’ve considered reaching out but it felt wrong to do so. Why hurt him more? All you know is that in the morning, you both will have to confront each other: something you aren’t sure your heart is ready for.

You play with his sleeve, wondering if you have anything that would fit him, when you feel something beneath. Confused, you gently pull at what feels like plastic, only to be met with a photo that has seen better days. Your breath trembles, eyes glazing over as you look at the moment from a little less than two years ago. A moment where nothing was wrong, and everything was perfect. 

It was the moment you two birthed Spring in the cold Delaware Winter.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark always enjoyed the New Years Eve festivities. It was always a time to celebrate the upcoming year, and this year he is attending a party the Daily Planet hosts. From what he’s been told, the catering is always a hit, the conversations flow, and it’s a time where being a journalist isn’t a main priority. 

He was running late though: running towards the party as he fumbled with the buttons of his white dress shirt and his coat falling off his shoulders in his haste. He couldn’t have predicted that there would be a celestial entity trying to swallow up electricity from the Metropolis Energy Plant on New Years Eve, making him arrive only an hour before the New Year. He didn’t have to be a journalist tonight, but he will always be Superman. That is forever a 24/7 job. 

He looks at his phone, seeing the texts he got from you, teasing in nature due to his tardiness.

New Message 9:30pm: You must be allergic to fun to run late to a NEW YEAR'S EVE PARTY!! Haha! Hope to see you soon?

New Message 10:12pm: You didn’t fall asleep on me, did you? Wakey, wakey, Clark!

New Message 10:30pm: Don’t make me kiss Jimmy for New Years. I won’t survive his fangirls :’)

That last message had Clark rushing. He knew you were joking, but the thought of your lips anywhere but on his own gives him the urgency to move fast. He sent you a text instantly to tell you he was on his way.

The two of you have been seeing each other for a few months. You and him had been circling around each other for a while until a late night research session led to him walking you home. A kiss on the cheek, a physiological response he had before realizing, leading to you kissing him as an answer. It was an unspoken thing, never fully confirmed to be official, even though he was exclusively with you. With the amount of time you two spend together, he can only assume the same applies to you. 

Sometimes he can’t get over how someone as smart and beautiful as you wanted someone like him. He is a bit scatter brained, always going from one thing to the next without realizing, causing him to get clumsy and disoriented. You always told him it was endearing and charming, which he supposes is a win for tall, clumsy giants like him.

The building was in sight and he could see people outside mingling in the cold. They acknowledge him, telling him ‘Happy New Year’ as he responds in kind, walking through the doors. The party is lively: there is dancing, people socializing at the bar, people eating at the small standing tables. It makes him smile, seeing everyone enjoying one another.

His eyes scan the main lobby, looking for you amongst the sea of people, only to land on the dance floor to see you dancing with Lois. And good golly, he can feel his pupils grow bigger and his heart skip a few times as he takes you in. 

You are glowing. As cliche as it sounds, the twinkly lights strung up around the room don't compare to how bright you are. Seeing you smiling, dancing without a care in the world, black cocktail dress riding up slightly with every twirl. Pretty black pumps accentuating your calves. You are a sight to behold, and the more he watches you, the more he wants to join you.

Like a moth to a flame, he draws closer, taking long strides to get into your vicinity. He sees you’ve caught sight of him, smiling fully with your teeth as you wave him over. He can’t help but walk faster, almost tripping in the process. Lucky for him, he made it just in time for you to grab his arm to steady him.

“You made it!” You exclaim. “With an hour to spare too!”

“What happened, Clark? Alarm didn’t go off again?” Lois jokes, nudging your shoulder with a laugh.

He feels the red creep up his neck, hand subconsciously going to rub the back of it. “Something like that.”

“Well,” he hears you start, arms wrapping around the arm at his side. “I’m glad you are here regardless, especially now that I don’t have to kiss Jimmy.”

“You know I would never put you through that.” He reassured, a smile tugging on his lips. “Besides, only I’m allowed to do that.”

“Is that right?” You tease. “Didn’t take you for the jealous type.”

“Not jealous,” Clark hums, pulling you into him. “Just know no one else can compare.”

“Oh God, you’ve turned him into a sick puppy,” Lois gags. “Cute but I’m going to go get a drink.”

You giggle into Clark’s chest, and gosh he loves the way you sound and feel against him. He tugs you a little closer, lips brushing against the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth. The music shifts, party music slowing down to something a little more laid back, and perfect for a slow dance.

You look up at him, and his hand goes up to your cheek, which is hot to the touch. He smirks, leaning down till his face is inches from yours. “You look so beautiful tonight. I can hardly handle it.”

You are rocking with him now, you two dancing under the yellow lights, a Jeff Buckley song playing in the background that Clark can’t name off the top of his head. It was romantic, and he loved that he could stay in this moment with you: admiring, adoring, longing. 

“Yeah? I wore this just for you.” You say, biting your lip as your gaze settles on his.

“Did you now? I don’t know what I did to deserve such a sight.” 

“Keep looking at me like that and you’ll be getting a lot more than just a look.” 

Gosh, you are going to kill him.

“That’ll keep me on my toes,” he says, his hand grasping yours as his other settles on your lower back to keep him grounded.

“Well, someone needs to save you from your clumsiness.” You lean up, and place a kiss along his jaw. He swears he could collapse.

“Keep doing that and you’ll make me fall to my knees.”

“Is that a promise?” You hum against his throat, teeth nipping slightly at the skin.

Clark’s self-control is waning, and before he can react, you are already three steps ahead. You are pulling away from his body, hand staying secure in his as you drag him towards the doors leading outside. A laugh escapes his lips, exhilaration coursing through his veins as you pull him out into the cold, winter air. He knows it is getting close to midnight because a lot of people have migrated inside to toast.

He is pressed against the brick wall of the building, your body fitting against his with hands gripping his jaw. Your thumbs draw circles on the edges, lips close to his as you perch yourself on your tip toes. He is overwhelmed, breaths coming out in huffs with fingers digging into your hips. He knows it isn’t twelve, but he wants nothing more to pull you in and kiss the lipgloss off your lips and taste the vanilla perfume lingering on your skin. 

“Can I kiss you?” He murmurs, forehead falling onto your own.

“You can’t wait till twelve?” Your hands travel until they are behind his neck. “Someone is impatient.”

“It’s hard to be patient when I have a gorgeous woman in my arms.” He hums, eyes becoming lidded. 

“Ah, stop!” You laugh flushed, face burying itself into his chest. “Where did this confidence come from? You are making me dizzy.”

“Must be the festivities,” he says with a low chuckle rumbling from his lips, hands pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. “Also, I must be having a real affect with all these goosebumps on your arms.” 

“It’s cold out here!”

“And you didn’t bring a coat.” He teases.

“No pain, no gain, Kent. The coats I own didn’t look right with this dress. Besides,” you place kisses up to his jaw, hot breath dancing along his ear. “I’ve got you to keep me warm.”

“Geez,” he laughs. “You really are trying to kill me.”

You are laughing with him, but then he hears the cheers from inside the building, ‘Happy New Year’ being chanted by the hundreds of people inside. 

“Looks like you can kiss me now, baby.” 

You didn’t have to tell him twice, bending down to meet your glossed lips, being soft in his movements to reacquaint himself after only a few hours of not kissing you. The taste of cherry seeps into his mouth, the artificial flavor melting on his tongue. Something about the combined taste of the gloss and you is addicting, so much so that he doesn’t care who sees the slightly lewd public display of affection. The fireworks in the distance are nothing compared to the fireworks setting off in his brain.

He can’t contain himself with how your fingers brush up into his hair, fisting the strands to draw him closer, like you want to melt into him. It makes him surge, arms wrapping around your middle to lift you, getting you leveled to him. His grip stays strong with one arm, letting one go free to hold the back of your head, anchoring you to him as he continues his ministrations on your lips. You squeal, legs kicking gently with arms grounding themselves into his back. He groans softly, adoring the way you react to him. 

It isn’t until a bright flash goes off that you both simultaneously stop, heavy breaths creating cold smoke in the air. Clark turns his head to see Jimmy, smirking as he quickly airs out what looks to be a polaroid photo. 

“I’m doing a story on New Year's traditions, and I think you two fit the New Year’s Kiss tradition quite well.”

Clark is stunned, setting you down gently and holding you until you have your balance. He hears you hum, curling into his side as you look at Jimmy. “I’m sure Perry will love seeing two of his best journalists making out for your column piece.”

Jimmy throws his head back, laughter filling the area as he shakes his head. “That would give me another story to cover. Two birds with one stone. Even though right now, I think I’m witnessing the beginning of the Birds and the Bees.”

“Jimmy!” You gawked.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!” His hands go up in surrender, walking over. “I actually just took this for you both. I thought a memory of tonight would be nice.”

Jimmy hands you the photo, and Clark glances down at it. It is still producing, but what he sees makes him smile. Seeing how you look in his arms, seeing the ease on your face when you kiss him. He is in awe at how you two look together, like everything is in its right place. 

“I can’t believe I’m about to thank you for being a perv, but thanks for being a perv, Jimmy,” you say with eyes glued to the photo. 

“Oh ha ha, very funny,” Jimmy says sarcastically. “Well, I’m going to go back in. You two coming inside?”

Clark feels you shiver beside him, and in an instant he opens his jacket and pulls you into it, wrapping it until most of your body is covered. You hum, pressing into him to soak up his warmth. Your eyes lift up to meet him, and immediately he reads what you are wanting. You want to go home. With him.

“I think we are going to head out. It’s a little cold out for this one.”

Another snap goes off, and Clark looks to see that Jimmy snapped another photo, repeating the motions of activating the picture. 

“Here is a parting gift. Thought both of you would like one each so you don’t have to switch it off every week,” he shrugs, handing the photo to Clark. “You two get home safe. Happy New Year!”

Jimmy goes back inside, and the minute the door closes, you speak.

“Take me home, Clark” 

The walk home blurs together. It is full of kisses, not so subtle touches, and silly banter that sends Clark into the stratosphere. Every time he is with you, it feels natural. He doesn’t necessarily have to hide himself, not like he usually does. He always worries his mannerisms will lead others to discover his identity, but with you it's different. He can let his guard down, and not worry that he is putting you in any kind of danger. Because he can be himself with you, you feel like home to him, even in the short amount of time you’ve been seeing each other.

You both arrived at your apartment building, heading up the stairs hand in hand. He can’t help himself when you go to unlock the door, hands resting on your hips rubbing circles with his thumbs. He hears your heart rate quicken, your breath becoming shallow as your hands twist the key and push the door open. 

You both walk in, and once the door shuts, all of Clark’s inhibitions go out the window. He is on you in seconds, hoisting you up in his arms and landing you against the back of your front door. His mouth claims yours, a new found hunger in the way he moves against you. You suck on his tongue, coaxing deep noises from his chest, and then he feels you trying to push his coat off his broad shoulders. 

He uses his hips to keep you up, his hard on pressing into your core, and teasingly takes his coat off. You groan at his pace, hands running down his arms to help push the material off before fisting his shirt and pulling him back in. His hands go to your thighs, moving up to push the black dress up until it scrunches up above your butt. His hands decide to rest there, moulding the flesh until his grip is firm enough to help you grind into him. 

His lips move from your lips to your skin, eager to taste the delicious vanilla perfume that has mixed so well with your pheromones. He kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the delicate flesh one spot at a time. It has you releasing sounds he’s only heard in his wildest dreams, and it makes his pants grow tighter. He can’t believe he is the one causing you to act like this. He can’t get drunk, but he imagines this is what it must feel like: your noises becoming the alcohol that runs through his system. 

“You taste so good, honey,” Clark moans into your neck. “Need to taste every inch of you. Need to suffocate in it.”

“Clark,” you gasp out, causing him to bite down a little harder to hear your voice go higher. 

“Someone’s needy,” he murmurs, tongue soothing the love bite he has granted you. Something inside him hopes it still lingers there in the morning. 

“If you don’t take me to bed right now, I swear to God,” you whine, head thudding against the door. 

“Easy there,” he chuckles, hand going to the back of your head, clutching you so he can carry you to your room. “Don’t want you getting hurt.” 

It takes seconds to get to your bed, laying you down carefully before standing at the edge. He goes to take his shirt off, only to stop when you push yourself up until you are on your knees for him. 

“Let me take it off.”

So he lets you, watching your fingers remove each button diligently. The tone of the night has shifted into something more tender, the hunger simmering down. It’s agonizing but with how you are looking at him, like he is your whole world, makes him want to take care of you like you deserve.

The buttons are undone, and he takes it off, muscles flexing as he does. Your mouth is on his chest, kissing his pectorals while your hands run up and down his sides. He takes the opportunity to take your dress fully off, getting you to release him before reattaching as he flings it away. 

He is becoming overwhelmed with how you touch him, sweet kisses laced with splendor landing all over his chest. Your hands are at his belt, unbuckling it along with the button and zipper of his black pants. It isn’t until you push the trousers down that his hands go to yours, his knee settling between your legs as he pushes you down onto the bed.

“I’m not done tasting you, sweetheart.” He kisses your sternum, smirking when he hears you huff.

“Well, maybe I wanna taste you too.”

“Not tonight, baby. With this being our first time together, I’m going to take care of you tonight.” He trails lower, nipping at your hipbones as he lifts your hips to remove your pretty black panties. “You can taste me another time.”

“Do you promise?” You ask innocently, and it makes his insides churn.

“Mhmm,” he hums, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and settling his free hand at your waist. “Now, let me enjoy this.”

He takes his time, his lips and tongue going everywhere except for where you need him. He wants to savor every last second of him pleasing you, getting you ready for him. He wants to prove to you he is a man that can satisfy his woman, read her wants and needs, and get her to the finish line. You’ve told him about previous lovers, how they never amounted to anything and never took you into consideration. But he was determined to show you how good you can feel with him, and he isn’t going to fail. He will never fail you. 

You smell intoxicating, his mouth watering as he anticipates his own moves. He sees how your slit leaks, like it’s also waiting and craving for him to do something. The sight alone makes him cave, tongue rolling out to lick your clit slowly, causing your hips to bounce up with a shaky moan.

His hand holds your hip down, mouth getting his fill. His tongue alternates with his lips against your clit, sucking to bring you closer and licking to edge you on. He feels you twitch against him, hips shifting in a struggle to keep still. It makes him smile knowing you are feeling good.

The hand by your stomach trails up, reaching your bra only to yank the cups down until your breasts spill out. He grasps at your right one, squeezing it while giving a particularly hard suck to your clit, leading to a visceral reaction.

“Oh— fuck,” you cry out, back arching. 

He pinches your nipple, a thrash of your hips as your answer, and it makes him grunt heavy into your cunt. He steadies your thigh so it stays on him before bringing his other hand to your entrance. He lets both his spit and your wetness coat his fingers before he slides one into you, rubbing against your walls to work you open.

“Clark—,” you draw out, sounding delirious. 

“Mmm you look so pretty like this, sweetheart.” Clark adds another finger in, curling his fingers each time they enter your tight heat. He can tell you are close, seeing how your nerve endings are sparking up, ready for the dopamine release he is about to grant you. However, he doesn’t need to use his x-ray vision to tell with the way you are dripping down his fingers.

“I want you to look at me, honey,” Clark says against your slit. “I want to see you when you release on my fingers.”

He watches you nod, attempting to prop yourself on your elbows only to fall back when he adds a third finger. Something deep releases from you, a mix of frustration and pleasur. “Fuck— I can’t.”

Clark is fast to help you both out, hand releasing your breast to wrap his arm under your body, yanking you up until you're elevated from the pillows on your bed. His fingers are still going strong, working you to tears as he moves up to watch you with his forehead pressed against yours. 

“I got you, sweetheart,” he murmurs, placing kisses against the apples of your cheeks. 

“I’m so close, Clark— oh God,” you sob, releasing a louder one once he places his thumb on your clit. 

“Let go for me, beautiful.” He steadies your head, fingers in your hair to keep your eyes on him. “Give it to me.”

Your body reacts to his command, your orgasm rushing against his fingers. He feels you spasming, and glancing down he sees the white fluid coating his fingers. His mouth waters, both from how you look falling apart for him and how much you are spilling onto his hand. An urge arises, and he can’t help but go back down between your legs, latching to your clit with vigor and lifting your hips off the bed. 

A shrill wail bounces around the room. Your hands grab at his head, pushing and pulling like you can’t decide if the overstimulation is good for you. But Clark knows it is good; he knows by the way you only grow wetter at his ministrations. Hearing your cries and your babbling as he eats you alive is music to his hypertensive ears, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get over it.

