glowwayne - Tumblr blog

glowwayne · 3 days ago

Note

could I pretty please request a Clark Kent and male reader, like just a goofy slice of life thing, not explicitly a romantic relationship but also the reader doing some questionable things for research and getting himself in trouble, and ending up needing Superman to save him

──୨ৎ── Clark Kent x Masc! Reader: Curious Cat

Summary: While searching for clues in a drug case in the city, you get into trouble. But Superman arrives to save you.

Words: 4003

Tags: You almost die (but it’s fine), Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Bandages and Tenderness, Suspiciously Familiar Reporter, Cookies as Love Language, Awkward Flirting, Accidental Crush, Embarrassing, Flustered Reader, Protective Superman, Mild Angst but with a Happy Ending, Slice of Life with Superheroes.

Notes: I loved the request! I was a sleepless night writing it. But it was really nice. It's been a long time since I wrote something that didn't include lol porn.

• ────── ✾ ────── •

The concrete floor was cold against your knees, but not as cold as the ache in your stomach where the first blow had landed. Your wrists throbbed where they’d zip-tied you to the metal chair, your skin burning against cheap plastic that dug deeper every time you flexed. A thin trickle of blood had already dried across your cheekbone, sticky when you blinked. You’d like to think it looked cinematic, maybe like something Perry would nod at when you pitched the story, but it didn’t feel like a movie. It felt ugly, raw, and terrifying.

The warehouse was silent except for the buzzing of a flickering fluorescent overhead, the bulb sputtering like it was just as exhausted as you. The shadows sprawled long across the concrete walls, and every groan of the building settling made your pulse spike. They had gone out, “to grab some toys,” one of them had sneered with a grin that promised nothing good. Their boots had clomped against the stairs, echoing until they disappeared completely, leaving you alone with the silence.

And silence, you realized, was worse. Because silence gave you space to think. To imagine.

You weren’t stupid; you’d been at the Planet long enough to know that following a group of low-level dealers into their own nest wasn’t just “bad journalism,” it was suicidal. Lois would’ve called you an idiot. Perry would’ve said you were reckless. Clark, Clark would’ve looked at you with those soft, patient eyes and asked why you always had to put yourself in danger to get the story. But none of them were here now. It was just you, a chair, and the creeping realization that maybe you weren’t getting out of this one.

The guys hadn’t hit you hard enough to knock you out, just enough to remind you of the hierarchy here. You, the nosy reporter. Them, the ones who made people disappear. Your ribs ached with every breath, and there was a bruise blooming along your jaw. And still, all you could think about were those words, the way one of them had leaned close and hissed: “We’re gonna have a little fun before we dump you.”

Fun.

The word rattled in your skull, jagged and ugly. Fun meant bruises. Fun meant worse than bruises. Fun meant things you didn’t even want to picture but couldn’t stop yourself from picturing. You imagined the tools they might drag back in, a bat, a knife, something with a cord, hell, maybe just their fists and time. The possibilities crowded your head until your stomach turned. You tried to swallow, but your throat was dry, sticky with the copper taste of fear.

Your breath stuttered out in sharp bursts, shallow and quick, like your lungs had forgotten how to do their job. You wanted to scream, or bargain, or promise them you’d never write another word about them again. But would that even matter? You weren’t Lois. You weren’t brave. You were just… stuck. Terrified.

Your eyes darted to the door again. Any second now. Heavy boots. Laughter. That smell of sweat and cigarettes. And then, then whatever they thought “fun” was going to look like.

You clenched your jaw so hard it hurt. You wanted to stay angry, to hold onto that righteous fire you always pretended you had in the newsroom, but fear was heavy, pressing down on your shoulders until it felt like you were shrinking inside your own body. The chair creaked when you shifted, the sound embarrassingly loud in the silence. You froze. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. And in that moment, you were certain, absolutely certain, that you were going to die in this warehouse.

The footsteps came first.

Boots scraping concrete, uneven laughter echoing just beyond the warehouse door. A muttered curse. A clatter of something metallic being dropped, followed by a chorus of snickers. They were back. Your entire body went rigid. The pulse in your throat jumped so violently it hurt. You could feel your heartbeat in your teeth, in your wrists, in the bruises that marked your ribs. Each breath rasped in and out too fast, shallow enough that the edges of your vision began to darken. You knew what came next. The “fun."

You clenched your eyes shut, as though blindness would shield you, as though if you didn’t see them come back in, it wouldn’t be real. But the sound grew louder. Heavy steps, closer, closer, dragging something along the floor. Chains? A pipe?

And then: Bang. Bang. Bang. Three sharp knocks cracked through the noise, the kind that didn’t belong to careless drug runners but to something deliberate. Precise.

The laughter cut off. Silence fell like a guillotine. You dared to open your eyes again, just in time to hear a strangled shout from outside, followed by the sound of something large hitting the wall. Then another shout, cut off mid-word. Then silence again. Not the same silence as before, the oppressive, waiting kind, but the kind that followed violence. Final, punctuated.

Your stomach twisted. New panic. Had someone else come for them? Rivals? Had you just been traded from one predator to another? Would they leave you here, tied up, forgotten until dehydration and hunger gnawed you hollow? You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood, every nerve braced for the door to swing open and something worse to enter. The door did open. And what stepped through wasn’ worse. It was impossible.

Red. Blue. Gold. A cape that dragged faintly against the dirty floor. Broad shoulders that seemed too large for the frame of the door. And yes, those infamous briefs worn over the tights, the ones you’d once mocked in print, calling them “a tailor’s worst fever dream.” The absurd image of them should have made you laugh, or at least roll your eyes. Instead, tears stung your eyes because for the first time since the chair had slammed shut around you, you believed you might not die here.

It was him... Superman.

He scanned the room quickly, those ice-blue eyes catching every detail, before locking onto you. And then, then he smiled. A small, calm, reassuring curve of his mouth that hit you harder than any punch you’d taken tonight. “It’s alright,” he said, and his voice,deep, warm, so steady,vibrated in your chest like an anchor dropping.

“You’re safe now.”

You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. He strode across the room, each step measured but unhurried, like he knew nothing could touch either of you now. The fluorescent light bounced off his suit, gleaming in unnatural perfection, the bright symbol on his chest standing out like a promise. The ridiculousness of it all, that a man dressed like this could be your salvation, barely registered. Because it was salvation.

When he crouched down beside you, the sheer nearness of him almost undid you. The chair felt smaller, your body weaker. You flinched when his gloved hands brushed yours, but he only murmured,

“Easy. I’ve got you,” before the plastic zip-ties snapped like paper between his fingers.

Blood rushed back into your wrists, prickling painfully, and you winced. He noticed. Of course he did. His brows drew together, the gentlest frown, as though your pain physically wounded him too.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice lower now, intimate. “I’ll be careful.”

Careful. From him, it wasn’t just a word, it was a vow.

The chair creaked when you tried to move, your body sluggish and sore. Before you could collapse, his arms were already there, sliding beneath you with a care so precise it bordered on reverent. One arm behind your back, one beneath your knees, and suddenly you were lifted, cradled against the broad wall of his chest like something fragile. You made a sound, half-groan, half-protest, when the motion pulled at your bruises. Instantly, he stilled.

"Sorry,” he murmured again, softer than before. His breath was warm near your ear, smelling faintly of smoke and the cold air outside. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Just hold onto me. You’re safe now, I promise.”

You wanted to laugh at yourself. You, who had written sarcastic op-eds about the absurdity of depending on a flying man in tights, now clutching at the spandex stretched across his chest like a lifeline. You wanted to say something witty, to deflect, but the words stuck in your throat because God, you were so relieved.

Your face burned, a flush spreading hot across your cheeks as you realized how close you were to him, how solid and impossibly warm he felt. The steady thump of his heart beneath all that impossible muscle. The ridiculous comfort of his cape draped against your legs. You hated that you blushed, hated that you must’ve looked like some trembling damsel. But then he shifted you slightly, more comfortable in his arms, and his voice dropped again:

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be brave right now.”

And maybe that was worse than anything, because with those words, every thin wall you’d built cracked, and you let yourself sag against him, foolish and small, feeling more protected than you ever had in your life.

The air outside the warehouse hit colder than it should have, sharp and biting against your bruises. You barely registered the sight of the gangsters being dragged, cuffed, and shoved into police cruisers. Their curses rang out into the night, but all of that felt distant, muffled, like sound through water. Because the only thing anchoring you to reality was the man holding you. Superman.

His arms were firm, unyielding, like steel wrapped in warmth. You hated that part of you noticed just how effortlessly he carried you, like you weighed nothing at all. Every jolt of pain from your ribs when he shifted his grip made you groan softly, and each time, his head would tilt down toward you with genuine concern etched across his face. “Sorry,” he murmured, voice low, soothing, like he thought apologies could smooth over broken skin and bruises. Somehow, with him, they almost did.

He didn’t shoot off into the sky with that terrifying speed you’d seen in news reels. Instead, he rose gently, the ground shrinking beneath your dangling feet as if gravity itself was giving you a moment to breathe. The city opened up in glowing patches below you, streetlights, headlights, the pulse of Metropolis alive and oblivious. Your stomach knotted, not from the height, but from the ridiculous reality of what was happening: you were in Superman’s arms, hovering over your own city like some damsel in distress.

God, you’d mocked the costume in more than one article. The cape, the bright blue, those red trunks. But pressed against his chest now, you couldn’t deny how safe it felt. He glanced at you as if reading your silence.

“We’ll head to the hospital first,” he said. Calm, steady. Not a question, just a fact. “They’ll patch you up. After that… the police will want your statement. It’ll be important.” His voice didn’t pressure you, but it didn’t leave room to argue either. He was like that, authoritative without being overbearing. You managed a nod, though the movement hurt your temple where a bruise was blooming.

When his boots touched the ground again, the descent was so smooth it almost felt unreal. He set you down gently in the hospital parking lot, one arm still supporting you until your feet found the asphalt. Even then, he didn’t quite let go, his hand lingered on your arm, steadying, grounding. Your heart hammered stupidly hard in your chest, and not just because of the adrenaline still coursing through your body.

“How… how did you even find me?” The words slipped out, raw and trembling. You hated how small your voice sounded, how exposed you felt asking him that.

Superman’s lips curved into a smile, not smug, not heroic, but almost sheepish. He placed a broad, impossibly warm hand on your shoulder, and you felt that touch straight down your spine.

“I hear more than people think,” he offered, tone almost casual. “Sometimes, if you listen long enough, you catch the right thing."

It was an excuse. A flimsy one. You weren’t dumb; you’d been around enough liars to recognize one when you heard it. The truth sat in his eyes, though, something softer, more personal. He hadn’t stumbled on this by chance. He’d been looking. For you. And that realization made your throat tighten. You laughed nervously, rubbing at your wrist where the rope had left angry marks.

"Guess I should be grateful your hearing’s so… convenient, huh?” You tried to joke, but your voice cracked halfway through.

That smile of his didn’t falter. In fact, it deepened, almost fond.

“I’m just glad I was close enough to get there in time.” His thumb brushed, just for a second, against the fabric of your sleeve, a little motion, like he couldn’t help reassuring himself that you were really there, alive.

You wanted to say something back, but your chest felt tight. Because standing this close, you couldn’t ignore how devastatingly handsome he was. The jawline, the curve of his mouth, those ridiculous, impossibly blue eyes. No photo ever captured that warmth. No column could ever describe the way he looked at you, like you mattered.

And, embarrassingly, another thought slithered into your mind: he looked… familiar. Like a face you should know outside the cape and tights. It made you blink, searching his features harder, like some stupid puzzle your brain was trying to solve through the haze of pain and adrenaline. Familiar enough that your stomach twisted, though the reason refused to click. When he finally let his hand fall from your shoulder, you felt the absence of it too sharply. You hated that you wanted it back. Hated even more that, with all your bruises and your shaking hands, you still managed to blush under his gaze. You, a grown man, an actual journalist, someone who’d faced down corrupt CEOs and city officials, blushing like some idiot teenager because Superman had carried you like a bride out of danger.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said softly, tilting his head toward the hospital entrance. His voice carried all the weight of certainty, but also… something gentler. And you followed, legs weak, not entirely sure if it was from the beating or just from being this close to him.

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and linoleum polish, sharp and clean in a way that made your ribs ache all over again. Hours passed in a blur of fluorescent light, the hum of machinery, and the gentle but clinical hands of nurses. They poked, checked your vitals, wrapped gauze where needed, taped a few fresh Band-Aids across split skin. Nothing life-threatening, they told you, just bruises, a cracked rib maybe, and a mild concussion. A paper bracelet was slapped around your wrist with your name in blocky letters, and at some point, a doctor shined a penlight in your eyes and asked you questions you answered with half-slurred sarcasm.

The entire time, though, a thought gnawed at the back of your mind: he’s still out there. Superman. You’d watched him step back into the night after delivering you into the ER staff’s care. For some reason, you were sure he was gone, off to stop a fire, a robbery, maybe even a plane falling from the sky. Because why would he stay? Why would someone like him hover around a bruised journalist who’d gotten in too deep over a half-baked lead?