He lifts himself from you, easing his fingers out that glisten under the moonlight shining into your room. He slides them into his mouth, relishing in it as he watches you breathe heavy, eye lids lazy. With his fingers clean, he crawls back up to you, hands on your cheeks to draw you back into him. 

“How are you holding up, sweet girl?”

“You are– wow,” you sigh with a laugh. Your hands mirror his, thumbs rubbing into the stubble of his jaw where there is a dampness. It is tender and he leans into the softness of your hand, turning his head to kiss the inside of it. 

“Looks like I’ve taken the words right from your mouth,” Clark teases, leaning down to kiss your lips softly. 

Your fingertips brush up towards his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just can’t believe you ate me out with your glasses on. Thought they would get in the way.”

“O-oh, right,” Clark stutters, brain finally recognizing his glasses are still on. “I guess I like to make sure my world is crystal clear.”

“Oh, are you saying I’m your world?” You jest.

“Now you’re making me seem corny.”

“No,” you draw out, kissing the spot right above the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s very sweet, especially the way you talk me through it.”

He groans, loving the way you are praising him. “What can I say? You look so gorgeous when you fall apart by my hand.”

“Mmm, I bet I’d look even better above you.” 

“Yeah?” He pulls back, thumbs rubbing against your lips, enamored with how pink and swollen they’ve gotten. “You want to ride me, sweetheart?”

“You’d let me?” 

“I’d do anything you want, especially if it makes you more comfortable for our first time together.” And especially if it helps keep his glasses on.

“Oh-okay, then can you take your underwear off so I can see all of you? Please?”

Clark chuckles, moving off the bed. “Somebody’s impatient.” He stands up straight, thumbs hooked under the elastic to relinquish himself of his boxer briefs. His dick smacks heavy against his stomach, hard and drooling.

“Oh God…” he watches you turn on your side with hands on your face.

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks, snapping out of his horny haze to examine everything.

“You are fucking huge, Clark.” 

“I mean, I guess I’m about average—”

“And you’re uncut!”

Clark gawks. “Is that a turn on for you?”

You turn back to him, patting the bed beside you. “How about you lay down and I’ll show you.”

Clark could pounce on you for how cute you’re being, but he restrains himself. He crawls back into bed to lay flat down, not before grabbing you to have you on top. You adjust on top of him as he kisses you, tongue swiping against your lower lip, begging for you to deepen the kiss. The moment your mouth opens for him, he feels your slit sit firmly on his cock. He groans into your mouth, hands holding the back of your head to keep himself together, your lips grounding him as you rock your hips back and forth.

Your bra is still on you, and Clark can’t have that. His hands go to the middle of your back where the clasp lays, and with ease unclasps it. His fingers trail up your arms, pushing the straps down until you are forced to release him to tear it off. 

Your tongue is hot in his mouth, every grind of your hips sends a pulse through his cock. With every pulse, a moan is fed down his throat, and he swallows every one you grant him. When you pull away from his mouth, he can’t help but whine.

“Don’t worry, baby. It’s my turn to make you feel good.” Your fingers brush his lips, slick with spit. 

He loves watching you like this. You are a determined person: always having a sense of control. He sees it in your work ethic, in the way you hold yourself. He loves that he gets the best of both worlds with you: one where you are shaking beneath him and one where you turn him into a complete mess. He doesn’t know what you’ll do, but he knows you will be his ruin. 

He cannot wait to fall apart under your hand.

“I have a condom in my coat pocket.” He says in between kisses he places on your finger tips. “Did you want me to get it?”

“Oh wow, someone knew they were getting lucky tonight.”

“Well, I mean… I didn’t think, um, I mean not exactly—”

Your head is thrown back, laughing fully with your chest. “I’m just messing with you, you goof. Besides,” your hand wraps around his cock, stroking him enough to get him covered with your slick and his pre. “I’m on birth control, so you can cum inside me as much as you want.”

His face is so red. He feels the heat burning his skin at your words. “You cannot just say stuff like that.”

“Awe and why’s that?” You coo, lining him up to your entrance.

“You know exactly why— ah!”

His tip is engulfed, his cock slowly making its way into you. Your hands lay flat on his chest, steadying yourself so you can take the time you need to adjust. His head is thrown back into the pillows, where he smells you so clearly, and it’s driving him insane. He wants to watch you, but shoot, you feel too good. He knows he’s a goner.

“Clark…” He feels your fingertips on his chin, pushing down so he is made to look at you. “I looked at you when I came. You’re gonna do the same for me.”

You ease down a little bit more, and Clark is already losing it. Your walls hug him so well, a perfect fit between two people. He doesn’t know if it’s his abnormal origin or what but the way he is having to hold back is through sheer willpower. He’s had rendezvous affairs before but he has always felt in control: like he’s not going to slip up.

But this? You on top of him, basically sitting on him pelvis to pelvis now, oh he could break. It makes him sweat knowing he could rock into you at such a pace that it would catch you off guard. It would create suspicion and that scares him. His fear nags at him, but his adoration and love are stronger, reminding him that this is you. You trust him, and he’s grateful. 

“What’s wrong, Clark? Why are you crying?” 

“What?” His hand shoots to his face, a wetness under his eyes he didn’t suspect.

“We don’t have to do this, Clark. We can stop—“

“Don’t you dare stop,” he responds immediately. “You’re just incredible. I am the luckiest man in the world to have someone like you with me.”

He loves you. He hopes somewhere in there, you understand what he’s saying.

“Oh Clark,” you purr, leaning down until your face is over his. “Trust me when I say this: I’m the lucky one. I’ve never been so happy in my life.”

More tears fall, a smile growing big on his face when he feels the kisses on his lips: quick and full of little laughs. His laughs die in his throat, however, because when you start to rock your hips, up and down, they turn into prolonged groans. 

You’re sitting back up, hands pressing down on his chest as you bounce on him, eyes never leaving his. It’s intense the way you look at him, causing him to look down between your legs to see his shaft entering you. 

“You look so pretty, Clark.” You cooed at him, and he watched as you dropped harder into his lap. “I love how needy you are for me.”

“Please, baby— fuck!” Clark throws his head back, hands shooting to your hips like holding you to him will calm him down. Like it will hold him back from slamming into you. 

You gasped. “Wow! What an honor that I can get certified gentleman Clark Kent to curse for me.”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t— hmph! I couldn’t help it. You feel too good around me, honey.” He knows he’s babbling, his senses consuming him with everything that is you.

“It’s okay, my darling. It’s very hot when you lose yourself like this. It feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Clark can only nod, your pace growing faster. He’s throbbing, and he wonders if you can feel it. You answer his question when a particular drop of your hips has you moaning out into the air, hips stilling for a second. He seizes this opportunity, using his elbows to push himself up until his back is pressed against the headboard. He yanks you back into him until you are sitting in his lap, and he makes it so your legs are wrapped around his waist. 

“Come on, honey. You wanted to watch me fall apart, right? Let’s keep it going.”

He leans you back just a little, enough for his left hand to stay on the mattress to support you under his arm. His feet plant into it, and he rolls his hips back and forth slow and hard. Your hands are tugging hard at his hair, and he grunts low with every pull. Your tits are bouncing with every push, and they tempt him. Saliva produces intensely and giving into temptation, he ducks to latch onto your right nipple. He feels it pebble on his tongue as it curls and lathers it, only sucking harder when he wants to hear you more.

“Music to my ears,” he says with a pop, already going to the other to give it attention as he continues to make love to you.

“Jesus Christ,” you choke. “You are a menace.”

“And you are an enabler,” he laughs, lifting his head back to look at you.

“An enabler?!”

“Yeah with the way you got me cursing. You are a bad influence.”

“You said fuck once, Clark.”

He thrusts in harder at that, shaking a gasp from your lungs. “One too many.”

He doesn’t know what he expected, but next thing he knows he is back up against the headboard. Your knees are back beside his thighs, and you are going full force on him. The way you start to ride him, back arched in with hips slamming down on his cock, has his jaw slacked. He sees your hand grab at the headboard and the other goes to his throat. There is no pressure, but feeling it there makes Clark lightheaded. 

“You know what I think, Clark?” You breathe against his ear. “I think you like that I’m a bad influence.”

His head falls forward on your shoulder, shuddering at how you are reading him. 

“You love not being restrained, right? That sweet, gentleman from Kansas persona must be exhausting, yeah?”

His breathing is getting erratic, which isn’t commonplace for him. Granted, the way you make him feel isn’t.

“You know you can be however you need to be with me because I accept every part of you. I accept that you are Superman because I love you.”

His eyes shoot open, head shooting up. “Superman? What?”

He is freaking out. There is no way you know. He had been so good at hiding it, or at least he thought he did. What gave it away? Oh no, this is not how he wanted you to find out. He wanted to tell you personally. He wanted to have a moment of honesty when the time is right. 

“Shhhh,” you hush softly, hands going to his face to soothe. “It’s okay, Clark. I’ve always known.”

“You,” he swallows. “You did?” 

“Yes, and I need you to know that it doesn’t matter to me. It doesn’t change anything.”

The sentimental moment should not bring him closer to releasing, but it is. He is so close. So freaking close. 

“You are mine, Clark. You’re my Clark no matter what. And I want you to let go for me.” He feels you place a kiss under his ear. “Let go for me, my darling. Please.”

He is so fucking gone. His ears are ringing. Static is running through his veins as he shakes. His mind is no longer in his control, not with the way he is pounding into you from below. It’s almost an out of body experience, except he is experiencing everything. His senses are blank, yet they are receiving every pleasurable shockwave. He has never felt anything like this, and he doesn’t want it to end. 

But the strange thing is: it does end. The minute his eyes open, he isn’t in your apartment anymore. And the euphoric pleasure he was in is gone and replaced with an incredible ache that covers his entire body. 

‘What was that?’ He thinks. He has dreamed that memory so many times, yet it has never ended that way before. It scared him, but that relief he had felt was still there. Even if it wasn’t real.

He doesn’t move for a second; just takes in everything he sees. There is a brown ceiling fan spinning slowly. There are two windows, one beside the dresser and the other to his direct left, blinds cracked to reveal shimmering sunlight. There is a dark wooden dresser in front of him with little knick knacks on top. There is a table beside it full of perfume bottles, a jewelry box, and a lamp. To his right, he sees a desk with papers and a laptop on it, weirdly familiar in the way it reminds him of his own desk at the Daily Planet. There is art on the walls, paintings mostly aside from a few posters and pictures. It isn’t until his eyes focus in on one of the picture frames that his heart stops, anxiety spiking. 

He gets up slowly, the bed creaking with every movement. He walks over to the picture hung beside the bed, and what he sees shocks him. What he sees is you.

You are in your cap and gown, holding your diploma with that beautiful smile on your face. He looks at another one, and it is of you and Lois from Halloween last year. You two were dressed as Wayne and Garth from Wayne’s World. It had been a month since the break up. It was three months before you moved away.

He walks over to the desk, and even with the clutter he sees two picture frames. One was you when you were younger with your grandma on a bench swing. You were laughing, twisted around in her arms: a beautiful memory. He had met your grandma once when she came to visit Metropolis. It was apparent you two were very close, being the only family you had left, and she was so kind-hearted. It made sense she had been the one to raise you.

He moves on to the other photo and it isn’t until his eyes land on it that he feels a wave nausea course through him.

You had kept the other New Years Eve photo. 

His shaking hand picks it up, eyes scanning it to ingrain it. He hadn’t seen this version of that night in so long, and he was sure you would have thrown it out. Why would you keep it?

Nothing makes sense. Why is he here and where is here exactly?

He hears footsteps coming from across the house and he panics. Does he lay back down and act asleep? Does he apologize for intruding? Does he sneak out the stupid window like some kind of teenager? He isn’t Clark Kent right now. He’s Superman. What can he even say?

It’s too late to act though because before he knows it the door opens and time stops all together. He feels like a deer caught inbetween the headlights, frozen in place because everything about this situation doesn’t feel real. Holding your picture in his Superman attire, staring back at the one person who always brought him back to earth. He’s surprised he hasn’t passed out from the weight.

You closed the door gently, eyes not leaving his. You look nervous and guarded, hands holding some clothes that he recognizes as his own. Some he probably let you borrow a while back. Clothes you didn’t throw away.

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah, well I-” he starts before swallowing his own saliva. “Ma’am I’m sorry to intrude. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how I got here. Forgive my—”

“It’s okay, Clark. I know it’s you.”

That shuts him up, eyes bulging out of his eye sockets. “What…”

“I’ve always known, so you don’t need to act weird.” You look away from him, walking towards the bed to set the clothes down. “You probably have questions, and I have some too. However, I’m sure you want to shower and change into something more comfortable.”

He’s speechless. What does he even say to that?

“I’m about to cook breakfast, so come to the kitchen when you’re ready. And one more thing.” You are looking back at him again, and he notices how tired you are. It worries him. “My grandma is here. Don’t worry about her as her eye sight isn’t the greatest. She won’t notice anything different.” 

With that you shut the door with a soft click. He hears you patter down the hallway, and he doesn’t dare move. His thoughts are running a million miles per minute. He’s paralyzed because of you and your confession.

You are back in his orbit.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

“Here you go, Grammie.”

“Oh…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like boiled eggs.”

“You liked the boiled eggs I made you last week.”

“Did I?”

“Sure did.”

“What about oatmeal? Do we have any oatmeal?” 

“Um, yeah we do.”

“Can I have some oatmeal, darling? Please?”

“Yeah, no problem.” 

You sigh as you walk into the kitchen, breakfast meant for your grandma now meant for you. You hate when she does that. You should expect it by now, but it still drives you crazy how she will switch up. In reality, it’s not that much of a problem; making oatmeal is super quick. But you also know she needs protein and other nutrients that aren’t just steel cut oats. On the other hand, eating is better than not eating at all 

You grab the Quaker Oats box, prepping a bowl for the microwave before getting out some other products for flavor. You hear the door from the hallway open, the heavy patting of feet hitting the floor, and soon enough Clark is in your line of sight. 

He looks good. You luckily had a couple of his flannels and gym shorts, having packed them by mistake when you moved. He had on the dark blue and brown flannel with light grey shorts. Not a perfect match, but better than him walking around in his boxers or whatever he wears under his suit.

Oh God, if he even wears any.

“Smells good,” he says, voice a little rough. “Oatmeal?”

“The oatmeal is for my grandma, but I made some, um, boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits. There is also some yogurt and berries. I hope that’s okay?” You don’t know why you ask it like a question. 

“Of course it is okay. I appreciate it.” 

“Great, well, plates are up in that cabinet. Please take what you like.” As you finish your sentence, the microwave goes off, taking your attention away from him.

There is a silence between you two. You expected as such, but it wasn’t comfortable like it used to be. The air was tense and uncertain. It had been close to a year since you’d seen him, and a lot has happened. However, a small part of you wish it felt like it used to. Now, it feels like you two are strangers and it kills you inside.

You bring the apple brown cinnamon oatmeal to your grandma, making sure she is sat all the way up in her bed before eating. You tell her you’ll check in on her soon before shutting her door. You walk into the dining room where Clark is, seeing him looking out the window. You see he hasn’t touched his food, and see another plate set up with the food you cooked in the seat across from him. A small smile creeps onto your face. Still ever the gentleman. 

“Thank you for making me a plate. That’s very kind of you.”

Clark looks at you and you see his eyes light up. “It is no trouble. You cooked.”

You nod before taking your seat, taking the time to enjoy your meal. It is quiet again, but it is a silence that is begging to be broken. Lucky for you, Clark has no problem with that.

“So, is this your house or is it your grandma’s?”

“It’s my grandma’s, but I did grow up here. The room you were in was my old room that I kinda made new when I moved back here.”

Clark hums. “So I’m guessing we are in Louisa right now?”

“We sure are,” you confirm. “It’s no Smallville, but there is a charm here I guess.”

“I’m sure it is nice,” Clark suggests. “I am curious as to how I got here though.”

“Hmm…” You lean back in your chair, arms folded. “What do you remember last?”

Clark swallows his food, setting his fork down to clasp his hands in front of him. You can tell he remembers, but doesn’t want to indulge. It makes you think he must’ve seen some horrific things. 

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” you reassure. “All I can say is Lois brought you here. I’m guessing she didn’t really know where to locate your parents, and she didn’t feel like she had the time to figure it out. So, she brought you here.”

“I must have been in pretty rough shape.”

“You had Kryptonite poisoning.” 

He stays silent for a moment, eyes staring at the middle of the table. His jaw works like he wants to say something, but his mouth won’t open for the words to come out. There is conflict in his brow, and you wish you could get up and hug him. But you don’t. You stay glued in your seat patiently.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath through his nose before releasing through his mouth. His eyes open, and what you see is a vulnerable boy staring right back at you; a side of Clark you rarely ever saw.

“When did you find out I was Superman?”