But when the nurse finally cleared you for discharge and you stumbled out into the parking lot, there he was. Leaning against the shadowy edge of the building, cape stirring faintly in the night breeze, arms folded over his chest in that infuriatingly calm posture. He straightened the second he spotted you, blue eyes catching in the dim light, glowing almost too vividly against the city’s backdrop.

“You’re still here?” you blurted, voice scratchy with exhaustion.

Superman stepped closer, and you realized, not for the first time, how large he was. Not just tall, but solid, built like he could stop trains with his shoulders alone. His voice came steady, warm, almost like he was answering a child’s question. “I told you. I’m not done yet.”

“Not done?” you repeated, eyebrows raising, though the motion made your head throb. He nodded once.

“The police station. They’ll want your statement tonight. I’ll take you there.”

You blinked at him.

“Why? I mean—don’t you have… literally everything else to do? Bank robberies? Nuclear meltdowns?” Your words were sharper than you intended, but exhaustion stripped you of filter. “Why babysit me?”

For a second, his expression softened, almost imperceptibly. He tilted his head, cape shifting with the motion, and said simply.

“Because I’m in charge of taking care of people. Of taking care of you.” His tone was so matter-of-fact it left you silent. There was no hesitation, no flourish. Just certainty. And you hated how it sank right under your skin.

The police station was a haze. Bright overhead lights, the murmur of other officers dealing with paperwork, the faint scratch of a pen across lined paper as you gave your statement. Your throat felt dry, your head pounded with every attempt at recall, but you spoke, relayed what you’d seen, what you’d heard, all the while painfully aware that Superman was still there, silent, towering, a presence in the corner of the room. The cops eyed him occasionally with awe, some even hushed, nervous. You tried not to stare, but his cape pooled against the floor like blood, his jaw set in that perfect, stoic line.

By the time you were finally released, your body felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. You stepped out into the night again, the Metropolis air biting, your eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. For a moment, you wondered if this was all a dream, some delirious fever-dream cooked up by your concussed brain.

The warehouse, the bruises, the arms that had carried you. Superman felt too much like a fairytale character dropped into the raw ache of your life. He was waiting by the entrance, naturally, like he’d never left.

“Let me take you home,” he said softly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

You froze.

“No. No, no, no. Absolutely not. I am not letting you fly me like a sack of potatoes again. People will see. I’ll—God, I’ll die of embarrassment before I even make it to my apartment.”

His lips curved faintly, the smallest twitch of amusement breaking through the stern exterior. “It’s not embarrassing.”

“It’s incredibly embarrassing,” you snapped back, heat rushing to your cheeks despite your bone-deep exhaustion. “And besides, I can walk. It’s fine.”

“You can barely stand,” he countered gently, and he was right.

Your knees wobbled, your ribs screamed. Still, you shook your head stubbornly, glaring at the pavement like it owed you something. A silence stretched between you, quiet except for the distant hum of traffic. Then he exhaled, something almost human in the sound, and stepped closer. His hand came up, hovering for just a second before settling against your jaw. Warm. Steady. His thumb brushed the faintest line near your cheekbone, and you froze, breath caught.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll respect that. But before you go…”

And then, before you could protest, before your brain could catch up to your body, he leaned in and pressed his lips, soft, shockingly gentle, to your cheek. Just a whisper of a kiss. Chaste, almost innocent, but devastating. You thought your heart actually stopped.

By the time he pulled back, your face was burning so hard it could rival a solar flare. You stammered, half-laughing, half choking on your own tongue.

“Wha—what the hell was that?!”

His smile was warm, devastatingly warm.

“Just making sure you remember this isn’t a dream.”

And then he stepped back, cape catching in the breeze, as if he hadn’t just shattered your entire nervous system with one single kiss.

You stood there, frozen, until your legs somehow remembered how to move, carrying you down the street in a daze. Every step away from him felt unreal. By the time you fumbled your keys into your apartment door hours later, your cheek still burned with phantom heat. You collapsed into bed, staring at the ceiling, bruised, exhausted, bandaged, and completely undone. Your brain tried to process the night’s events, but all it latched onto, looping endlessly, was that absurd, tender kiss.

What the hell just happened?

The next morning, the Daily Planet bustled with its usual chaos, phones ringing off the hook, typewriters clattering, Perry White’s voice echoing across the bullpen like a war trumpet. The world kept moving, even if you still felt like you were running on fumes after the hellish night in the warehouse. Your ribs ached under the bandages, your legs weren’t quite steady, but somehow you dragged yourself into work.

You slumped at your desk, staring at the typewriter keys as though they might type the story for you. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. The bright red cape. The warmth of those hands when they untied you. That ridiculous but strangely endearing smile. And worst of all, the way Superman kissed your cheek before disappearing into the night, leaving you flustered and restless in your own bed. You rubbed your face, groaning under your breath.

“Get a grip, man…”

And then, as if the universe were mocking you, a shadow fell over your desk. You looked up. There was Clark Kent, towering, bumbling, with that endearingly awkward posture. And in his big hands? A small paper bag.

“Morning,” Clark said softly, adjusting his glasses. He placed the bag right on your stack of untouched notes. “Thought you might… well, you know, like a little pick-me-up.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

“Cookies,” Clark explained with a sheepish grin. “Your favorite. The ones from that little bakery down on Fifth. I just… uh… figured you could use something sweet after—uh—after…” He trailed off, fidgeting, clearly scrambling for an excuse.

Your brow furrowed. You reached slowly for the bag, peeking inside, and sure enough, your absolute favorite cookies. The exact kind you’d buy for yourself on rough days. Except you hadn’t mentioned them to anyone at work. Not once. And more importantly… You leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes.

“Clark. How the hell did you know something happened?”

The newsroom noise faded into the background, or maybe that was just your pulse in your ears. You hadn’t told a soul. The story was off the record, tucked away until the police sorted it out. No column. No whispers. Nothing. Clark pushed his glasses up his nose nervously, smiling that dorky smile that somehow managed to be disarming.

“Oh, uh, you know… call it reporter’s instinct?... Plus, you're all hurt. I guess... It's easy to figure something out, right?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared. Something about the way Clark’s blue eyes glinted behind the lenses, so calm, so warm, so familiar, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. There was a silence, a heavy one, and then Clark chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Besides, you looked like you could use a little cheering up. Cookies fix most things, don’t they?”

Your mind raced. The words were clumsy. The excuse weak. And yet, beneath it all, there was a strange comfort. Clark wasn’t just being kind; he was watching out for you. Just like someone else had last night. Your fingers curled tighter around the paper bag.