“I’ve known for a while,” you start, taking a sip of your orange juice before continuing. “I found out on the morning of New Years.”

“How?” 

“I had woken up, and when I went to get up I had noticed you still had your glasses on.” You look down at your hands, uneasy in how you were going to say this next part. “I didn’t want them to break, so I took them off while you were sleeping. I didn’t think much of it but then I saw your face without them and I felt like I had gone crazy because it wasn’t you, but it also was.”

There it is again: silence. God, you hate the fucking silence. 

Clark’s voice chokes, and you wish it was because he had choked on his food but no. It’s from disbelief. You hate the sound of that more. “You’ve known for that long? You knew and didn’t say anything?”

“It’s not like you told me,” you try to reason. “I thought it would be better for me to wait until you were ready to tell me, but as time went on, it seemed less likely.”

Clark’s food remains untouched at this point, plate pushed to the side so there is a place to put his elbows. His face is in his hands, breath staggered like he’s having a hard time keeping oxygen down. You’ve never seen him like this before. Not even when you ended things.

“Clark, I—”

“Is that why you left?” 

You are stunned. Out of all the things he could’ve asked, you didn’t expect him to ask that. Honestly, it kind of pissed you off.

“What? No, Clark. I didn’t leave because of your little secret.” You cringe at how harsh you sounded, but it couldn’t be helped. “I apologize if I never fully explained why I left, but not everything revolves around you.”

“It has everything to do with me!” He raises his voice. Not quite yelling, but emotions are running high. “It has everything to do with me when you end things with no explanation. ‘I have a lot going on’ is not a good answer.” He’s looking at you dead on, and the look on his face is so unlike him. It’s Clark, but it’s a side of him he never let you see: frustration, anguish, distress.

You want to tell him why. He’s going to see for himself soon enough, but there is a pettiness in your heart you can’t seem to get rid of. There is a stubbornness that knows he is right, yet refuses to accept it. You can admit you are at fault, but he isn’t innocent. This isn’t all on you.

“You say all this yet it’s not like you fought for me to stay in your life.” Your words are cold. “I didn’t ask you to, so I’m not angry. I’m not upset. I had my reasons, Clark. Also, by the way, just goes to show how much you trust me with how you told Lois and not me!”

“You think I would tell Lois?” He scoffs. “She confronted me because she connected the dots! I didn’t see a point in lying!”

“But you felt so comfortable hiding it from me? Isn’t that considered lying?” You shouldn’t be this heated but something in you is screaming. “When you cancel plans because ‘stuff’ came up? When you leave in the middle of the night? How dare you ask for an explanation from me when you never gave me one?”

Clark is getting up from the table, aggravation clear on his face. You’ve never had an argument like this. Even when this is not a screaming match, it feels worse: two emotionally constipated adults trying to one up each other rather than saying the silent part out loud. You thought things would be different after a year's time, but you were kidding yourself. How could things be different when nothing was solved to begin with?

Your phone rings, and you look to see your grandma is calling. You don’t answer, looking to the kitchen to see Clark doing the dishes. You couldn’t tell if he was doing them to relieve himself of the irritation, to be polite, or both. Knowing him, it’s probably the ladder.

You walk to your grandma’s room, opening to see her on the phone until she sees you. “What’s the commotion? Who’s here?”

“Oh, um,” you start, scratching your head. “Well, do you remember Clark?”

“Oh that handsome young man? Of course! I didn’t know you two were still together.”

Thanks for bringing it up, Grammie. Twist the knife a little deeper.

You shake your head. “He’s just visiting. He won’t be here long. Now, let's get you into your wheelchair for a little bit, yeah?”

She groans, causing you to roll your eyes. “I know you hate it but you need to get your back stronger so I can take you to appointments.”

“Who needs to go anywhere?” She sighs. “I’m quite content staying here.”

“I know you are, but since specialists won’t come here, we gotta get to them. You may think it’s ridiculous but I promise you’ll thank me later.” 

She doesn’t respond and you are thankful. It’s exhausting having to explain her health to her, and you hate that it exhausts you. It aggravates you that her health coverage won’t cover certain home visits, and the ones they do cover are unreliable, cancelling appointment after appointment. You’ve tried going to see health professionals before but the transport costs an arm and a leg, plus your grandma couldn’t withstand the far drive into town. You wish you could do more for her. You wish you were stronger for her. You wish you had the mental capacity to have more patience. 

You help her sit up, steadying her before grabbing the wheelchair, the gait belt, and the transfer board. You click the belt around her waist, lock the wheelchair breaks and double check that they are secure, and then place the transfer board under her bottom. You set your position, grabbing the belt and making sure you weren’t in the way of her feet.

“Okay, remember to just slide your hand along the board until it reaches the armrest. Once you grab it, pull yourself.” 

She nods and on the count of three, you hold onto her as she slowly moves. You are holding a lot of her weight up, a constant fear that she will slip and you won’t have a good grip. It’s a lot on your body; one wrong move and your back goes out. It’s tiresome but it’s needed. The more you help her with this, the less you’ll have to do in time.

“Alright, good job. Almost there,” you say encouragingly.

“I’m slipping,” she huffs. “I’m going to fall.”

“I got you. I’m going to count to three and I want you to hold on to me, okay? I’m going to pull you the rest of the way.” 

You count to three, and with a deep breath you heave her over into the wheelchair. You adjust her, moving her legs more in and then moving back to pull her more into the wheelchair. 

“You okay? See that wasn’t so bad.” You try to sound convincing, but the elevated breathing didn’t help.

“Y-yeah, I guess.” Your grandma knows you are lying. She always does. “I just don’t like that you have to do this by yourself. I have the money to get a caretaker, darling. We should get one so you can have a break.”

“Yeah,” you exhale. “Maybe once you stop buying stuff from HSN”

“Okay, but what else am I supposed to do? I just lay here all day!” She exclaims, hands in the air.

“You do not. You just don’t want to do anything else, even if it’s good for you,” you say, trying to not get irritated. You take a deep breath, reigning yourself in. ‘Do not take it out on her,’ you think. 

“Listen,” you sigh, hands on your hips. “Maybe once I get my book published, we can look into it. I understand what you’re saying, but finding a good caretaker takes time and the rates add up. I am making very little right now, so all we have is your income from retirement and social security to pay bills. Also, if we need to send you to the hospital again, heaven forbid, you need money for that. I am trying.”

“I know, darling,” she says, looking at her hands. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Grammie,” you say, feeling bad because you see how much it bothers her that her independence was stripped away. Now you both live in this dance of highs and lows, which you wish you had better control over. Because at the end of the day, this is your grandma and this isn’t her fault. It’s no one’s.

“Now,” you clap your hands, grabbing the remote off the rolling tray by the bed. “Did you want to watch some TV? We can go into the living room or if you want, you can stay and watch in here.”

Before she can answer, there is a soft knock from the door. You look to see Clark’s head slowly peaking in, hesitantly to assure no intrusion.

“Hey,” he clears his throat. “The dishes are washed and they are drying on the rack. I wrapped your food up too in case you want it later.”

Your heart speeds up at that. The thoughtfulness that is Clark Kent.

Clark steps in, walking towards your grandma with eyes wide and smile quirked. “And look at this young lady here.”

“Oh hi, Clark!” She says excitedly. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been so long.”

You think back to when your grandma met Clark for the first time. She had come to visit for the holidays, and you introduced her to him. And they just talked, and talked, and talked. It warmed you so, seeing the two people you cared deeply for talking and laughing together. You recall the time Christmas music was playing in your living room, ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! playing in the background, and Clark had started dancing with her around the living room. He was good to her, bringing so much life and light that it made your heart spin. It was the moment you knew he was the one, and that you loved him; that no man could ever compare to Clark Kent. 

God, you’re gonna be sick.

“Darling?”

“Huh?” Shaken out of your daze, your eyes refocus. You see Clark has a chair pulled up, hands cradling your grandma’s. 

“You should go lay down, darling. Rest a little bit. Clark and I have some catching up to do,” she chirps happily.

“Grammie, I know you are excited to see him, but he needs to—”

“I’ll be okay. Just leave the windows up. The sunlight is enough.”

Any frustration that Clark had earlier is gone, and a completely new face is there before you. One of understanding and tenderness that leaves you breathless. The one you’d see after a long day of work. The one you’d see when you close your eyes. 

It’s love. It’s the look of love.

“Please,” he begs. “Get some rest.” 

“Um… yeah. Yeah, okay. Can you wake me up in a little bit?” 

“I got you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You don’t know how much more you can take of him.

You make your retreat, walking into your room only to crash onto the bed. Your head feels fuzzy from the lack of sleep you’ve been getting lately, but the pillows that welcome you feel divine. But what makes you at ease, body responding as it relaxes, is how Clark’s scent trails up your nose. His scent has infused into your bedding, and it calms you until there is a lull. Sleep consumes you and he infiltrates your dreams.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark feels like a jerk. A big, buttheaded jerk.

He’s not a mind reader by any means, but he has instincts. When he is Superman, he is making decisions based on instinct: what will cause the least amount of damage? What will save the most people? It is second nature to him, so why couldn’t he use that to shut up and listen? Why did he have to jump to conclusions like a freaking idiot?

He felt the hurt the second he stood up to leave the conversation. He saw the way your shoulders slacked, how your heart rate thumped like crazy. He should’ve apologized at that moment, for making rash judgements, for raising his voice, but no. He had to double down. 

He did the dishes, trying to take his mind off of things, but how could he? He is in your vicinity disrupting your life. It didn’t matter how focused he was on scrubbing the plates and putting the cups into the dishwasher. His mind would snap back to how you looked just then: discouraged, upset, sad. It makes him nauseous. And as he wraps your food up, seeing the barely touched plate sitting at the table, he can’t help but know you are right. 

He did lie to you, even if it was to ensure your safety. After seeing what happened to Mali, someone who had simply offered his kindness, only reaffirms he was in the right to hide it from you. If someone like Lex knew of your existence and did something to harm you, he would never recover. Half of his heart would be gone forever. He never meant to make you feel like he strung you along with his vague excuses.

However, the devil’s advocate in him tells him he’d be able to save you, that he can protect you. He would die before he let anything happen to you. Clark doesn’t believe in killing, but if someone dared lay a finger on you, they’d regret it. If there is one thing he is selfish about, it is you. He loves you too much to let go.

So, why did he? Why didn’t he fight harder?

‘Oh, yeah. Because I’m a freaking idiot and a jerk.’

He closed the dishwasher, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel when he heard it: heartbeats, rapid in succession. He knew one was yours, but there was another. It was more elevated, panicky even. It threw Clark for a loop, not hearing any other commotion. So, like the journalist he is, he investigates. 

The door in the hallway is cracked, and the pulses get stronger. He peaks, feeling slightly intrusive without trying to be, and the sight before him makes him sigh sadly. 

He had only met your grandma once, and she is a lovely woman. Full of love, cheer, not a care in the world. It was something he saw in you, and it made sense you were cut from the same cloth. A wonderful woman raising another wonderful woman. It wasn’t that long ago, so seeing her now, legs contracted at the knees and struggling to get in the wheelchair with your help, shattered him. 

It only worsens when he looks at you, struggling to help her. He sees what it is doing to your body, how it is creating tension in your muscles. It is no surprise you are tired, caretaking for another person. It makes him want to burst in there and help, but he stays in place. He can already hear the scolding he’d get if he interferes. For now, he watches, trying to put the puzzle pieces together.

Did you leave because your grandma became ill? Have you been taking care of her this whole time?

For the most part, your grandma seemed relatively healthy. Even without X-Ray vision, he sees she’s alert, knows what’s going on, and has some upper arm strength. He wonders what possibly could’ve brought her to this point? Was she worse off at one point? Has she improved any? All these questions run through Clark’s head, and while it is none of his business, he wants to understand. 

So with that, he knocks on the door to let himself in and from then on it’s the start of a world of information. After talking with your grandma, he feels even more like a jerk than before. 

After you’d gone to lay down, they didn’t get too much into anything. She had asked him how work was, if anything was new, why he was visiting, how long he was visiting for. White lies, of course, are what he had to lean on. 

“Work has been great! They got me handling a lot of the press regarding Superman. They seem to think I understand him fairly well.” ‘Who knows Superman better than Superman himself?’

“I wasn’t feeling too well recently, but being away from Metropolis has helped!” ‘I had Kryptonite poisoning because some psycho doesn’t like me.’

“I came to see your granddaughter.” ‘Not on purpose, but I’m glad to see her again. I love her.’

“Probably not for long.” That’s the only thing that’s completely truthful because he’s Superman. The world needs him, and he can’t stay here forever. Even if he wants to.

Then, they got into her circumstances, which are your circumstances. All in all, it’s unfair. He hates how unfair life is to some people.

Your grandma has been bedbound for over a year. She got the flu, and was stuck in the hospital for two months. In that span of time, she lost her ability to walk. It was rehab to rehab after that until Medicare wouldn’t cover it anymore and she has been back home ever since. You’ve been taking care of her ever since.

“She works so hard, but I hate that she has to do this. I don’t want to be this way. I wish I could just get up and walk but I have a hard time sitting up on my own. I wish she would get some help. I have the money.”

Conversation streamed away after that, going into something more light hearted. She talked about the house, what your room used to look like, all the places you liked to hide when playing hide and seek. She talked about how you loved helping her in the garden, and cooking the veggies she would harvest for supper. She said one of her favorite memories was when you were four or five, you would beg for her to sing old nursery rhymes or tell old folk tales. It made him laugh, these stories. 

“It’s strange because she is very much like my mom. The way she takes care of me, is stern yet patient. I took care of her, and now she takes care of me. I feel like her child. It’s funny how these things turn out.”

All he can think is how in love he is with you. An absolute heart of gold.

After what felt like hours of talking, he gets her into bed with ease. He insists on helping her anyway she needs, wanting you to rest more. So he does: he changes her, fixes her a tomato sandwich with the heirloom tomatoes you grew (Lois was right; they are stunning), adjusts her so she is sitting up properly. He gave the works.

It is late in the afternoon by the time he leaves your grandma’s room, the sun pouring through the windows warm and glowing. He walks to your room, and it is ajar. He peeks in and the sight of you asleep makes him soften. The sun is hitting you sweetly, basking you in a light that puts the Angels to shame. You look at ease, peaceful. He is sure you don’t get the sleep you need, so he is glad he gave you the chance to catch up. 

He goes to sit on the edge of the bed, watching you sleep a little longer before he wakes you up. He takes you in, and he can’t help but bring his fingers to your hairline to smooth the baby hairs. He hasn’t touched you in so long, and it is electric the way your skin sends shockwaves through him. He takes a deep breath, following how you inhale and exhale, breathing along with you like it connects him to you somehow.

He sighs. “I’m sorry for not understanding before. For not telling you.” 

You shift, eyes still closed and breathing regular. Your head draws closer to his touch, now cradled in the palm of his hand. He smiles warmly.

“I just hope you know that our time together wasn’t a waste for me, and that if I could rewind time, I would make sure you knew everything. I pushed you away without realizing, even with my good intentions, and in that I failed at showing how much I love you.” He is pouring his heart out, relief flowing from his body.

“You are the one that got away, but I hope you know I still love you. I will always love you.”

You shift again, but this time your eyes slowly start to open. You blink slowly, stretching like a house cat as you yawn deeply. You push yourself up on your elbows, glancing around until your eyes land on him. 

You are so cute when you are sleepy. God help him.

“Hm, what time is it? How long have I been asleep?” You yawn again, rubbing your eyes in the process.

“It is almost five I believe.”

“What?!” You jolt. “Oh God! I need to check on Grammie I–”

“Hey, hey,” he holds you down with the weight of his hand on your thigh. “It’s okay. She is resting right now. She’s been changed and ate lunch.”

You are staring at him, eyes wide in disbelief. “You what? I– Clark you didn’t have to do that. You should've woken me up.”

“I wanted you to rest,” he says, squeezing your thigh reassuringly. “Being a caretaker for a loved one is a lot. You deserve a break.”

He can tell you are at a loss for words, eyes looking at where his hand is placed. “I don’t know what to say…”

“You don’t need to say anything. I got you, always.” 

You look up at him and he sees your eyes are glossy, lip wobbling. It devastates him.

“It’s been a lot. When she first went into the hospital, I thought she wasn’t going to make it. They made it seem like she would need hospice care, and that scared me so bad. I wasn’t ready to let her go.” 

“I know that must’ve been scary, especially going through it alone. But sweetheart, I need you to know that you don’t have to do this alone. Not while I’m around.”

Tears are streaming down your face, hands coming up to your face. You were hanging on the edge, teetering on pulling yourself up or letting go. It is when your shoulders start to shake that he gets closer, pulling you into him as you cry. He wraps his arms around you tightly, squeezing you carefully to add some pressure. Sobs wreck your body, arms wrapped around his neck gripping on like a lifeline. 

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, more tears falling. “I– I didn’t want to add more stress. You were so bu– busy I didn’t want to bother you w– with it.”

His jaw locks, teeth grinding to keep himself together. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m sorry for not being honest. For making you think you couldn’t tell me anything. That was unfair of me.”

You are shaking your head violently against his shoulder, gasping for air like you couldn’t breathe. 

You two stay like that for a while, him rubbing your back and rocking you back and forth to calm you down. Your sobs eventually turn to whimpers, small gasps coming out periodically that shutter your chest. He waits for you to speak, not wanting to break your concentration of peace. 

“I’m okay,” you mutter into his flannel. “I think I needed that.”

“It’s always good to get a cry out,” he says in agreement, still rubbing your back.

“Yeah,” you sniffle, a chuckle coming right behind it. “I kinda feel like I’m floating.”

He laughs, pulling you away enough so he can see your face. His thumbs go to wipe under your eyes, soaking the salty residue into his skin. It’s the way you look vulnerable, cheeks stained from crying, eyes dry yet wet at the edges. It’s a vulnerability he hasn’t seen from you, and he’s happy it’s happening. It signifies change, the start of something new.

“I meant what I said,” he says earnestly. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here.”

“You know you can’t stay here forever though, Clark.”

He knows you’re right. He will have to leave. He doesn’t know what Lex’s next move is going to be or when Boravia’s next attack on Jarhanpur will happen, but he knows it’ll be soon. But for now, he can enjoy the time he gets with you. Enjoy it until the world decides to implode on itself once more. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

There is a domesticity in the air for the rest of the day. 

After the moment you and Clark shared, you had things to do. You told Clark he should continue to rest, but the man is stubborn like you, so there was no denying him.

Currently, you two are tending to the garden. The first frost has yet to come, and you wanted to prune and harvest some things for dinner. Clark was more than eager, and even though growing up he tended more to animals, he has a pretty good green thumb. 

“I think it’s great you kept up with her garden,” Clark says joyously.

“Well, it beats driving over thirty minutes to the nearest grocery store. Besides, I have found it to be very therapeutic. I like watching things grow."

“Ma always told me gardening brings community.”

“Hmm, guess that’s why you are such a people person.”

You both laugh, and you turn to put some yellow squash in the weaved basket when you see Clark taking off his flannel. The squash falls from your hands, mouth ajar as you see his sun-kissed muscles flex. Golden hour is at its peak, and you watch how the sun makes him shimmer. You’re in awe of how beautiful he looks. An Angel sent to the Earth. 

Which isn’t totally wrong.

“Your gawking is cute.”

You snap out of your haze, looking up to see him smirking down at you. 

“It’s,” you pause. “It’s not even hot out.”

“I’m a thermos. I get hot. Gardening is very hard work you know,” he shrugs, but you can tell he is enjoying the act of making you squirm.

The fucker knows what he’s doing.

“You are a big meanie,” you moan. “You are using your gifts against me.”

He tosses in some regular tomatoes, leaning in close. “It’s not my fault your heart is telling me everything I need to know. She’s very loud.”

He stands up with a brush of his knees, eyes crinkling in success because Lord knows your heart is in overdrive. You know he is fistpumping in his head right now, yelling a ‘mission accomplished. 

“We should pick some Zucchini. Very versatile.” 

Smug bastard.

Once dusk starts to come in with its waves of dark blue in the sky, you both head inside. You let Clark shower, needing him to clear his sweaty model image so your brain can rest. Last thing you need is to feign over him in front of your own grandmother, and be teased about it later.

You cut the veggies, slicing and dicing as you set them all in their proper places. As you finish up, you hear the bathroom door open and the minute you turn around out of instinct, you wish you hadn’t.

Because while he isn’t sweaty anymore, he’s now glistening with water, the steam surrounding him in an aura. He had on the black sweats you luckily found in the back of your dresser, but the green and blue flannel you handed him was absent. The only thing covering his upper half is the towel wrapped around his shoulders.

At least he has some decency.

You turn back around, focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the weird pulsing happening in between your legs. “You better put that flannel on before I get my grandma out here. The last thing I need is for her to see you practically naked.”

“Oh, don’t worry. Ma raised me to be a gentleman. I need to at least take her out to dinner first.”

You burst out laughing, stopping what you’re doing to clutch your chest. “Oh, so does this count as taking her out to dinner?”

“Well…” He is right behind you, somehow getting closer without you realizing. “It could, but that would be far from appropriate. Not when there is another lady I’ve set my eyes on.”

You stop cutting again, your breathing coming in deep. You turn around, hands resting behind you on the edge of the counter. You get a good look at him, and see his hair is getting curly as it starts to dry, giving him that boyish look that charms people. His mouth is parted only a little with those pretty blue eyes half lidded. You see them shift down and up a couple times, undecided on where to stay before sticking with your own. Any comeback you had dies in your throat, never to return.

“O-oh!” You cough, covering any sort of effect he has on you. You know it’s a lost cause.

“You seem surprised,” Clark grins.

“I mean no,” you shake your head. “It just feels… I don’t know. Like…”

“Like it used to?”

It’s like you are in sync with each other’s feelings because he is right. The banter, the pull. It feels like old times, where there wasn’t a single care in the world. It was electric, and that feeling is coursing through your body. It is taking everything in you not to grab him by his neck and kiss him right then and there. With the way he is looking at you, you believe it is taking everything in him too.

“What are you thinking right now?” He whispers.

“What do you think I’m thinking?” You reply in rapid succession.

Clark cages you in with his arms, bracing them against the counter. “I’m afraid telepathy isn’t one of my abilities.”

“That’s a shame,” you huff.

“Tell me about it. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

You wonder how different things would be if you told him everything: your grandma getting sick, knowing his secret, the uncorking of emotions that you didn’t know how to deal with. If you had opened up about your fears, would you two still be together? If you were honest with yourself, would you have ended things in the first place?

You go to say something, words on the tip of your tongue, until your phone rings. Your shoulders become lax, and you pull your phone from your pocket only to see it is your grandma. 

“She’s calling me.”

“Would you like me to check on her? I can get her into the wheelchair and get her in here,” Clark offers, his eyes having not left you once.

“You really don’t have to do that, Clark.” 

“What did I tell you?” He asks rhetorically. “You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you.”

You nod, speechless at how straightforward he’s being. “Okay, thank you.”

He smiles at that, leaning down till his face is a breath away from yours. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.” Then he places a brief, light kiss on your cheek.

He pushes off the counter, walking back towards the hallway, leaving you stunned with your hand pressing into your cheek. 

“You better put a shirt on before you pick her up!” He laughs. Your chest flutters like crazy.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Dinner goes off without a hitch. 

Everything is lively at the dinner table. Full of conversation, laughter, incredible amounts of joy. It gives  you the same feeling of when you see photos or home movies of families eating together during the holidays. It gives you the same feeling of when you, Clark, and your grandma ate dinner together in your old Metropolis apartment. The atmosphere is light, warm, and extremely comforting. 

While dinner was in the oven, Clark had brought your grandma out in her wheelchair, spinning her around with her squealing with laughter. He had put on the radio, an old-timey station playing Chuck Berry. 

“Oh, I love Chuck Berry!” She had chimed, hand over her chest like she was reliving a different time in her life. “I met my husband dancing! We would go out on the weekends and dance and dance. Ugh, those were the days.”

“Sounds like this young lady wants to dance!” Clark had said, overexaggerating his midwestern draw, before spinning her around slowly, reenacting dances from the fifties.

“Oh gosh! You know that one?” Your grandma had asked, shocked. 

“Ma and Pa raised me on this.”

“Well, they raised you right!”

When dinner was ready, he had lifted her into a dining room chair, helping her adjust. “How does this feel?”

“I haven’t sat in this chair in over a year. Kinda uncomfy though. Not used to the lack of cushioning these days.”

Clark had put a seat cushion under her.

Clark had brought a whole new vibe to the house, and it took everything in you not to get emotional. You often wished you had more energy to do things with her, get her to do something other than watch TV. Clark made it look so easy, the way he’s able to entertain, the way he’s able to get so personal. The thing is though, that’s just who Clark is: sweet, kind, and unabashedly selfless. Nothing can hold him down, even if people tried. He smiles, pushes through it knowing this too shall pass. He makes you want to be better. Maybe that’s why you fell in love with him in the first place. 

Maybe that’s why you still love him.

You are currently showering, Clark having offered to do the dishes and get your grandma into bed. You let the steam soak into your skin, sighing as you relax under the hot stream. Your mind is in a strange state of peace, something you haven’t felt fully in a long time. ‘It’s nice to have some help’, you think. ‘Even if I don’t need it, it’s nice.’

It’s nice to have Clark back in your life. 

But that’s the thing: he isn’t, not technically. Words have yet to be said, even though you feel them. You can’t get your hopes up because he is him and you are you. His life is dedicated to the world, while yours is dedicated to this chapter of your life. He says you’re not alone, but part of you knows that there will be times where you have to be. He will be off saving the world, and you will be here worrying if he’s okay like you’ve been for the last year.

It’s almost like today doesn’t change things, not definitively. You must accept that.

You get out of the shower, throwing on a ratty t-shirt and sweatpants. You do the normal nightly regiment, and then you head to your grandma’s room to finish getting her ready for bed. You knock on the door lightly, entering and beelining for the latex gloves. 

“Oh, darling! It’s okay! Clark changed me!”

“Oh, okay,” you shrug, putting the gloves down. “I’m surprised you let a man you barely know change you.”

“Plenty of men have seen my butt from changing me.”

“Touché.”

“I do need my medicine though. He didn’t want to give me the wrong ones.”

“Smart of him,” you joke, grabbing a pill cup to put the pills in. You hand her the pills, watching her take them before downing them with water.

“Ah!” She exclaims. “Thank you, darling.”

“Of course, Grammie,” you smile. “Can I get you anything else before I head to bed?”

“I think I’m good…” she draws out, eyes steady on you, like she is reading you quietly.

“Is something on my face?” You joke, hands touching random spots.

“No, but… I guess I’m just happy. Tonight was just wonderful,” she smiles tiredly.

“I’m glad you had a good night with Clark, Grammie.” You meant it.

“Yes, I did, but it’s more than that. You didn’t just look happy, you were happy. I love when I get to see you like that.”

That makes you pause. “Wow, I must be very transparent.” 

“I raised you, darling,” she reminds you. “It’s not hard to see when you are truly happy.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, taking her hands into yours, squeezing tight. “But I am happy. I am happy here with you. I get tired, sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m not happy.”

“It’s a different kind of happiness I see when you are with Clark,” she smiles, so bright it hurts. “You’re in love. It reminds me of how your papa would look at me. Clark looks at you the same way too. It’s clear to see.”

You look at your conjoined hands, glancing at the wedding band she still wears to this day, refusing to ever take it off. She would always tell you it was her promise to him that they will meet again. Love for her is everlasting, meaning even once she’s six feet under the ground, her love has no end. You always wanted a love like that, and the fact she is telling you this makes you wonder if that’s what you had with Clark. Have you always known, but have been too scared to see it?

“There’s no point in running from it,” she says, squeezing your hand to get the point across. “Love like that is rare, and it rarely comes back once you let it go. This is your chance.”

“How could things possibly work out, Grammie? He’s going to have to go back home to Metropolis. He has a life there.” You already know the answer, but you desire her wisdom.

“It’s simple.” One hand releases from your grasp, finger pointing to where your heart is. “Home is where the heart is.”

And she’s right. Clark’s always felt like home. He is home.

You tuck her in, kissing her forehead before making your exit. You go back into the kitchen to see if Clark was there, then the living room, but you don’t find him. You ponder for a moment, only to see the soft yellow light coming from your room, the door opened all the way. You head there, like he is calling to you, begging you to find him. You look in and there he is, holding up the same New Years’ photo you found in his sleeve, as well as the one protected in the picture frame. 

“I still can’t believe you kept the photo,” he whispers, knowing you are present. 

You step in, shutting the door behind you for a privacy you had regardless, and walk until you are a foot away. “Of course, I kept it. I love everything about that night.”

“Even Jimmy Olsen?”

“Especially Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark chuckles under his breath, eyes not leaving the photos, though you see his eyes twitching. “I think about it all the time, you know. How I got to show you how much I love you, how I got to take care of you. I dream about it and I relive the laughter and everything.”

You see his lips quiver, his grip get a little tighter. There is a battle raging inside him, and you aren’t sure who’s fighting who: him vs. him? Him vs. instinct? You aren’t sure, but you wish to calm it. You wish to calm him.

Your hand goes to his shoulder, squeezing him like it’s a comfort. “Clark…”

“I shouldn’t have given up on us so easily,” he grimaces. “I should’ve fought harder but like an idiot I let you go.”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up on this. I ended things,” you say, trying to dispel his fear, but he shakes his head.

“You did, but I just accepted it. That’s the problem.”

“You were giving me space, Clark. You did what you thought was best.”

“Do you wish I fought though? Do you wish that I had fought for us?” 

That stuns you, leaving you speechless. You never considered it a wish, a hope that Clark would’ve called your bluff. However, you think back to the times you’d stare at his back in the bullpen, hoping, praying, he would turn around to look at you. You think back to when you’d stare at your messages with him, wondering if you’ll see the thinking text bubbles appear. You think back to late nights on your balcony, looking out to see if he’d walk by, even if it wasn’t reasonable to. 

You never remember being upset that he didn’t fight. You do remember being upset that he had moved on so quickly. 

“I think…” you start, not sure where to go without striking a nerve. “I think I hated feeling invisible to you after that, which is selfish of me, I know. But there were times where I would look at you, hoping you’d notice, but you never did. It’s like you moved on so fast.”

He finally turns to look at you, eyes glassy, hands twitching. “You thought I had moved on?”

His expression is killing you, consuming you with a guilt that eats away at you. The vulnerability he is displaying makes him look so small, even with him towering over you. It’s the look of a child whose feelings are hurt, lip wobbly and face heated. It’s the face of a man who is heartbroken.

“I was miserable for months,” he whispers, eyes shutting so tight you see tears make their way out. “Being in the same room as you and not being able to hug you, kiss you, love you. It was too much for me to take.”

His eyes open back up, baby blues bright and weeping. “I was distracted for months because I noticed every little thing you did and I didn’t feel like I could congratulate your articles, comfort you when Perry was on you with due dates, just simply enjoy your presence. I was hurting.”

You hated seeing him this way. This is all your fault.

“I thought overtime we would start talking again, maybe get back to a place where I at least had you in my life. But then you moved away…” he chokes up, eyes shutting again with gritted teeth, like he was in physical pain.

“I understand now why you did, and I would never fault you for it. But it all happened so fast, and for the longest time I thought you couldn’t stand being near me.”

You were crying now. He’s the love of your life, and you’ve destroyed him. All because you didn’t want to face the music that things would change on their own, so you forced the change yourself.

“I— I…” he starts stuttering, breath coming in heaves. “I let you go and I shouldn’t have. I never wanted to let you go, and yet I did, like a coward.”

His hands are in his hair, the tight grip creating messy strands through his fingers. You could tell he was trying to bring himself down, but he was losing. You weren’t fairing any better, but he was pouring every ounce of what he’s been feeling for over a year. The more he went into panic mode, the closer you got to him. You were toe to toe.

“Losing you was like cutting my fingers off,” he says with a whimper, hand covering his mouth to try and hold it in.

The second those words fall from his lips, you are on him. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling his head down to your chest. He breaks down, sobbing into your chest, his arms wrapping around you so tight it hurts but you don’t care. You’ll bear the pain for him. You love him. You will comfort him for as long as he lets you. 

“I’m so sorry, Clark.” You kiss the top of his head, hands rubbing circles into his hunched over back. “You didn’t lose me, I promise.”

He only sobs harder, so hard you think his back will snap from the convulsions. It makes you rub circles with more pressure, kiss his head in multiples, your own tears melting into his hair. You want to say something, anything to let him know that the past is behind you two, but you stay silent. You just move to the side, dragging him with you slowly until you both are at your bed.

You both tumble down, your leg wrapping around his hip as you lay down. Clark’s head is buried in your chest, his sobs still coming in waves. Your hands lace into his hair, fingers massaging his scalp. Your breaths turn into hiccups, the tears slowly fading away. You use the opportunity to close your eyes, focusing on your breathing, giving you the opportunity to speak.

To tell him you’re sorry. To tell him this isn’t his fault. To tell him how much you love him.

“None of this is your fault, Clark,” you murmur. “You reacted like a normal person would. Even if I was upset then, I’m not upset now.”