“Right… cookies,” you muttered, your throat dry. “Thanks, Kent. Guess you’re… full of surprises.”

Clark smiled that goofy, shy smile again, but this time you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more behind it. Something bigger. Something red and blue.

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glowwayne · 3 days ago

Text

you hide your injuries from him — Clark Kent

summary: you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway. content warning: reader falls and gets crushed by a bookshelf and bruises her ribs, abuse of painkillers, crack treated seriously, humour turning into angst and hurt/comfort, Clark is an idiot, Superman is reliable but Clark Kent isn’t, established relationship, Clark Kent is hopelessly in love with you, he’s just dumb sometimes. suggestive content — oral, f!receiving; nothing explicit but still heavily implied, mdni. black cat reader + golden retriever (cat?) clark kent word count: 6.8k words note: this was supposed to be silly and shorter but oops! things got a bit out of hand. written in one day and absolutely not reread, don’t mind typos or inconsistencies! >.<

────୨ৎ────

Dating a superhero is not for the faint of heart. Don’t get it wrong, you love Clark Kent, and you love dating him, even if sometimes the weight of the entire world plays third wheel between the two of you (sometimes it even felt like you were the third wheel). It’s okay, you knew what you were getting into.

You actually love that Clark Kent has such a bleeding heart, and that he’s so kind and so helpful.

But you also really wish he would stop disappearing every time he finally has to take down that bookshelf that was hovering dangerously..

It seemed like a cruel trick of fate, truly, how every time he finally agreed to do it, something in the other side of the world comes up, and he looks at you with a guilty and sheepish grin before he wears his suit and leaves you behind, you and that stupid bookshelf you couldn’t use anymore and only looked ugly.

You probably would have gotten this over with months ago if you’d done it on your own, but no, you were stupid and you decided to trust your boyfriend. It’s your fault, really, for believing him when he said he would do it. What kind of girlfriend did that? What kind of self-respecting, independant, strong and smart woman did that? Really, you only have yourself to blame.

“I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” he says, and he really looks apologetic and guilty when he apologizes, and you hate that it makes it so much harder to truly be mad at him.

“It’s fine, just go,” you reply. You’re waiting for him to leave so you can finally get rid of that monstrosity in the living room.

He smiles, thinking he got away with it. He doesn’t know it’s because you decided to do it yourself.

“I love you so much baby. I swear to you I’m doing anything you want me to do as soon as I come back,” he promises, eager and hopeful and genuine, and he cups your face gently between his too big hands and he kisses you on the forehead gently, as if you would shatter if he’d applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

You can’t help but snort. Not meanly, just… he always says that. And while it’s mostly true, it apparently doesn’t apply to that damn bookshelf. Why? Absolutely no idea. You remember one day when Clark had literally mowed the lawn instead of fixing the damn shelf. What was wrong with him? Was the shelf made of kryptonite or what?

You’re proud of yourself for not sounding petty or annoyed.

“Go save the world, big boy. The world needs you.”

So did you, but not anymore. You can do anything on your own. You don’t need stupid otherworldly powers for that.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he repeats.

“I love you too. Now go before the unthinkable happens.”

He’s gone in a flash, as if he was only waiting for your permission. There he goes, probably away for the rest of the day.

You push your sleeves back and get to work.

It starts easy enough. The shelf was already cleaned and ready to be thrown away. All it needed was a strong pair of arms, and a long ladder.

You got this.

You don’t got this.

The ladder was probably older than Clark’s home planet and it stood shakily like it had a goddamn cold, but it was tall enough and it was sturdy enough for the job. Screwdriver in hand, you started unscrewing the screws (how many times were you going to say that word?), thinking to yourself that Clark was an idiot for putting this off for so long. There’s literally nothing difficult about this – or dangerous, if you didn’t count the ladder’s strange composition, and honestly, it doesn’t even count, because if it were him doing this, he wouldn’t even have needed it in the first place.

Everything was going perfectly well. You were halfway done with the screws and you were thinking of taking a small break (totally deserved, in your humble and completely unbiased opinion), when Superkitten decided that the ladder was a pair of legs, and he started rubbing himself all over it, making it even less stable than it already was.

“Superkitten, go away!” you try telling him, but of course, Superkitten answered to no one.

He’s sharpening his claws now against the splintering wood and you suddenly have the clearest vision of your demise. Dying because your stupid (God bless his stupid little heart) cat used your ladder as a scratching post.

Everything happens so fast you barely had time to think, only act, and you’re gripping onto the shelf for dear life and next thing you know, you’re on the floor. Superkitten had fled the crime scene the moment the ladder fell and you hung onto the bookshelf.

You’re not proud of it but your last thought before the wood quite literally crushes you into oblivion is: serves Clark right.

────୨ৎ────

You’re not really sure how long you’ve been unconscious for, but when you come to your senses, the sun is barely starting to set and Superkitten is licking your face. He must have been going at it for a long while because your skin felt raw. At least someone was worried about you, though, if the low whining coming from your cat was anything to go by.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you tell him, trying to reassure him. You try to lift a hand to pet him but pure agony blocks you from moving.

Now that you think about it, your chest hurts and you have a hard time breathing with the broken pieces of wood littered your body like a blanket. A painful, not warm at all, not soft blanket. If you have to have a not soft blanket, you would rather have Clark draped all over you again.

Clark. Ugh. This is all his fault. If he’d fixed the shelf when you’d told him to, you wouldn’t be in this situation.

You hope you haven’t broken any ribs. You need your ribs for baking.

Superkitten’s whining has gotten louder now, probably scared because you’re awake but you’re not moving, and your heart breaks a little. You didn’t mean to worry him.

Summoning all of your strength, you push the wood off of you (you want to scream but you don’t because Clark would definitely hear that and you really, really don’t want him to see you in this situation).

“There,” you breathe out to no one but yourself, your arms falling limp to your side, weak from the strain. You can finally breathe again, at the cost of your arms.

It takes you a longer time to move again. Thankfully you don’t think your ribs are broken (you’re not a professional but you’re pretty sure the pain would be more unbearable than this) but they’re definitely bruised. You feel like a giant bruise, honestly. You guess there won’t be any sexy times with Clark any time soon. You scoff at the thought. Why are you thinking about that? Besides, Clark definitely doesn’t deserve any sexy time for being the world’s most unreliable boyfriend. Bruised ribs or not.

You want to throw everything away but you’re not sure you’d be able to bend down, so first you make your way, slowly and painstakingly, to the bathroom where you first swallow half of a pill of Clark’s heavy duty painkillers (probably a bad idea, but you have a very good reason for being stupid, and you’re not going to waste it — you love bad decisions, especially when you’re not responsible for them) and then check the reach of the damage.

Gingerly, you lift your shirt up.

One giant bruise. You literally became a Smurf.

Thirty minutes later, the painkiller has fully kicked in and you decide to get rid of the incriminating evidence. Honestly, you should be mad at Clark for gatekeeping these painkillers when you have period cramps. He’s had these all this time and he never even offered once? Rude. Cruel. Blatant abuse.

Is it normal that your heartbeat is so fast? And that you feel kind of delirious? Probably. You just got crushed half to death, so it would make sense that your body’s in a state of shock.

Superkitten hasn’t left your side ever since you woke up on the floor, and it tugs at your heartstrings. He’s obviously shaken.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you whisper to him, scratching his cheeks with both hands. “Mommy’s not gonna do that ever again, I promise. That was really stupid of her, wasn’t it? No, you’re right. Daddy’s the stupid one. This is all his fault.”

He meowed, which was all the confirmation you needed.

“Let’s go to sleep,” you whisper to him.

You change out of your clothes to put on your favorite sweater (Clark’s old college shirt) because even if you’re still a little pissed at him, you’re still hopelessly in love with him, even if he doesn’t deserve it (lie), and you curl up in his side of the bed, body wrapped around a purring Superkitten, wishing Clark was here right now.

────୨ৎ────

“The shelf is gone,” Clark says, a little dumbly.

“What are you talking about?” you reply.

You know exactly what he’s talking about, but you don’t really want to talk about what happened (the bruises are agonising and you don’t dare take more of Clark’s painkillers after you spent the entire night with your knees on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet bowl as you emptied your entire stomach — bile and intestines), and quite frankly, you just want to mess with him a little bit.

“You know, the bookshelf! The one in our living room?”

You look at him, feigning concern, and you touch his forehead with the back of your palm, hiding the wince as the movement pulls your muscles. “Are you sure you didn’t take a nasty hit to the head, baby?”

He huffs, looking adorably indignant, and he crosses his big arms over his chest.

He’d come back a couple of hours ago while you were still asleep, and he’d joined you in bed, gathering you in his arms like you were his favorite bouquet, holding you until you woke up. Then, he spent close to an hour just kissing every inch of your face and neck. When he tried to pull your shirt away, you stopped him with a hand to his face without a word, because you knew Clark would stop without a word. Even in your half asleep state and the numbing pain you’d remembered he couldn’t see you underneath your shirt.

And now you’re fully awake, and he hasn’t stopped following you, pestering you about the shelf. I’ll fix it now for you baby, he says, blissfully unaware and earnest in his desire to do things right by you.

But there’s no bookshelf anymore. It’s gone, and he seems to have a hard time understanding it, because his very core can’t compute the fact that you may be lying to him.

“Where’s the shelf, baby?” he asks, whining. “What happened to it?”

“There’s no shelf, Clark,” you say, as if you’re talking to a baby that’s prone to hysterics.

“Yeah, there’s no shelf now, but there was one! Remember? The shelf I was supposed to take down but then every time I tried to, something came up?”

That irked you. “Oh so now you remember,” you say, and it might have been a mistake because he wasn’t supposed to know you felt as strongly about it as you did. You were supposed to be cool and chill, and most importantly, self-reliant and independent.

His face switches almost instantly, from confused to kicked puppy. “I’m sorry baby, I really am. I was going to fix it, I swear, but then I heard—”

“I know, I know,” you reply, a little more irritated than you would normally be, and it’s partly due to the pain and partly due to the fact that he is right. You can’t get mad at him for wanting to make the world a better place. “That was a job for Superman, yadda yadda, I get it, I know, you can shut up about it now. Forget about the shelf. Forget I ever asked you to help me. I fixed it myself, so you don’t have to keep leading me on with it. Let’s just move on. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

Is it possible to get addicted from just taking one half of a pill? Your head is killing you, and your ribs feel like they’re closing in on your lungs and heart, and having Clark hover around you like this, with his stupid morals and values and too pure heart only made everything worse.

Scratch addiction — was it possible to get withdrawal from just one half dose?

You take three normal painkillers. Maybe the right decision would be to go to the ER but you’re too deep into this, and you really, really don’t want Clark to find out about your ribs and have to deal with his guilt again.

You love him, you really do. But you just wish you could take a normal breath again without almost passing out from pain alone.

If he’d fixed that damn shelf months ago like you’d asked him, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You know you could have done it yourself, but he’d made you promise you wouldn’t do that, and unlike some people, you actually kept your promises. If he’d kept his, you wouldn’t be mad at the love of your life, and you wouldn’t be thinking about swallowing all of Clark’s painkillers.

You make the mistake of looking at Clark’s face, and the misery and heartbreak you see on it almost brings you to your knees. If the physical pain didn’t do you in, then his pain so clearly etched onto his angelic features certainly would.

────୨ৎ────

You love Clark but you hate his guilt. You hate the kicked puppy look on his face whenever he thinks you’re not watching. You hate how he gets quieter, more overbearing, as he tries to fix things by overcompensating.

Dinner is a matter of awkward silence and grating sounds from cutlery against plates. He made dinner. He really wanted to, even if it was usually your role to make dinner. You let him because frankly, you’re over this whole thing.

The dinner is good but it tastes like ashes to your tastebuds. You keep thinking about his painkillers in the bathroom. The ones you were never supposed to take because they weren’t made for humans. You wonder if he would ever notice half of one missing. You wonder how he would react.

When you go to sleep, he tries to hug you from behind but you flinch so hard (not at him, just at the expectation of the pain that was soon to follow) that he literally makes a noise. A small, wounded, noise at the back of his throat.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Yeah, you’re sorry too.

────୨ৎ────

You can’t stay mad at Clark for too long. It’s against your nature.

So when he makes dinner for the third night in a row, and buys you all of the items on your whishlist, and does a million tiny other little things that make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world, and he gets down on his knees to sincerely ask for your forgiveness, and he tells you how much of an idiot he’s been, you give in. Because idiot or not, you still loved your boyfriend. So much that it sometimes hurt.

“I forgive you,” you tell him, and watching him smile is like seeing the first rays of sunshine break through dark stormy clouds after a dark season.

“I love you so much, sweetheart. More than you could ever know, even if I’m an idiot sometimes. I genuinely was going to do what you asked, I swear, but I guess I just didn’t see how important it was to you.”

He’s so sweet, and he’s so kind, and you don’t know how you’re going to keep hiding your ribs from him without breaking his heart. It’s obvious he already feels bad enough for not taking what you ask of him seriously; he already feels bad enough that you ended up doing something he was supposed to do.

Knowing you got hurt, indirectly because of him, would crush him.