His breathing gets shallower, a whimper here and there as he comes down. His hand is rubbing up and down your side with a pressure that makes you feel him through your shirt. He’s so warm, and it feels good to have him pressed against you, even with his tears soaking your shirt.

“You know, when Lois called me asking for a big favor, I didn’t expect this. Not one bit,” you chuckle softly. “There I was writing for my book, well trying to, and suddenly she called me late into the night. I thought she was going to talk my head off about an idea or rant about how Perry has been hounding her ass. But no, she called me to take care of you.”

“Did you really ask about me?” He says, muffled into your shirt. “Lois would tell me you would ask about me.”

You smile. “Of course I did. I never stopped caring about you. I never stopped loving you either.”

“Really?” he sniffles.

“Really, really.”

The hand rubbing your side slows, and you take the opportunity to take it in your own, interlacing the fingers until his big hand engulfs yours. He hums, bringing the conjoined hands to his mouth, pressing his lips against the back of yours. He lets them linger for a moment before he pulls both hands close to his chest, curling into you slightly.

“Tell me about the book you're writing,” he murmurs. “I want to know. Please.”

“It’s just a book on how journalism shapes history,” you sigh, looking at your desk full of notes and papers… ideas. “Nothing that fascinating.”

“You’re writing it.” He kisses your hand again. “Everything you write is fascinating.”

Your heart flutters, so much that you can’t help but place a kiss on his temple.

For the rest of the night, you tell him about your book, your thought process. Kisses littered on skin here and there until you both fell asleep in each other’s arms. 

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

Clark doesn’t remember the last time he’s slept this good.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. The emotional turmoil that roared through his body took a lot of his energy, making it impossible to stay awake. However, it was enough, and it’s because he is with you.

You lulled him to sleep, your voice soothing to his ears. There were times where he felt like he was dreaming, but was brought back to reality when he felt your kisses on his head or your hand rubbing his back underneath his flannel. It made his heart pulse, remembering where he was, and eventually it made him sleep easy. He hasn’t had difficulty sleeping for a long time but now that he remembers what it’s like to sleep with you, he doesn’t know if he can go through sleeping alone again.

He slowly comes to, the sunlight twinkling into the room. He’s guessing it’s still early in the morning with the way the sky looks outside your window. His eyes blink open, letting his senses pick up his surroundings. It all comes forward like an avalanche, his senses picking up your scent, your breathing, your skin. He peaks down, seeing you both adjusted during the night, and sees you lying in the crevice of his arm, snoring the morning away with your face squished against his chest. 

It’s crazy how perfect you look against him, how comfortable you look. It’s strange how over 24 hours ago, he wasn’t in your world and now he is here with you cuddled into him. It feels like how things used to be. It feels like how he wants things to stay. It feels like home.

He is so proud of you. Even though he was emotionally exhausted last night, he remembers every word when you talked about your book: how excited you sounded as you continued. He’s glad you are pursuing something you’ve always wanted to try; something you want to flourish in. He knows you will because you are brilliant. You know how to draw people in with every word, no matter the content. It’s why you were so highly beloved as a Daily Planet writer. It’s obvious it will translate to the publishing world too.

He watches you wake up, a stretch running throughout your body that pushes you further into him. A sound akin to a cat vibrates from your throat, a Cheshire smile curling on your lips. All he can think about is how beautiful you look.

“Mmm, good morning,” you yawn, blinking tiredly at him with a lazy grin.

“Good morning,” he mirrors back. “Looks like someone got real cozy last night.”

“Oh hush,” you groan, settling back in. “You’re warm. I can’t help it.”

“You always did get cold very easily. Goosebumps always seem to make a name for themselves on your skin,” he teases, stroking your arm. “You even have goosebumps right now!”

“I don’t think the cold is what’s giving me the goosebumps,” you murmur, sleepy eyes looking up at him in crescents.

“Oh really?” He teases, not being able to help himself. “What could be causing them I wonder.”

“Well…” You push up on your elbow, head leaning into your hand. “Do you have any leads, Mr. Kent?”

“Hmm, I do have one lead,” he says, playing along. “Opposite of the cold.”

“Oh wow!” You chuckle. “You should tell me. I mean, it does involve me. I should be kept in the loop on these kinda things, right?”

There has always been a push and pull between the two of you, and it drives him mad. Especially now, when he has craved you for so long, it’s making him want to pounce. But he keeps his cool, wanting to savor the moment; wanting to savor the lightness.

“Sweetheart, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. But…” he smirks, his hand tilting your head to the side, his lips nearing your ear. “I can show you.”

He starts to place light kisses underneath your ear. They are subtle, gentle, restraining himself from being anything but, and it’s worth it in how you just sink into him. Your body chases it, making him pull you up against him until your face is leveled with his. He makes his way down your neck, mouth laving the scent of your body wash. His hand travels to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he makes his way to your throat. He feels the way your vocal chords vibrate against his tongue, making sounds that would drive him to his knees if he were to stand. 

His free hand rubs up and down your side, fingers slipping under your shirt to feel your skin. The tips trail lightly, feeling the bumps raise from under your skin. He grins against your throat. “I think my theory is correct.”

“Yeah? I'm going to have to start calling you R.L. Stine with the way you're giving me goosebumps.”

That draws a laugh out of you both, Clark simmering it down as he nips at your jaw. Your laugh transforms, a high pitched whimper leaving your mouth.

“Gosh, I missed you like this,” Clark whispers low. “I’ve yearned for you for so long.”

“I missed you too,” you sigh breathlessly. “You have no idea.”

His ears perk, nipping more up your jaw until he’s back to your ear. “Tell me.” He nips at your ear lobe, causing your back to arch. “Tell me how you missed me.”

“I’m afraid…” you hum. “I can’t tell you.”

He feels your fingers in his hair, tugging his head up until he is face to face with yours. He grunts at the pressure, looking at you as your face contorts into something cunning that makes his pupils dilate.

Your lips ghost his, your breathing passing through him like oxygen, eyes not leaving his. “But I can show you.”

You didn’t hesitate. Your lips are on his and he groans the minute they touch. It’s desperate, ruthless; leaves no room for doubt. There is a hunger that’s consuming him, leaving him raw and opened at the seams. He can already tell he won’t ever get enough.

“Clark, baby…” you moan against his mouth. “Fuck, I love you.”

Your words make him needy, tongue playing with your lips before you grant him the pleasure. His hand under your shirt is up to where your chest is, gently cupping your breast and massaging the flesh. Your hips start to roll against his, rubbing against his cock, making him harden. It makes him feel wanted and needed.

“I love you so much, pretty girl,” he moans into your mouth. “I’m never letting you go again. Not for anything.”

“I don’t want you to,” you whine, thanks to a particularly hard thrust of Clark’s hips. It makes him smile. 

“Good because I’m gonna take care of you.” His head moves back to your neck, settling there. “I will come home to you every day. Mark my words.”

“Clark…” Your hands pull his head back up, eyes looking at him dazed. “This life is comfortable, but far from glamorous. I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I could care less.” He kisses your lips fiercely, hoping it sticks to your brain before releasing again. “I would move the world for you. Coming home to you is nothing. Coming home to you is easy.”

“You mean that?” You say, the vulnerability lacking. You asked with sureness, like you know he is good for his word. 

“I am never lying to you again. No secrets, so yes. I mean it with everything.”

You beam, a wetness welling in your eyes. A laugh bubbles from your throat, a tear falling with it. “I’m sorry. I’m just happy.”

He kisses your tears away, humming against your skin. “You’re it for me, honey.”

He continues, until he feels your hips roll again, making his eyes follow suit. He situates you fast, laying you out fully on your back. His hands move to pin yours above your head, keeping you in place so he can finish what you started. His hips roll hard into your clothed center, a gasp leaving you in response. He goes down to swallow your sounds, hands trailing away to his flannel to rip it off, until he hears your phone going off. You both groan simultaneously, with him falling to the side with his head in the pillow. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe. “I need to get her ready for the day anyways.”

He nods, working to calm down all the chemicals and blood that’s rushed to his cock. He sits up, shrugging the flannel back on fully as he watches you pick up your phone. There is a crease in your brow, confusion on your face.

“What?” 

You look up at him, moving to show your phone. “It’s Lois.”

You moved to get up, answering the phone. “Lois?”

Clark watches you listen, watches your face get progressively more anxious.

“Are you sure?” You say, looking at him worried.

More talking ensues, with you nodding your head, saying “uh huh”, “okay I’ll tell him”, etc..

“He’ll be there soon. Yeah. Be safe, okay? Later.” 

You hang up, eyes staring at your phone screen. Clark sees your heart beating a tad faster, physiological responses taking over that represent only one emotion: fear.

“You have to go, Clark.”

“What’s going on?” He moves to stand. “What did Lois say?”

“She said something about a riff,” you say, unsure. “I don’t know what she means, but she says you’d understand what I’m saying. She said Metropolis is in trouble because of it.”

Clark is shell-shocked, but your next words send him spiraling. 

“Also, I got a notification from the Daily Planet news. Boravia is invading Janhanpur.”

“What?!” 

You hand him the phone and he looks at the article, seeing that the Boravian military is at the Jarhanpur border, ready for a full scale invasion. How is this all happening so quickly, and at once? He needs to move fast, he knows he does.

And yet he is frozen.

For a day, he wasn’t Superman. He was Clark Kent, with the woman he is deeply in love with. For a day, he got to rekindle something that was lost. For a day, he got a glimpse of what life could be like. For a day, he forgot what it was like to bear the state of the world on his shoulders. He chose this life, believing that is his purpose, yet he stands here like a statue. Why didn’t he have more time?

He is brought out of his thoughts, feeling a warmth around his waist. He looks down to see you hugging him, the side of your face pressed against his chest. “You have to go, Clark.”

“I know,” he sighs, wrapping his arms around you. “Just unfortunate timing.”

You lift your head, a hand coming up to his cheek before lifting on your tip toes to kiss him gently. “We have plenty of time. Just keep your promise. Come back home to me.”

He kisses you back with the same tenderness, softness. “I will.”

“Now, go put on your stinky suit and do some good.”

He groans. “It hasn’t been washed, so it probably does stink.”

“Maybe that will ward any bad guys off,” you jest.

He grins, kissing you one last time before letting go. He rids himself of his clothes etched in your scent, putting on the suit until he is in full form. You both walk out together, hand in hand, the sun no longer golden but a bright yellow. The grass blows, the birds chirp, the wind howls. It truly feels like a perfect day. He hopes to have more days like this.

He flies off, saying final goodbyes with kisses on the face. He glances back, and for a brief moment he sees you waving at him, disappearing amongst the clouds. He looks forward, preparing for the worst as he makes his way to the city. He is ready to fight. He is ready to save. He is ready to defeat.

He is ready to have more perfect days under Virginia skies.

✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧

all writings belong to © cryptictongues - do not repost, translate, claim as your own, use for AI, or anything that would imply my work is yours.

[cryptictongues]

Awe shit the GOAT dropped another piece of literature

The Secret

18+ account - minors do not interact

clark kent x f!reader Word Count: 6K Rating: E

Summary: You've always struggled with how to tell Clark a painful secret—but it slips out unintentionally when you meet his parents.

Warning: established relationship, minor movie spoilers-ish? language, pet names, praise, oral sex (f receiving – clark is a munch), family dysfunction (readers bio dad sucks), mentions of abandonment (readers father was/is not in her life), emotional argument, angst, hurt/comfort, casual dominance? more smut, fingering, size kink (duh – he’s huge), more praise galore, unprotected p in v sex, creampie

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Senator Banks Raises Concerns Over Superman’s True Intentions Amid Controversy Over Lex Luthor’s Actions

"Interesting article huh?"

Perry strolled into his office, spotting you sitting comfortably, engrossed in the article placed on his desk.

You scoffed dismissively. "Anything that Senator Banks says is bullshit. He's just trying to stir trouble for his own gain."

"Yeah, but articles and press like this only amp up his base. Re-election is right around the corner, after all. Since that video about Superman was released, even though most folks still love the guy, there's definitely been a huge spike in conspiracy theories about him."

He had a point. The video where Superman’s parents advised him on taking on multiple wives to propagate his DNA had some folks wondering if Superman was sent to Earth for some intergalactic Tinder experiment or full-blown world domination.

You rolled your eyes.

"How’s your morning treating you?" he asked.

You looked up and closed the article gently. "Afternoon," you corrected, standing up smoothly, walking over to Perry to give him a hug. He glanced down at his watch. "It's already 4 PM? Where does the time go?" he muttered.

"Perry, you really need a vacation."

Ever since the Daily Planet team exposed Lex Luthor's schemes to the public, the team at the Daily Planet found themselves busier than ever. The public's interest exploded, and readers demanded more in-depth coverage and updates. Editors flooded the staff with new story ideas—each more urgent than the last—hoping to capitalize on the momentum. News sources and whistleblowers, emboldened by the exposure, reached out with tips and leads, turning the newsroom into a hive of activity. As a result, Perry and the team worked late into the nights, all in a race to stay ahead of the stories and deliver comprehensive coverage. The success had turned into a whirlwind of deadlines and opportunities, leaving little room for rest.

"A vacation? That’s for young people,"

"You know. Alice was just telling me about how she’s never been to Paris. Maybe it’s time you took that trip with your wife. No deadlines, no stories, just some time to breathe and enjoy each other’s company."

"Maybe," he grunted. "What's up? You usually don't visit me."

You chuckled. "What are you talking about? I visit you almost every day."

"No…you visit Clark."

Your cheeks heated and you glanced away for a second. Your mom and your stepfather Paul had gotten married last year, and your mother had been dating him for the last seven years. Perry was a close friend of your stepfather's and he was also how you met Clark about six months ago. Perry had given you an extra ticket to a gala event the Daily Planet had been invited too, where you ended up meeting his direct team. That night, you also met a giant of a man with stunning blue eyes and an insane fucking body who spent the entire evening talking to you. It was a good thing he wasn’t a mind reader because it would have been mortifying if he had known what you had been thinking every time he flexed his arms…

Or licked his lips.

Or just fucking breathed.

But, as attractive as Clark was—he was also the kindest man you had ever met in your life.

The rest was history.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small, elegant envelope and handed it over to Perry.

He took the invitation, raising an eyebrow as he examined it. The card was tastefully designed, with gold accents and a festive font announcing your stepfather’s retirement & birthday.

Perry chuckled softly as he opened it, reading the details inside. "This was definitely not his idea."

"You know how my mom is—any excuse to throw a party, she’ll find it."

"Good. Alice and I will be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world," he said, taking a seat at his desk.

"Oh, and don’t tell Clark. I mean, I’m definitely probably going to invite him. It’s just… he still hasn’t met my mom and Paul yet— I thought this would be a good event, you know? But maybe that’s too much pressure. Maybe he should meet them in a more low-key setting—like brunch or something. What do you think?"

The truth was, you were fucking nervous. Not because you doubted Clark—far from it. You knew he’d be great with them. It was just that this felt like a defining moment, a leap from dating in the casual comfort of your own world to revealing a part of yourself that you held close. You hadn’t really brought anyone home since college, and that made this feel even more significant.

The anticipation made your palms sweaty and your heart race.

Perry looked up from the invitation, his eyes narrowing slightly as he reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a cigar. He lit it with a practiced flick of his lighter, taking a long, slow inhale. Then, with a voice that betrayed no real interest, he said, "Do I look like the type of person that cares about this conversation?"

You smirked. "No, you don’t. But I know you like Clark. Don’t even try to deny it."

"I won’t confirm or deny that statement," Perry replied, and his tone was gruff, but there was a hint of something softer underneath—maybe a quiet approval.

Your phone suddenly buzzed loudly in your pocket. You pulled it out and saw the caller ID—your colleague, Jamie, flashing on the screen.

"Hey, what’s up?" you said, mouthing 'sorry' to Perry.

Jamie’s voice was frantic and slightly panicked. "Oh my God, I don’t know what to do. This fucking client…they’re losing it over the latest design. They’re calling every hour, demanding changes, pushing for impossible deadlines. Honestly, I’ve never seen them this aggressive. It’s a nightmare."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Great. Just what I needed."

"Basically, I need you back here…"

You mouthed 'gotta go' to Perry and he nodded at you.

As you exited his office, you saw Clark’s colleagues nearby, chatting among themselves, but Clark wasn’t sitting at his desk—he was probably doing Superman things.

Oh yeah—your boyfriend was also Superman.

"Alright, I’ll be there soon. Just keep me updated, okay?" you said, already marching toward the exit.

"Will do," Jamie replied.

You ended the call and felt the weight of the project pressing down on you.

Being an adult sucked.

You finally stepped through the front door of your apartment, the weight of the day pressing heavily on your shoulders. You dropped your bag by the door and let out a long, exhausted sigh. You were emotionally drained, and all you wanted was to unwind.

As you shuffled into the kitchen, you saw Clark there, standing by the stove, humming softly as he prepared something. His back was turned, but the moment he heard your footsteps, he turned around with a warm smile.

The sight of him was always such a comfort.

You had exchanged keys recently.

It was a special exchange of trust.

And closeness.

He noticed the exhaustion etched into your face and immediately asked, "Are you okay?" his tone was full of worry.

"Can I answer that after a glass of wine?" you replied, giving him a tired smile and rubbing your temples.

"Hard day?" he prompted gently, concern flickering in his eyes.

"Something like that," you stepped closer, and he opened his arms, pulling you into a comforting hug. He gently kissed your forehead, a tender gesture that eased your stress.

"I’m sorry, baby,"

"What about you? How was your day?" you asked, pulling back just enough to look into his perfect eyes.

Clark’s expression shifted to a more serious one. "Well, Senator Banks had been making my—well Superman’s life a nightmare. I had to meet with the secretary of state today. His recent comments, the whole conspiracy talk—they are stirring up more trouble than I expected."

Senator Banks was a prominent senator that had acknowledged Luthor’s recent dealings in the Boravia and Jarhanpur conflict as undeniably horrible but agreed with Luthor’s views that Superman’s presence and motives warranted closer scrutiny.

You tensed up.

And he immediately noticed.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you sighed, leaning into him. "That guy just doesn’t quit, huh?" you said, chewing your bottom lip in thought.

Tell him the truth.

He stepped a little closer, his eyes narrowing just enough to suggest he wasn’t buying your quick brush-off. He reached out to gently cup your chin, so he could assess your expression more closely.

"Seriously, what’s wrong?"

Tell him the truth.

"I just feel bad you’re going through all of this," you placed your hands on his chest. "I don’t like seeing you getting dragged in the press," you whispered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his throat.

It wasn’t exactly a lie.

It just wasn’t fully the truth. It had been bad. Over the past few weeks, the atmosphere around Superman had grown increasingly tense and hostile, largely fueled by Senator Banks’s relentless campaign to undermine Superman’s reputation after Lex Luthor was arrested.

Online, conspiracy theory threads on platforms like Reddit exploded with speculation. Subreddits dedicated to superhero lore and political conspiracies had thousands of comments, many of which were increasingly outlandish. Adding fuel to the fire were some sensational claims made by individuals online. A few women emerged claiming to have had intimate encounters with Superman.

One viral post suggested that Superman had a 'breeding kink' and was begging women to fill them up.

Meanwhile, more politicians began to side with Senator Banks, either outright criticizing Superman or calling for increased scrutiny. Some local officials echoed Banks’s concerns, demanding investigations into Superman’s origins and motives, while others used the controversy to rally their own bases. The discourse had become polarized: supporters still saw Superman as a hero, but a growing segment of the public and political sphere viewed him with suspicion.

And your relationship with Senator Banks was complicated. A relationship that your boyfriend / 'Superman' didn’t even know about.

Tell him the truth.

Clark shifted forward just an inch, his fingers dragging the hair off your shoulder to plant a kiss down on the exposed skin.

"I missed you," he murmured.

"You saw me this morning,"

"That was so long ago," he pouted before capturing your lips into a desperate kiss and your fingers found their way into his hair, tugging gently and he groaned as the kiss deepened.

You let out a low, deep moan when you felt him push you against the counter and wedge his knee between your legs, and you instantly spread them, allowing him to settle there.

"Clark," you gasped out, feeling the slick between your legs already growing.

He grunted into your mouth as his fingers tugged at the bottom of your skirt, pushing it up until it was around your waist. He then slid his fingers between your legs, two thick fingers stroking you over the soaked fabric of your panties. "So… wet already. Have I been neglecting you?"

"Big time," you teased, since Clark didn’t really know how to neglect you.

Tugging firmly on his hair, you brought his lips back to yours, and your kitchen became filled with a duet of groans muffled within each other’s mouth.

He pulled his fingers away from your clothed cunt, and the loss sent a wave of desperation crashing over you. You could feel your heartbeat in your clit. A slight smirk played at the corners of his lips as you let out a frustrated whimper. He squeezed your hips and lifted you up on the kitchen counter.

"You’re making it hard to think straight," you admitted.

Clark grinned like sunshine and summer and his dimples made your heart melt into a puddle of warm, melted happiness. You knew you two were in the honeymoon period, the early days when everything felt perfect and new, but you had never felt quite like this before. You found yourself wondering if this is what the books you had read about meant. Or maybe it's what the movies you had watched meant—smiles, gentle touches, and the undeniable feeling that a moment could last forever. His lips trailed up to your ear, where he planted a teasing kiss. "Maybe I want you to lose your thoughts just for a little while."

Then you watched him drop to his knees and settle on the floor. He proceeded to pull your panties down, and lifted one of your legs to drape over his shoulder as he settled his face between your thighs. Clark’s nose rubbed at your clit, tongue probing at your pussy, and he grunted at the taste of you—he always ate at you with so much fucking enthusiasm, and he was currently sucking ruthlessly at you.

His lips latched around your clit, and you couldn’t control the cry that tore from your lips.

"Oh—my—Fuck! Clark!"

You were too far gone to be embarrassed at the porn-like mewling sounds that were coming out of you—which honestly just seemed to be spurring him on. You clawed your hands through his hair, anchoring his face against your wet cunt as it pulsed against his mouth.

You face felt like it was on fire when you looked down at him and found his eyes locked with yours as he brought his fingers into the mix. Seeing him take you apart on his knees always made you feel fucking insane, and he let out a prideful moan, working his tongue faster.

"F-feels so good," you whined, and at this point you could barley keep your eyes open.

He had reduced you to a trembling mess,

"I know, I know. Can feel that your close, baby. Wanna show me how good it feels?" Clark mumbled, ghosting his tongue over your clit again.

"Please— I—I need—" you could barley speak; words were failing you and your body was crying out for him in ways you could not control.

"I know what you need," he murmured against your cunt.

And he did.

Because your world shattered into a zillion starbursts of perfection approximately two minutes later—your cunt pulsating around his tongue, and tears leaking out of your eyes.

"There you go honey, that’s it."

A couple days later, and in an interesting turn of events—you met Clark’s parents.

It was a strange, almost surreal day. Clark’s parents, had arrived unexpectedly earlier that day, having been on a trip visiting some friends in Charlotte. They’d decided to have a long layover in Metropolis just to see Clark before they headed off back to Smallville.

You were all currently sitting at Clark’s kitchen table savoring breakfast for dinner before they headed off for the airport. He was sporting his favorite flannel. Clark’s face was lit with a happiness that was contagious. You felt a strange tug in your chest—an ache you couldn’t quite place.

Martha and Jonathan Kent were the epitome of what it meant to be loving, warm, genuine, and endlessly supportive parents. Martha’s gentle smile and kind eyes immediately made you feel like you belonged, but it was Jonathan who truly caught your attention.

What struck you most about Clark’s father was how unashamed he was about showing vulnerability—something you rarely saw in the men you’d known. As he sat across from you at the breakfast table, his hand resting firmly yet tenderly on Clark’s shoulder, you saw a different kind of strength. Not the kind that shouts or brags, but the quiet, steady kind that comes from deep love. He wasn’t afraid to express his pride in Clark.

You didn’t know what that felt like.

Your thoughts started to spiral, the pity-party in your mind pounding so loudly that you could hardly focus.

Martha interrupted your thoughts.

"So," she asked, her voice warm and inviting, "when are you planning to visit Smallville? We would love to have you."

Clark, blushing slightly, quickly interjected, "Ma, I’m supposed to ask her, not you." His cheeks reddened as he glanced away, trying to hide his embarrassment.

"It don’t matter who asks her, son," Jonathan added with a smile. "We just hope she comes."

Clark cleared his throat. "Uh, so— I, uh, had been thinking… maybe, uh, if you don’t already have plans," He ran a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts, but only seemed to get more tangled. "I—I was wondering if you’d like to come to Smallville with me for Labor Day weekend…" His words tumbled out in a rush, his voice slightly higher than usual, betraying his nervousness.

It was always adorable to watch him ramble.

Considering that just this morning he made you beg for his cock—your shower ending with you screaming his name so fucking loudly that your throat hurt, as he emptied himself into your soaked cunt.

"I’d be happy to join you all for Labor Day," you smiled warmly at Clark, placing your hand gently on his thigh under the table, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

A flicker of relief passed through Clark's baby blue eyes, and he subtly squeezed your hand in return.

Martha’s face lit up with a gentle smile. "Well, I hope we aren’t keeping you from your family,"

"My mom and her husband already have plans. They live in Atlanta, and they will be going to a friend’s lake house that weekend."

"What about your father?" Jonathan asked innocently.

Your mind froze.

Your father.

Your father.

Your father.

You suddenly noticed Clark’s entire body stiffen. His jaw clenched slightly, and a flicker of tension crossed his face. Without thinking, he cast a quick, almost pleading glance toward his father, as if silently warning him to drop the subject.

Your father.

Your father.

Your father.

You could tell Clark was about to speak, to clarify or maybe even shut down the question altogether, but you instinctively interrupted.

"He’ll probably be in the Hamptons with his wife and my older brothers. That’s usually what they do during the summers."

You hadn’t meant to say it—but at the same time, you were just so fucking tired of lying.

Clark’s eyes widened slightly as he absorbed your words, his brow furrowing in genuine surprise. A flicker of confusion crossed his face, as if he was trying to reconcile what you’d just said with the image you knew he had in his mind.

He thought your father was dead.

In a way—it was true.

He was dead to you.

Clark’s lips parted slightly, momentarily at a loss for words, and you saw the way his eyes searched yours for more clarity. It was almost as if he was trying to understand something that didn’t quite add up.

"That’s so nice, sweetheart. Where does he live?" Martha asked.

"Long Island,"

“Do your brothers live there too?

"No, but they are close by. One lives in Jersey and the other lives in Philadelphia," you said nervously, feeling Clark’s eyes burning a hole in the side of your head. You had never told him about your half-brothers.

"It’s so wonderful that you have family nearby." Jonathan said.

If only he knew the truth.

Clark, who had been quietly listening, suddenly shifted in his seat. His gaze darted to his phone, and a faint frown crept across his face. "We should go," he announced abruptly, standing up. "If we don’t leave soon, you guys might miss your flight."

Jonathan looked down at his watch, then nodded in agreement. "Golly, you’re right, Clark," he said, tapping at the face.

You pushed your chair back quietly, feeling the weight of the conversation still pressing heavily on your chest. As you reached for your coat hanging nearby, you took a small step toward the door. Clark’s voice, unusually strained, stopped you. "It’s um—okay," he said quickly, "I’m going to take the train with them to the airport. No—no need for you to come. I know you have an early meeting." His words were firm, but there was a subtle edge to them.

You looked at him, searching his face, but his expression was carefully neutral.

Almost unreadable.

But—it was clear he was upset.

When his parents spoke again, Martha and Jonathan both stood to say their goodbyes.

"We’ll see you soon, sweetheart," she said softly, reaching out to squeeze your hand.

Jonathan nodded kindly. "Yup, soon enough. Can’t wait to see you again."

As they moved to embrace you, Martha pulled you into a gentle hug first, then Jonathan stepped in, wrapping his arms around you in a firm, reassuring embrace.

After a moment, Jonathan gently whispered into your ear, his voice low and sincere, "Take care of my boy's heart. He thinks you’re real special, and I have to agree."

You swallowed roughly—because you completely disagreed.

You were curled up on the couch, wrapped in Clark’s oversized University of Kansas t-shirt that fell just above your knees. Your eyes flicked anxiously toward the door every few seconds, waiting for him to come home.

When the door finally swung open at 1:23 AM, Clark’s face was etched with frustration and something darker—maybe even anger.

"I thought you would have gone home," he grumbled.

You swallowed the lump in your throat when you saw the hurt in his eyes.

You knew you had some major groveling to do.

"I wanted to be here," you said after a long, tense moment. "To talk."

He stared down at you for what felt like hours before he exhaled. "To talk about what?"

"Look…I know you have questions, and you’re probably really confused, but—"

"You told me your father died when you were young!"

You gave him a defeated sigh. "No, you assumed he died… I just didn’t correct you."

He scoffed. "So now, you’re trying to get off on a technicality?"

"I’m not trying to do that."

"Why didn’t you tell me that you have brothers?" he asked, scanning your face.

"I’m sorry," you frowned. You cast your gaze down to the floor. "I don’t know."

"Seriously?" he asked, voice cracking. "You know everything about me—everything."

"I know—"

"No," he said a bit too loudly. "You clearly don’t know, because it’s been so easy for you to just lie to me for six months!"

The intensity in his gaze was almost painful.

"It hasn’t been easy. I’m sorry. I know I messed up. But, I swear! I’ve been wanting to tell you—"

"I don’t believe you!" he roared, an angry vein popping out of his neck.

Your heart felt like it had been stabbed by a thousand tiny knives. Clark had never raised his voice at you, and even though you deserved it—it fucking hurt.

Clark’s face fell almost immediately when he heard you choke back a sob, and you could see the guilt creeping in on his face. "I'm sorry," he said, brows pinching together. "Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I should be yelling."

He approached the couch, his footsteps hesitant and then he gently sank to his knees in front of you. Clark carefully reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing softly over your skin.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

He was apologizing?

Now, you felt like an even bigger asshole.

"Please don’t apologize. You’ve done nothing wrong. This is all my fault," you took a shaky breath, your heart still pounding from the rawness of the fight. Gently, you reached out and clasped Clark’s trembling hand, guiding him to sit beside you the couch. Without letting go, you carefully tugged him upward, so that he was seated right next to you. 

"Is there anything I’ve done to make you feel like you can't tell me things?" he asked desperately, his thumb pressing gently into the skin of your wrist.

"God no! Clark…that’s not it. I’m just scared. I don’t want to lose you. I thought if I told you, everything would change."

"Why would everything change?"

"Because… you’ll never look at me the same," you said, but you decided it was now or never.

You took a deep breath. “Senator Banks is my father.”

Clark blinked at you. The wheels in his mind were visibly turning, gears grinding as he tried to make sense of what he’d just heard. His grip on your wrist tightened instinctively.

Your throat instantly tightened.

"I’m the product of an affair Clark—it's not exactly something I talk about. And it’s not just my secret; it’s my mother’s too. My grandparents still don’t know who my biological father is." Your eyes turned glassy. "My mom was only nineteen when she met him. He was older. She was working as a maid at a hotel he was staying at. She knew he was married, but she was young and naive, and they started sleeping together. She got pregnant. When she told him, he gave her some money to 'take care of it'—and then he disappeared. Clearly, she didn’t but when I was seven, she told him about me. He told her he couldn’t be in my life—that he had a marriage and his sons to think about."

Your throat grew tight, but you continued. "He convinced my mother to sign an NDA, and gave her a lump sum of money to keep her quiet. She put the money in a trust for me, and released it to me when I turned 18. I used it for college and graduate school. The truth is I didn’t even know much about him until a few years ago when he ran for senator."

"He’s never tried to get to know you?" Clark whispered in disbelief.

"No,"

"What about your brothers?"

"When they found out a couple years ago, they made it very clear that they want nothing to do with me as well," you muttered. "Don’t you see, Clark?" A hot tear rolled down your cheek. "I’m just a bastard."

Complete pain and confusion clouded his features.

"Baby, that’s not true," he whispered, and then he pulled you into his lap and pressed his lips against the top of your head. "I’m so sorry. Anyone who would turn their back on you isn’t worth your tears. You’re incredible, and anyone who can’t see that isn’t worth your time."

Your tears flowed, then, unstoppable as they barreled down your cheeks. It didn’t matter how old you were—that man had abandoned you and it still hurt to this day. Clark sat perfectly still, cradling you gently in his arms as your sobs wracked your body. His arms wrapped securely around your trembling frame, one hand softly stroking your back in slow, soothing circles, while the other rested gently at the nape of your neck.

When you finally calmed down, he got you some water. Clark gently lifted your chin with a firm but tender hand, his thumb softly brushing away the tears that streaked your face. Without a word, he reached for the glass of water on the side table. He brought the glass to your lips, his grip gentle but sure, holding it steady as he urged you to take small sips. "Here, drink this. All of it." His tone left no room for argument, his eyes locking onto yours with that unwavering intensity that made you feel both cared for and slightly under his control.

Clark kept his hand steady on the glass, ensuring you finished the water, then gently set it down before softly cupping your face again, his thumb brushing your cheek once more. "Good," he murmured.