“I love you, Clark. And I appreciate your words,” you reply, and you try to forget about the bruises under your shirt that seem to flare up, in sync with your guilt.

“I am the luckiest man on earth and the galaxy,” he whispers against your neck. “And I was too stupid to see it. Never again, sweetheart. Never again. I don’t even have a proper excuse, other than I was being an idiot.”

His hand trails beneath your shirt. He grazes your ribs and when you shiver, he thinks it’s from pleasure.

“You’re warm,” he says.

Yeah, because my skin is tender and sore and swollen, and even your softest touch feels like fire against my skin.

“I run hot,” you reply.

“Or… maybe I make you hot,” he says, in that distinctive way of his; both confident and boyish, both suave and sheepish, like he’s still not sure whether he’s allowed to be like this around you.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m still mad at you, remember?”

And he pouts. This oversized man, who can lift buildings, who can destroy civilisations with one vision ray, who is on his knees for you, is honest to God pouting, eyes looking at you through his eyelashes, eyes downturned like you’d just told him Krypto hated me. “But you forgave me,” he says— or rather, he whines.

“Did I?” you ask, smirking despite the tender ache beneath your breasts. He always did make everything better.

“You’re so cruel to me my love. And yet, something is wrong with me because I love it.”

You brush his messy curls over his forehead, and he all but melts against your touch, and you scratch at his scalp like you do to Superkitten.

It’s not the first time that you make the comparison. Superman and Superkitten. Both a little dumb, both full of love for you.

He rests his head on your thighs and you keep playing with his hair. It’s soft and silky and it always smells nice. He always denies it but you’re ninety-nine percent sure he steals your vanilla scented shampoo. You rasp your fingernails against his scalp, and he lets out a contented sigh.

“I love you, sweetheart. I don’t deserve you, but I’ll work hard on becoming a man worthy of you.”

And there’s something wrong with this sentence, because why would the man who saves the planet on a daily basis not be worthy of you? Who even are you? But still, his words break something tender inside your chest, and your heart spills like ink on paper.

“I love you too, Clark,” you tell him, because it’s all you’re able to say before your throat closes up and your eyes sting.

I should have waited for him, you thought to yourself. I shouldn’t have tried to do it on my own, and I shouldn’t have snapped at him the way I did.

Now you hurt him, and yourself.

────୨ৎ────

Clark Kent is, by definition, a clingy man. No one would never know because on the surface, he almost looks put together — aside from his clumsiness and his fool act that stopped fooling you a long time ago.

Ever since he confessed to you and asked you out and you gave him permission, it’s like all his restraints came off. A kiss on the lips were just the tip of the iceberg. When you guys go grocery shopping, he refuses to let you hold anything, and he holds everything with one hand just so he can hold yours with his free hand.

He kisses you on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks, on your forehead. Anytime, anywhere, for no reason other than he just felt like it.

He never once made you doubt his love because, as cynical as you are, even you can’t deny the love pouring off him in waves whenever he sees you.

Whenever he has to write an article, he always manages to sneak in something only you would understand. Each sentence would start with a letter that would then form a secret message for you.

I LOVE YOU

SWEETHEART

LOVELY

Clark Kent is in love with you. You know that. The world knows that, because he has no issue with showing it to the world. In fact, he has issue if he can’t show you off.

It’s Saturday morning and neither of you has work. It’s a lazy morning, with sun rays draped over your bodies like nature’s own blanket. His arm is draped over your thigh— thigh that’s draped over his own hip. Mornings with him felt like a game of Twisters in the best way possible.

You can feel him, heavy and hot, right against your crotch. He’s big. Bigger than anything you’ve ever seen. He bucks his hips, and you’re not sure if he’s even aware that he’s doing it.

Clark Kent is a clingy man, but also a relentless one. He can never get enough. Awake, asleep, his mind’s always attuned to your presence. He always wants you.

It doesn’t take you too long for your body to adjust, to react. Your hips respond in kind, and you watch as a smile unfurls on his face. He looks like the world’s largest, and most satisfied, cat in the world.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick from sleep. It’s so deep you feel like it could rumble against your chest. His hands are travellers, mapping each inch of your skin from touch alone. This, I love. This, I love too, he seems to say with his hands.

You shiver again. Pleasure and pain mingle together.

“Morning,” you reply. You’ve never been the early riser between the two of you, and mornings make you feel it.

Then, he disappears from your side, and he appears again between your legs, your thighs bracketing his head, draped over his shoulders like the world’s naughtiest cape. He’s looking at you expectantly, and heat exploses in your lower belly. He’s so big that your thighs are already stretched apart, just to accommodate him.

With one thumb, he slides your panties to the side.

Your head falls back on your pillow, and you twist and grasp the mess of his curls between your fingers.

His hands, large and safe and big and warm, are on each side of your hips, and his thumbs slide underneath your shirt. His face disappears between your legs, and your hips stutter involuntarily.

He tries to go further with his hands, but you stop him. You hold his hands in yours, and close your legs around his neck. You know he loves the feeling of you crushing him with your thighs, and you need to distract him from trying to take your shirt off, because you also know that he likes having you bare and naked, so he can play with your breasts freely. He doesn’t like being caged by your shirt.

But your bruises have gotten worse, and you can’t show him, not when he’s finally moved on and stopped feeling guilty every time your eyes meet his.

He bites the inside of your thigh when he feels that you’re not all there with him.

“Focus, sweetheart,” he demands, lips swollen and shiny. “Eyes on me.”

And what else can you do when he speaks to you like this except obey?

────୨ৎ────

“You hate me,” he pouts.

“What?” you ask, laughing in disbelief. “You just had your head between my legs and you think I hate you?”

He hasn’t even washed up yet. His lips are shiny and glossy and they smell of you.

“But you won’t let me wash you,” he explains. “You hate me, admit it, my love. You only use for my tongue and—”

You blush, and cover his — sticky — mouth with your hands. “Shut up!”

His mouth can’t move but his eyes smile for him.

“Let me shower with you, baby, please. I’m begging you,” he pleads, the moment you take your hands off his lips and you your hands against your shirt.

“No.”

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Just no? I don’t even get a reason?”

“You’ve been a bad boy,” you lie. “Bad boys don’t get to shower with me.”

He gasps. “You’ll never let me live it down, will you?”

“Not for another four weeks, no.”

This time, he just laughs, taken by surprise by the specificity of your answer. “That’s so specific, baby. Why four weeks?”

You raise one shoulder. “I just felt like it.”

It’s a lie. You said four weeks because Google said bruised ribs took six weeks to recover, and it’d already been almost two weeks. But you can’t exactly tell him that, can you?