"I’m sorry he’s been attacking you in the media. You know I don’t believe anything he says about you—Superman right? I don’t want you to think that—"

"Stop," he cut you off softly. "None of that matters to me. None of it. I love you—everything about you. None of this changes how I feel about you."

"Really?" you sniffled.

"Of course. Please don’t overthink this," he placed a kiss on your temple before resting his cheek atop your head.

You looked up at Clark’s tender expression. "I love you too, Clark." Slowly, almost instinctively, your hand reached up to touch his face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your lips found his in a gentle, hesitant kiss. Clark responded immediately, his breath hitching as he deepened the kiss, his hands softly gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

The heat of his body pressed against yours, and your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him even closer. You felt his lips trail down your jaw and to your neck, leaving a trail of heated kisses that sent shivers down your spine. But as the intensity grew, Clark gently broke away, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. "Come on," he mumbled, "you need sleep. It’s been a long night."

You shook your head softly.

"I need you," you murmured. “More than anything right now.”

"Are you sure?"

You nodded.

In one fluid movement, he carried you to the bedroom, setting you down gently. The sheets felt cool against your skin, contrasting with the heat radiating from Clark as he hovered above you. He started taking off your (his) shirt and panties, pausing for a moment, studying you as if trying to memorize every inch of you, the way your body curved beneath him, how your chest rose and fell with each breath. He threw your (his) shirt on the ground and took off his own clothing before his lips found their way back to your neck, trailing heated kisses down to your collarbone. A low groan escaped him as he tasted your skin.

Clark descended, his mouth trailing lower, hovering just above your breasts, teasingly close. His hands slid down your sides, exploring every contour, before he settled on your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh possessively. With every kiss, every touch, he murmured sweet nothings, painting you in words that made you feel so worshipped and loved. You gasped when he took one nipple into his mouth, the sensation sending shocks of pleasure radiating through you. Each gentle tug and swirl of his tongue made you feel crazy.

"Clark," you breathed, fingers tangling in his hair, urging him closer, wanting more. He looked up at you from your chest and slid his hand between your legs to feel how wet and warm you were for him and sunk two fingers inside your cunt, a low moan escaping your lips as he touched you.

He curled his fingers in a way that made you gasp, your hips instinctively grinding against his hand. "So pretty," he murmured, watching as your eyes fluttered closed.

As good as this felt, you wanted more. You needed him inside of you.

"Clark, please," you moaned, desperation coating your voice. "Please fuck me. I need you so bad,"

His eyes darkened with desire, and he realized you were right—it was not the time to make you beg. He withdrew his fingers slowly, savoring the way your body shuddered in protest at the loss of contact. With a swift motion, he aligned himself with you, teasingly brushing against your entrance, eliciting an involuntary shudder from your body.

"Eyes on me honey," he said, his cock barely grazing your wet folds, eliciting soft whimpers from you. "I wanna see your face as I take what’s mine,"

"I’m yours," you insisted, your voice breathy with longing.

With a low growl, he plunged into you, filling you completely in one smooth thrust. You gasped, feeling every inch of him, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of him buried himself deep inside of you. Clark stilled for a moment. Even after all this time together, you always had to adjust to his size. His eyes bore into yours as he searched for any signs of discomfort.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice edged with concern.

"Yes, please move," you begged, thrusting your hips against him, urging him to start. "I can take it."

"I know you can. Always such a good girl for me."

Clark began to move, pulling back and then thrusting deep, over and over again. He found a steady rhythm, punctuated by the sound of skin slapping against skin and your wet sounds echoing in the room.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, your nails digging into his back as he drove deeper.

He grinned arrogantly.

"C’mon pretty girl," he said, his voice a wreck. "Tell me how it feels."

"Feels so good. You feel so good, Clark," you cried out, your mind going hazy.

"Love it when you say my name," he said, his breath coming in short bursts.

Clark leaned down, connecting his lips to yours in a fevered kiss. His tongue slipped past your lips, mingling with your breath, tasting the urgency. The kiss deepened, matching the rhythm of his movements—hard and passionate.

"You always look so good like this,"

"Like what?"

"Full of me," he groaned, punctuating his words with another powerful thrust. “So—fucking warm and—and tight." He rarely cursed unless it was during sex—which was always such a huge turn on. You could feel his heartbeat drumming against your chest, the heat radiating off his body as your hands roamed over his back, feeling each taut muscle beneath your fingertips. The noises you were making were inhumane because you loved it when Clark got filthy like this and would lose himself in the moment.

"Oh my god," you screamed as you felt the hairs on the base of his cock grinding against your clit.

"I love you so much. You’re so fucking perfect," he moaned in a whisper.

"I love you too," you gasped, intertwining your fingers with his as he continued to rock against you, his movements growing more frantic as you felt tears welling up and spilling down your cheeks over the way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing that mattered.

"It’s okay. Just let it out, honey," he cooed, his voice low and soothing. The raw intensity of the moment swirled around you. He cupped your face gently, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

You smiled through your tears, overwhelmed with emotions as he rained kisses along your face, your neck, kissing your tears away. "Fuck," he groaned as his tongue swirled at your pulse, his voice thick with desire, and you just whined in response, urging him on.

"Clark," you managed to gasp, the sound spilling from your lips as you felt the pleasure building within you, each thrust driving you closer to the edge. He grunted in response, his breath hot against your ear as he grabbed the headboard to use it as leverage and picked up the pace.

With each deliberate thrust, he found that perfect angle. "Please, more. Ugh, I’m so close," you blurted out, your voice shaky as you bucked your hips against him, desperate for release. He responded to your urgency, his movements becoming more frantic, as he lost himself in the pleasure you were both experiencing.

His fingers found their way to your sensitive spot, rubbing tight circles against your clit. The combination of his thrusts and fingers had you spiraling, your senses overwhelmed.

"Come for me," he urged.

His words broke the last of your restraint. As if on command, waves of pleasure crashed over you, making your whole body shudder. Some strange sound erupted from your throat as you cried out his name, and your orgasm slammed into you with a powerful force.

"That's it, just like that. Good girl, so fucking pretty," he cooed, his own breath coming in ragged gasps.

The moment your muscles tightened around him, the sensation sent him spiraling too. He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a few more deep strokes, he found his peak, spilling into your cunt as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

He laid over you for a long time.

Kissing you.

Gently touching you.

And telling you how much he loved you.

Of course, reader will invite Clark to her stepfather's birthday / retirement party and that farmboy is gonna be sweating bullets...

[cryptictongues]

Expect a Clark Kent x Fem!Reader fic by the end of the week. It is happening!

[cryptictongues]

This is a masterpiece!!!!!!

First, I just wanna say as someone who has panic episodes, the way you described readers is on point! Literally could see myself in that scene from episodes I’ve had so I appreciate the accuracy.

Clark and readers relationship is just so good. I love how you described his behaviors, esp in the argument sequence. Clark, at least David’s version, very much is someone who reacts in the moment and doesn’t stop and think that what he’s doing may be affecting people in ways he doesn’t understand.

The way you wrote him shows how deeply he feels for reader, and I love that he was vulnerable during the smut, confessing that he thought he lost the reader forever. Smut scenes like that are always my favorite.

Fantastic piece, OP! Thanks for sharing!

mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.

a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂

Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.

It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you. 

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid: 

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“Jimmy Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look really pretty today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them.  “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment.  “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment.  “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re perfect.”

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth.  “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low.  “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

[cryptictongues]

Would yall believe me if Superman just pulled me out of a writing slump? Because it sure fucking did

[cryptictongues]

“You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

THAT IS CRAZY WORK LMAOOOO MY JAW DROPPED

MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE!

|| dc masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

─ ✮⋆˙PAIR: Clark Kent x fem!reader

─ ✮⋆˙WC: 5.2k

─ ✮⋆˙@polkadottprincess SAYS: on the clark kent agenda as well!!!! maybe a size kink?! or dare i say edging.

─ ✮⋆˙CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, reader is a journalist, established relationship, so much banter, clark kent is a FLIRT and a SLUT, a risqué interview, roleplaying…kind of, sub clark leaning, dirty talk, handjob, size kink YES, edging hehehe, superman’s super huge dick, hyperspermia, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙NAT’S NOTE: guys i genuinely don’t know how to describe the plot of this in a way that makes sense. okay so basically clark can’t get you a interview with superman, but he can get you the next best thing. himself. that’s it. i don’t think that makes sense but hear me out! it’s good i promise! i had so much fun writing my last clark fic that i needed to write another one. maybe i’ll write even more who knows… that’s code for i have three wips sitting pretty literally as we speak…anyway bye bye now hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you and clark have a conversation about superman…

There are certainly worse places to work than the Daily Planet office.

Sure, it's a little chaotic and the coffee machine spits out something vaguely offensive most mornings. Sure, it's a little loud and you tend to get migraines when you're stuck in the thick of it too long.

There are positives too, and they're pretty good ones. You get a beautiful view of Metropolis from your desk. You get the thrill of real, gritty stories right under your fingers. And most days, the company isn't half bad.

That is, except when Clark Kent gets yet another exclusive with Superman.

The bullpen is buzzing with the usual chaos that comes with mid-Monday mornings.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The sporadic clicks from dozens of mouses. The sharp sounds of high heels and fancy loafers against the marble floors.

You’re elbow deep in a piece on the harmful carbon emissions caused by LexCorp, a chai latte from the cafe across the street slowly melting beside your keyboard as you type.

You're on your third paragraph—halfway through describing a particularly egregious cover up involving offshore dumping—when Jimmy’s voice slices through the room, too loud and chipper for a Monday.

“Front page again, man.” Jimmy excitedly slaps a new paper on Clark’s desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He shoves Clark’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “You have Superman on speed dial or what?”

You glance up from your screen, fingers pausing over the keys. 

Clark—sweet, modest Clark—smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. They weren’t even slipping down his nose. “Thanks, Jimmy. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Right place at the right time.

Bullshit.

That’s the third time he’s used that particular line in the last four months. 

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in your head, and lean back in your chair, attention shifting. “Man of Steel must have a type, huh?” You’re loud enough for Clark and Jimmy to hear you across the walkway. “He only ever talks to Clark.”

Clark catches your eye, the edges of his smile a little smugger than before when he tilts his head to the right just so. “Jealous, loud mouth?”

You scoff, eyes narrowing. “Of course I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Superman for weeks and he hands them out to you like candy. It’s blatant favoritism.”

Lois finally speaks up from her desk next to yours, not looking up from her screen. “And you’re Clark’s favorite. It balances out.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Jimmy cuts in before you can speak, holding his hands up in front of him. “I’m clearly Clark’s favorite. I thought everyone picked up on that?”

You suck your teeth, ignoring Jimmy. “If I was really Clark’s favorite he’d quit hogging Superman and put in an extremely gushing, ass-kissing word for me. Wouldn’t you, Clarkie?”

That earns a chuckle from Jimmy, and a slightly sharper one from Clark himself—but he still doesn’t rise to your bait. He just gives you that polite little Clark Kent smile, all warm and wholesome and harmless. The one that makes people underestimate him.

“I’ll find a way to work in the ass-kissing,” he nods, overly serious. You can see right through it. “Promise.”

You hum noncommittally, plucking a loose pencil off your desk. “Someone jot that down. I want it in writing.”

“Kiss my ass all you want while you’re at it, Clark.” Lois pipes up again, her bored tone underscored by the way her fingers fly over her keyboard. Click click click. “I’d throw myself off the top of the building if it got me an interview with Superman.”

“I’d kill for ten minutes with Superman,” you add, idly twirling the pencil in your hand as you sway side to side in your chair. 

Jimmy snorts, shamelessly flipping through Clark’s notepad. “Who wouldn’t these days.”

Clark ignores him much like you did. He glances at you over the frame of his glasses, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that a professional request?”

“Very professional,” you say coolly, arching a brow. “Strictly for journalistic purposes.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“Extremely professional.” You repeat, tone dipping into something a little warmer.

Clark catches on, because of course he does. His eyes flash with something new that you can see even from where you’re sitting. He cuts his gaze to the way your thumb glides along the shiny edge of your pencil. Up and down. Up and down.

You watch his throat work around a thick swallow. The slouch he’s had all morning straightens out for a single breath, showing off just how broad those shoulders really are under that boxy suit.

The others don’t notice the sudden tension. Lois is too busy typing, fueled by the third sugar filled coffee cluttered around her, and Jimmy tends to be more oblivious when it’s this early.

“Well,” Clark says mildly, back to slouching in his chair. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re interested. Next time I see him.”

You arch a brow, pretending not to notice the curl of heat that slides low in your stomach when he says it. 

“Next time I see him.” Like they’re neighbors. Buddies.

Almost like they share a mirror.

You let yourself smile, the barest hint of one. Clark still beams right back at you like the slight raise of your lips is the best thing he’s seen all morning. “You do that, Clark. I’ll be sure to wear my shiniest pair of readers, to make him feel more comfortable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and turns back to his screen, but you can still see the dopey grin on his face clear as day.

You bite your lip, stifling your own matching smile, and get back to work.

Your apartment is dim, quiet. It’s lit in that soft, late evening kind of way—warm lamplight pooling in corners. The faint hum of the city bleeds in through your half open window, the bustle of people walking the streets mixing with the low rumble of traffic three stories down.

You’re sitting on your couch, legs folded under you as your laptop rests on your knees. The loose sleep shorts you changed into as soon as you got home are riding up your thighs, an old Smallville Crows sweatshirt you stole from Clark hangs off your left shoulder as you try to work.

Try being the word of the night so far.

LexCorp isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, unfortunately, and offshore dumping doesn’t expose itself. So, the same article you were working on at the office stares back at your tired eyes, and it’s slowly starting to feel like it’s mocking you. 

The cursor blinks steadily on the too bright screen, daring you to try and finish the pathetic excuse of a paragraph you’ve been stuck on for nearly twenty minutes. You chew the inside of your cheek, your nails drumming over the touchpad so you don’t start ripping the keys off in frustration.

You’re just about to call it and toss your laptop aside when there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t get up, you hardly even blink at the three quiet raps against the wood. You already know who it is.

The sound of a key, your spare key, sliding into your lock is loud in the quiet enveloping you. The door creaks open and Clark’s voice follows as soon as it’s closed.

“You forgot lunch today,” he calls from the doorway, toeing his shoes off. “I didn’t want you forgetting dinner too.”

You hum as the soft sound of socked feet make their way closer, not looking up from your laptop. “Isn’t that sweet of you.”

A bag is dropped next to you on the couch, heavy and warm against your bare thigh. “Falafel from the spot you like,” he says from somewhere behind you, bright and almost giddy—like he’s been waiting to tell you all day. “And a cream soda for the best reporter in Metropolis.”

“You’re such a suck up, Kent.” You tsk softly, shaking your head. “Cream soda? That must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

Strong arms close around your shoulders, and Clark’s scent washes over you. The metallic tang of ozone, of fresh cut grass and sunny warmth. “Mhm, it was worth it.”

Clark kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling. He presses another kiss to your temple. Sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear teasingly, the warmth of his breath sends goosebumps pebbling up your arms. “You were really giving it to me back at the office, you should do that more often.” 

It's unmistakably husky, his tone. Husky and low and hushed next to your ear, letting you really hear the heat behind it.

Clark’s arms tighten around you, pressing himself into your back as much as he can with the couch still separating you both. Another kiss to the edge of your jaw. “You’re so sexy when you’re ticked off at me.”

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to give Clark more room to press kisses along your skin. “Me telling you off in front of Jimmy gets you hot?” 

Clark chuckles against your skin, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything on you. He’d look terrible in a pencil skirt.”

You huff, closing your laptop. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

You finally turn your head, peering up at Clark hunched over you. He’s already looking back, eyes bright. You only get a glimpse of that perfect smile before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but chaste. It’s the first kiss you’ve had since he left your apartment late last night. 

Clark tastes like sugar and salt—like the honeyed fizz of cream soda and the briny note of wind that clings to his skin no matter what time of day it is. He kisses like he does everything else, devastatingly earnest and impossibly sweet. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to his memory. Like he’s trying to leave your taste on his lips for days.

Clark kisses like he means it—every swipe of his tongue, every soft sound into your mouth, every gentle pull of your lower lip between his teeth.

His glasses bump your forehead with every move. He still has them on, even here with you where he doesn’t need them. You feel the press of them anyway, clunky and in the way, but it’s almost charming—so unmistakably Clark it makes your chest squeeze.

When his fingers curl into the worn down fabric of your sweatshirt, tugging gently as he deepens the kiss, you're the one who has to pull back for breath.

“You're not allowed to distract me,” you whisper, voice light, lips brushing his. “I’m supposed to be working.”

Clark just hums, eyes still slipped closed. “I missed you.” Another kiss. “Been thinking about this all day.” Another kiss. “About you.”