“Fine. I guess I deserve that. But you should know I’m going to miss you terribly while you’re showering in there, all alone, without me, without anyone to scrub your back for you because you’re all alone.”

You push his face away with your hand again. He loves being manhandled by you. “I think I’ll manage, lover boy. But thank you for the concern.”

He watches you close the bathroom door like a sad puppy being left behind.

They always say things get worse before they get better, and you hope that’s the case with your ribs. The longer you look at it, the more ashamed you felt. Falling from a stupid ladder. Trying to hold onto a broken shelf. It’s no one’s fault but yours. Clark didn’t make you grab that screwdriver and climb on that ladder. He didn’t make you fall. You did. You thought that an old and unstable ladder was good enough for the job, and you tried to hold onto the shelf you’d just spent twenty minutes unscrewing from the wall to not fall.

All of this is on you. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the shame.

You don’t know why but under the shower you break into tears. The instant the hot drops of water touch your skin, it’s like a faucet is turned on. Your ribs hurt with the weight of your sobs. Maybe it’s the pain, maybe it’s keeping it secret from him when all you want is to be cared for by him. You don’t know. You’re being stupid, and you’re so glad Clark is too much of a gentleman to use his superheating when you’re under the shower on your own, because you’re really not sure how you would have lied your way out of that.

Only a few more weeks. Your bruising is going to disappear soon, and you would no longer have to avoid Clark anymore.

By the time you’re out of the shower, Clark is cleaned up and dressed (well, he’s shirtless, but he did put pants on), and he’s busy sliding the last chocolate chip pancake he’d made onto a pile of steaming pancakes. It’s your favorite breakfast. The jar of Nutella is already out on the table, and he’s got hot chocolate ready for you as well.

He has a towel thrown over his shoulder, and you know he put it there on purpose, because you’d told him once that it made you go kind of crazy whenever he did that.

You slide on the barstool with barely a wince. You’re smiling so big your cheeks hurt.

“What’s this?” you ask him.

“Breakfast for my one and only.”

“What happened to you thinking I hated you?”

“Well, I figured if you really hated me, I had better start treating you like the princess you are.”

“Aren’t you just smart?”

He preens under the praise, and the sight of the red dusting on his cheeks makes everything else a little easier to bear.

“I hope you like the pancakes. I tried my best.”

“They look fantastic,” you reply immediately. You’re not lying. And even if they looked ugly, you wouldn’t care, because he’d made them for you, because he knew they were your favorite.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He gets closer to you and kisses you on the forehead. “Anything for you, my princess. I mean it.”

You believe him. You’ve always believed him.

You don’t know what the hell you did to deserve a man like him.

────୨ৎ────

“You okay?” he asks you a couple of days later, completely out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Your stupid heartbeat’s going to expose you if you don’t calm it right now.

He notices. Of course he does. He’s attuned to you like he’s a radio and you’re his favorite channel.

“It’s just… I saw two sheets of painkillers in the trash. Empty. I’d never seen you use that many before. Are you sure you’re okay?”

He’s too kind to mention your heartbeat going crazy inside your ribcage, like it’s trying to escape. It’s a wonder, you think, that it doesn’t actually hurt your ribs.

He knows. He must know about the half dose of his painkillers that you took. Knowing him, he probably checked everything in the shelves behind the bathroom mirror.

You can’t think of a lie on the spot. “My- my headaches were getting worse,” you say. You hope he doesn’t think it too suspicious, because he already knows you’re prone to headaches. It’s why you have so many painkillers in the first place. “But I’m feeling better, now. I think they’re gone for good.”

It’s true, in a way. Your rib pain is almost gone. The bruises are mostly for show, at this point.

“Oh baby, why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped you,” he asks, gentle frown between his eyes, and it breaks your heart, to be the one to put that worry there on his beautiful face.

“Sorry… I’m sorry Clark. It wasn’t really a big deal. I’ll tell you next time, though. I promise.”

He stands up from the couch and walks over to you. “Thank you, sweetheart.” He bends down to kiss your forehead. “And I’m sorry you’ve been hurting this badly. Next time, don’t take that much painkillers, okay? I’m not telling you what to do, but they aren’t good for your health, and I’m worried about you. Come to me, and I’ll make you herbal teas and give you massages, okay?”

“Okay,” you croak out.

The guilt is going to eat you alive.

────୨ৎ────

In a way, you’re almost glad when fate decides to take reigns over your life and exposes your lie to Clark.

It happens like this: it’s Sunday afternoon, you’re in the kitchen washing the dishes you’d used to make Clark his favorite cake while he’s in the backyard doing Clark Kent stuff, and then he comes back inside through the kitchen door, and he’s smiling at you and then standing right behind you. He puts his head above yours, because you’re the perfect size for that, and then, without warning, he wraps his arms around your ribs and lifts you up in the air.

It’s supposed to be cute, it’s supposed to be romantic. He’s happy to see you, and he loves you, and he loves to have you in his arms at all times.

You’re supposed to shriek in surprise to fake struggling while giggling and asking him to (not) put you back down.

What you’re not supposed to do, however, is gasp like he’d just crushed your ribcage, and double over in pain.

The effect is immediate.

“What’s wrong, are you okay?! Did I hurt you?”

You’d never heard him this panicked, this horrified. His biggest fear had always been to accidentally hurt you, physically or mentally, and this must seem like his worst nightmare come true.

Clark puts you down immediately on the ground, and he’s turning you gently so he can look at you, eyes raking up your body up and down to check for injuries.

You try to hide your ribs with your arms but it’s useless against his x-ray vision.

You can tell just from the tightening of his jaw that he saw it. He saw what you’d been trying to hide for the past couple of weeks.

“What happened?” he asked. His voice is strangely cold and distant. It’s — terrifying. “I know it’s not me because it looks old. Weeks old. What happened?” he repeated.

You’re standing there, frozen with fear, hands still soapy and dripping water all over the floor. “It’s nothing,” you reply. It’s your first instinct. To lie and pretend nothing is wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says. His voice is quiet but almost menacing. “I can see it clear as day. You’re hurt. Tell me when, why, who or what.”

He’s starting to connect the dots, you think. He’s scared of your answer as much as he’s scared of you lying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, even though you’re not quite sure what you’re apologizing for. For hiding it from him? For not hiding it good enough from him?

“Baby, please,” he begs. His voice sounds wrecked.

“When I was taking the shelf down, our cat used the ladder as a scratching post, and it fell. I tried to hold onto the shelf but it broke under my weight. And it fell on my chest.”