He kisses the smile right off your lips, his other hand sliding down your back slowly—mapping out the notches of your spine. He toys with the hem of your sweatshirt, sliding his touch under the cotton to find the curve of your waist. It’s not entirely innocent, the way his thumb slips under the waistband of your shorts. 

Your lips are already swollen, you can almost feel the blood rushing to them. You pull back again, blinking like you’ve been spun in circles. “You saw me six hours ago, Kansas.”

Clark grins, cheeks flushed. “That’s six hours too long.”

You smile, your hand coming up to brush your fingers through his messy curls. “Well, I’m here now.” Your fingers trail lightly along the side of his face. Clark leans into your touch, kissing your palm before you’re squishing his cheeks together. “And you brought me falafel, so you can stay.”

“Don’t forget the cream soda,” he says, voice wobbly from the pressure of your hand smushing his lips together. “What do I get for that?”

You shake his head back and forth fondly, still smiling. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You plant one last, exaggerated kiss on his pouty lips and drop your hand. Clark smiles, squeezing your hip once before he’s straightening up and making his way around the couch.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He sits next to you, plucking your feet off the couch long enough to settle into the cushions before draping them over his lap. “Let’s get some food in you first.”

You sigh, but you’re reaching for the bag anyway. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until amazing smelling street food was brought into your apartment. “Spoil sport.”

You sit together like that for who knows how long, sharing bites of falafel and sips of soda.

The conversation is easy, just like it always is. You talk about the mess at LexCorp, Clark listens intently. Humming and nodding in agreement as he rubs your feet. He brings up some dull city council ordinance he’s been pretending to care about all week just to get quotes for Perry.

You let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the press of his thumb against your ankle as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the bone. 

It's nice. Soft, domestic. The kind of evening you’d always imagined when things between you and Clark stopped hovering in the “is this flirting or am I insane?” phase and finally landed squarely in “he brings you dinner and has a toothbrush in your bathroom” territory.

It’s only when the lull sets in—comfortable and slow, your belly full and his fingers tracing the bare skin of your calf lazily—that you really let yourself look at him.

Clark is so handsome like this. Taking up space in your apartment like it’s second nature, squeezing into a space far too small for him just to be close to you, illuminated by the soft orange glow of your ancient thrift store lamp. 

Handsome in that painfully earnest, infuriatingly humble, Midwestern farm boy way. 

You feel a sort of possessive victory in it, getting to see Clark like this—in a way that very few people do. Here, with you, he can be himself. He doesn't need to constantly watch what he says, to reel it in in fear of compromising himself. He doesn’t need to put up a front.

He can just be Clark. 

Not Superman. Not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter.

Just Clark. Your Clark.

It drives you absolutely crazy, it always has. 

It makes you want to stretch him between your fingers like taffy, to crunch down on him between your teeth like hard candy. It makes you want to ruin him.

Then, somewhere between the food and the comfortable silence, Clark’s tone shifts.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “About what you said at the office this morning.”

You blink at him, raising your brow. “I said a lot of things at the office this morning. You’ll have to be more specific.”

 “About wanting an interview. With Superman.” Clark’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. “You said you’d kill for ten minutes with him.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “That was professional desperation.”

“Strictly journalistic?” he deadpans, echoing your words from earlier.

“Very serious. Pulitzer level serious, even.”

Clark grins, and you know then—he’s winding you up. Slowly. Deliberately. That warm Kansas boy charm tightening around your ribs like a silk ribbon.

“Well, bad news,” he says, forlorn. “Superman’s calendar is booked solid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yup,” he says with a pop of his lips, still rubbing slow circles over your ankle. “Big world. Lots of people to save.”

You sigh dramatically. “Shame. I had such good questions lined up.”

Clark shrugs one shoulder, smile sly. “He’s hard to reach, you know that. But I figured…if I can’t get you Superman, I could get you the next best thing.”

Your brows knit together, confused. “And what’s that?”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping, playful but unmistakably suggestive. “Clark Kent.”

You tilt your head, slow and wary. “Clark Kent?”

“Clark Kent,” he nods, eyes gleaming. “Superman’s number one source. His—let’s say—closest personal contact.”

You snort, but you’re already caught up in it. Already invested in the game. “You’re full of shit.”

He sits back, sprawling onto the armrest with theatrical ease, like he owns the place—and really, at this point, he kind of does. “Try me.”

You blink, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he stresses, adjusting his glasses like some parody of a news anchor. “You can ask me anything about Superman. His habits, his routines, his, uh…” he trails off with a twitch of a smile, “...personal tastes.”

Your lips part, breath catching just slightly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still want that interview, don’t you?”

The moment hangs. Warm, fizzy, a little dangerous. Clark and you both know a little danger is never enough to scare you away.

“Alright,” you murmur, still suspicious as you sit up a little straighter, swiping your notepad off the coffee table. “Just remember, you asked for this.”

Clark nods slowly, putting a hand over his heart. “Do your worst.”

You narrow your eyes at him, searching for some kind of catch. Clark just looks back, smiling.

“Okay.” You shrug, flipping your notepad open. You grab the pencil tucked behind your ear, raising it in front of Clark’s lips like a microphone. “Please state your name for the record.”

Clark clears his throat, dipping his head to speak into the eraser. “Clark Joseph Kent.”

You nod, jotting it down. “First question.” You tap your pencil on the paper, dragging out the suspense. “The suit—how in the world does it stay up if it doesn’t have a belt?”

Clark snorts, but his expression remains composed, playing his part. “Kryptonian tech. The fabric conforms to his body. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

You raise a brow. “And what about underneath?”

A pause. Then, calm as can be: “Nothing underneath.”

Your pulse skips a beat. “Huh.”

He watches you, tilting his head. “Next question?”

You try to keep your tone light, playful. “Let’s do an easy one. What’s he like…off the record?”

Clark hums, rolling his head on his shoulders like he’s really thinking. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Reads more than you’d expect.”

“Mhm. Nerd,” you tease.

“Bit of one, yeah,” he agrees.

You hum, writing. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark smiles but he doesn’t answer.

“Okay next…” You chew your pencil, thinking it over. “Is he single?”

Clark blinks behind his glasses, then laughs. “You’re seriously asking that?”

You nod, overly serious. “It’s a relevant question, Kent. The people want to know.”

Clark’s cheeks pink slightly, and his voice is quiet. “He’s…seeing someone. Secretly.”

“Oh?” You perk up, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Do tell. Is she beautiful?”

Clark’s voice softens, barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

You pause. That one lands. Hits something low and warm deep inside you. “Anyone I know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says softly, like a confession. “She drives him insane.”

You squirm where you sit, phantom flames lapping at your skin. “Does she?”

“She does.” Clark hums, nodding his head. His eyes never leave yours.

You aren’t even writing in your notepad anymore, too caught up in a game that’s starting to feel less and less like a game with each passing second. “How.”

He leans in just a little, his voice going husky. “The way she talks. Her brain. Her mouth. Her smart little attitude.” His hand trails along the couch behind you. “The way she looks at him like she knows he’s not invincible.”

“Sounds like she’s really into him.” You will your voice not to shake, but it doesn’t work. You’re too wound up. The tension between you and Clark growing thicker and thicker.

“Oh, she is,” Clark murmurs. “Says things sometimes that make him feel like he’s gonna burn through his skin.”

You lean in, tongue coming out to swipe along your bottom lip. “Like what?”

“She tells him she wants to get fucked by Superman,” Clark says softly, cheeks more pink. “Tells him she thinks about it when she’s alone. Thinks about how big he is. How he’d feel. If he’d wreck her.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “That’s what she says?”

He nods, eyes dark. You watch as his pupils grow, black stretching across blue like an oil slick over a lake.

“And what does Superman do?” you ask.

“Whatever she wants.” Clark breathes.

Your heart trips over itself three times over in your chest, breath caught in your throat. The fun of it—this game—it's suddenly edged with something even more molten than before, something dense and slow. You feel the buzz in your limbs, in the way Clark’s gaze sticks to your mouth now instead of your eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, wetness blooming between your legs to soak the thin cotton of your panties. “What turns him on?”

Clark blinks again, meeting your eyes. This time he’s a little less composed. “That’s not exactly a journalistic question.”

“I’m going for a different kind of profile,” you murmur. “Besides, I think we already blew through any journalistic professionalism.”

Clark lets out a breath. His voice is lower when he speaks next. “Well…he likes being in control. But he likes being teased, too. Likes when someone isn’t afraid of him. Likes being told what you want. What you fantasize about.”

You shift in your seat. “Do you think he’d like it if someone told him they touch themselves thinking about him?”

Clark’s jaw tenses.

You lean in, slow, until your lips are nearly brushing his ear. Your notepad and pencil are long forgotten, tossed somewhere beside you. “You think he’d like it if I told him I think about him bending me over my desk at work? Or flying me up to my roof and fucking me against the edge of the building?”

Clark turns his head to look at you. His pupils blown so wide all you see is black.

“I think he’d like that a lot,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I know he would.”

The moment breaks like glass.

You kiss him—hard. Hungry. Like you’re trying to tear him open and crawl inside.

And Clark lets you.

His hand flies up to cup your jaw, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is all tongue and filthy—hot and desperate and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it. Clark’s touch is firm, everywhere, his mouth wet and open against yours. He groans low in his throat when your hand slides down his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach through his shirt.

Your hand drifts even lower, between his legs, where he’s hard as steel in his slacks.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your lips, hips twitching into your palm. “You—you’re playing dirty.”

You press firmer, mapping out the familiar length of his thick cock with greedy fingers. “You started it.”

“You’re not seriously—”

“—taking your exclusive,” you whisper, working open his fly. “Since you’re offering.”

Clark makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as you pull down his zipper, your fingers grazing over the impossible heat straining behind it. 

“You—you don’t have to—” he gasps, even as his hips rise from the couch, silently begging you to continue.

“Clark.” You look up at him, hand already stroking slowly over the thick outline of his cock through the drenched fabric of his boxers. “Be quiet.”

His breath hitches. He nods, biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a dent. But the way he’s trembling beneath your touch, the way his thighs tense—you know he won’t last long.

You slip your hand into his boxers, and that’s when you really feel him—bare skin to skin. Hot, thick, and heavy. Way too heavy. You nearly gasp as you pull him free, the head flushed a violent red, already leaking. The sheer size of him always takes you by surprise. 

Big doesn’t even begin to cut it.

He’s not just long—he’s thick. The kind of thick that makes your hand look small in comparison. The kind that has no business fitting anywhere, and yet you ache to make him fit.

Clark groans when the cool air hits him, and louder when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up the length of his cock with a tight grip. You twist your wrist around the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the shiny mess of pre-come.

"You're so big,” you breathe, pumping him faster. “It’s not fair.”

He whines through gritted teeth, hips twitching, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Fuck, baby, please—go slow, I’m not—if you keep—”

“I barely touched you,” you murmur, transfixed by the way his cock twitches in your grip. It’s flushed dark, an angry red at the tip. You trace the thick vein along the underside with your thumb, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard just beneath the skin.

Clark whines, dropping his head on the back of the couch. His hands dig into the cushions, you can hear the seams straining under his grip.

“Oh, you’re gonna come like this? Already?” you tease, dragging your hand down slowly—so slowly—until you’re just barely grazing his balls. “From just my hand?”

“Mmph—fuck,” Clark whimpers, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll survive.” You kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re Superman.”

He groans again at that, like it hurts to hear the word coming from your mouth, like it unlocks something primal in him. You stroke him again, firmer now, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. Clark shudders.

“You gonna come for me, hero?” you ask, licking your lips. “Gonna soak my hand with that big load you’ve been holding in all day?”

Clark groans, his hands flying to your thighs—gripping, grounding. “Gosh—don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

You slow down. Stop, almost.

And Clark makes the prettiest little noise. Desperate. Just this ruined, strangled sound deep in his throat that shoots straight through you like lightning.

“You can’t what?” you coo, barely pumping him. “Can’t hold it?”

Clark shakes his head fast, eyes blown, body twitching like he’s fighting every instinct in his arsenal not to thrust up into your fist like an animal.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Clark?”

“Please—fuck—please let me come.”

You pretend to consider it. Drag your thumb under the slit of his cock again and marvel at the mess he’s made. Pre-come is coating your palm, sticky and hot and so much. He’s leaking like he hasn’t touched himself in weeks. It makes the slide of your fist that much easier.

You know it’s a side effect of his biology—Kryptonian virility turned all the way up.

Clark fills your mouth, drenches your stomach, floods your pussy every time you’re together like it’s the first time he’s come in years. And he always gets so sensitive, so feral about it. Like he hates how much he needs it and loves how much he needs you.

“You’re so full, baby,” you murmur, dragging your hand slow along his cock again. “You need to come that bad?”

Clark nods without shame, hips twitching. “Need it so bad. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about your voice. About your thighs. About your mouth—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” you whisper.

Clark whines.

It’s so soft, so honest, it almost makes you pity him.

Almost.

You kiss his throat, biting lightly at where his pulse jackhammers. “You’re not gonna come until I say so, Clark. You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna sit there and take it and be good for me.”

Clark’s hips buck at that—he tries to be still, tries to keep his eyes on you, but the pleasure is just too much. He nods like his life depends on it, gripping your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises blooming tomorrow.

Clark will feel guilty about it. You won’t.

“Good boy,” you purr, picking up the pace again—stroking him with both hands now, twisting, squeezing, making sure every stroke is just rough enough to keep him teetering on the edge.

Clark’s entire body is trembling. His lips are swollen and slick, pink blooming up his throat. His glasses have fogged up, and his brows are knit like he’s in pain—like this is the most torturous kind of pleasure he’s ever felt.

You jerk him faster, watching the way his body tightens, how his cock swells heavy in your hands. His stomach contracts like it’s about to cramp, his moans dissolving into open mouthed gasps as he bucks up into your palm like he’s chasing it.

He’s so close.

“Baby—please,” Clark gasps, gripping your wrist now, his huge hand covering yours where you stroke him. “Please let me come, I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” you whisper, biting your lip. “But not yet.”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t hold it—”

You stop again.

Clark sobs.

A real, wrecked, broken sound from deep in his chest.

His hands squeeze your thighs and he curls in on himself slightly, eyes flying open in disbelief. “No,” he gasps, hips twitching uselessly. “No, no, please—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his fluttering eyelids. “You’re doing so good for me, Clark. Just a little longer.”

He groans, miserable, but he still nods. So obedient. So eager to please—to give you what you want.

You don’t give him any warnings before your fists are speeding up, flying over his cock as fast as you can manage.

Clark cries out, his body jerking violently—like he doesn’t know whether to run from your touch or lean into it. “Christ, wait—ah! Wait, I can’t—”

You don’t let up—stroking him faster, tighter, rougher. The slick, obscene sounds of it echo in the quiet apartment. “You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

Clark nods frantically—barely a word past his lips before it hits him.

His whole body locks, like steel cables yanking taut. His head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry, and his cock explodes in your hand—thick, hot spurts of come spilling over your fingers, the couch, his stomach, everything. He comes so much it makes you moan at the sight of it, the smell of it, the obscene volume flooding your fist.

When it finally stops, Clark collapses back into the cushions, limp and trembling. His cheeks are flaming. Eyes glazed. Shirt soaked in streaks of his own come. His cock’s still hard, twitching gently against his belly, still leaking.

“Well,” you say, more casual than you feel. Your pussy aches between your legs, begging for a turn. “That’s definitely going in the article.”

Clark doesn't answer. He just drags you into his lap and stands before you can even grab hold of his shoulders. He doesn’t super speed the two of you to the bedroom, but it’s close.

You laugh the whole way down the hall.

Later, after the sheets are damp and the room smells like sex, Clark kisses your shoulder and whispers, “So…when’s that article coming out?”

You smile sleepily, curling into him. His chest rises and falls under you with breath he doesn’t need, his hands draw shapes along your sweaty back.

A circle. A star. A heart. A figure eight. A heart. A heart.

“I think I’ll keep it off the record.”

MINI NAT’S NOTE: thank you again for sending in this ask! i have the superman brain rot baaad and this is NOT helping it’s def making it worse but that’s okay that’s what i want! i need people to enable me! i was writing this fic in my head before the ask came in and i was like YES DONE and i wrote it and now we’re here. i hope you like it @polkadottprincess!

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[cryptictongues]

hello !

i am the anon that asked about His Majesty. I cannot get this man off of my mind, and need to see more of him on my timeline. I’ve read everything you’ve written, and your work is incredible!

Cannot wait to see more of him! 💙

Thank you so much for enjoying my work! Sometimes I look back at it and wonder how my brain conjured up the scenarios for that man 😭

I hope to write for him soon too 💙🖤