He rubs a hand over his face as he starts pacing around the kitchen. “You’ve been hurting for two weeks and I had no idea,” he says. He sounds completely wrecked. “And it’s all my fault. If I’d just— why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were already feeling so guilty, I didn’t want to add on top of that. And it’s not your fault I fell and bruised my ribs. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“My emotions are mine alone to manage, okay? It’s not— God.” He stops moving, and he turns to look at you. “You shouldn’t have had to hide your pain from me just to spare me my feelings. I’m a grown man, I can take it. I can take anything you throw at me. But don’t hide from me, especially not because you think you’re protecting me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, God, no, I’m sorry. Baby, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you. Did you… did you go see a doctor at least?”

“No. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t think about it but by the time I did, it was too late.”

“What if you’d broken a rib?” he asks.

“I didn’t. I checked myself. And it didn’t hurt as bad as it would if I’d broken a rib.”

His laugh is a mixture of disbelief and tears. “That doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“It wasn’t— it wasn’t meant to be reassuring. It’s just the truth.”

“Can I see?” he asks.

“You already did.”

“No, I need to see you. I need to be able to touch you.”

You lift up your shirt from the bottom and lift it slowly, revealing the nebula of purple and blue across your ribs, and Clark’s breath catches in his throat as he falls to his knees.

His hand hovers your skin. He doesn’t need to touch you for your skin to erupt in goosebumps.

“I’m so sorry,” he repeats. “I should have known. The painkillers, refusing to let me see you change, refusing to let me undress you. The signs were all there and I was too stupid to see it.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say weakly.

“Perhaps I didn’t make you fall, but I’m the one who pushed you to do something I was supposed to do for you, on your own. I’m the one who made you feel like you had to hide it from me to spare my feelings. I’m the one who failed you.”

“I’m the one who made the decision to hide it from you.” Your voice is weak to your own ears. You can’t blink at all. You’re staring at him, on his knees for you again in two weeks. Him apologizing to you twice in two weeks.

“No— you listen to me. Not any of this is your fault. I’m the one who’s been negligent and irresponsible. I’m the one who kept breaking my promise to you. I’m the one who’s made you bear something that was never yours to handle to begin with. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. Unconsciously, I made you feel like you couldn’t be honest with me. And that’s unforgivable.”

────୨ৎ────

Clark refuses to let you lift a single finger. He’s helped you lay down in bed in a way that didn’t hurt your ribs and said,

“You can bully me and refuse to listen to me for the rest of our lives all you want but only after you’re okay. For now, just — please — humor me?”

Who are you to say no?

He calls his parents, and you can hear sweet Martha’s voice right from his phone because she always speaks loudly into the phone, worried you wouldn’t be able to hear her over the distance.

“Ma, I messed up,” he says.

You tune everything out while he asks his mom what he should do. And then he’s handing the phone to you because she said she wanted to talk to you, but Clark’s reluctant because he’s worried making you talk will hurt you more but you just roll your eyes at him and snatch the phone from his hand. Nothing will stop you from talking to her. And besides, your ribs are a lot better than they were. And Martha’s not exactly going to come out of the phone just to squeeze her ribs.

It’s fine.

Martha is lovely as always and she says five times that she’ll come on down to their place anytime you wanted, and that she could make your favorite cookies, and that she and Jonathan missed the both of you, and that she hoped you will be alright soon.

She ends the call with, “Come see us once you’re alright, darling. Smallville misses you.”

And it must be in their genes because you can’t say no to her either.

Clark had been standing there the entire time, probably using his superhearing to overhear the entire conversation. He’s worried, you can see it. There’s a crease between his eyebrows and he’s rubbing his thumb across his lower lip.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks you for the hundredth time since he found out about your ribs.

“Yes. Believe me when I say it, or I’ll never tell you about my injuries from now on.”

He gasps. “You plan on having more injuries?!”

God bless his poor sweet soul.

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “Just… make yourself useful and come spoon me.”

His body reacts instantly — so used to obeying you — before his mind catches up with him and he jerks. “But your ribs.”

“They’re fine. As long as you don’t plan on squeezing me again.”

He took off his shirt and pants before crawling into bed next to you. He’s sulking. “I told you I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know about your ribs, otherwise I never would have tried to lift you that way. Promise me you’ll always tell me when you’re hurt. Or even when you’re not hurt. I just need to know how you’re doing at all times.”

“Right now, I’m feeling very, very lonely because my boyfriend refuses to cuddle me.”

“Ouch, but fair.”

Your words spur him into action and soon, his arms are ever so gently wrapping around you.

“I love you,” he whispers against your ear. “And I’m sorry for failing you. But I swear to you that I’ll make it up to you, and keep making it up to you till the day I die.”

“I love you too, even if you’re crazy dramatic sometimes.”

“Lucky me,” he whispers. The worst part is that he means it. He truly feels lucky because you love him. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot. “I’m the luckiest idiot in the entire world.”

It’s not even close to the end of the day and it’s too late for a nap, but your eyes start to flutter shut anyway. All you need is Clark by your side and his arms, light as feather, around you.

“And by the way, you’re banned from ever climbing on a ladder again,” he whispers into your ear, right as you’re about to fall asleep.

Idiot.

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glowwayne · 3 days ago

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leave a message at the tone

summary: in which Clark becomes very familiar with your voicemail after choosing work and Lois, once again. when you finally call, he’ll drop everything for you.

content: fluff and then just hurt with little to no comfort or resolution :/ feeling less than and like a second choice (story of my life!), clark basically begging bc he loves you obvi, sorry im an absolute sucker for angst

———————————————————————————————

present day.

“hey - you know who it is, and you know what to do.” beeeeeep.

he’d gotten used to hearing it. he could recite your voicemail from memory, the amount of times he got it when he’d call.

after the first couple dozen calls, they became less frequent until they shrank down to zero. you weren’t going to pick up. he knew that, but some small part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d hear the line click and your breathing on the other end.

he missed you, so much, and it was his fault you were gone.

———————————————————————————————

2 months ago.

you stare at the string of texts - as if your glare could alter reality.

made those cupcakes you love, can’t wait to see you! really missed you today ☹️

i missed you more, pretty girl. I’ll be home soon.❤️

part of you had just been waiting for it to happen again. another night - some baked good getting staler by the minute propped up on a pretty plate, awaiting Clark’s arrival. the frosting on the cupcakes looked sadder each hour that passed where Clark didn’t walk through the door. you knew where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing.

you can’t get mad at him for doing his job. it’s who he’s with, and when that person happens to need him, that bothers you. you’ll never get used to the feeling of your stomach dropping when you check find my friends, and their locations are directly next to one another at the office.

you think you’re numb to the situation. that it shouldn’t be a suprise anymore. you don’t cry - yet. all you do is sigh, pick yourself up, and crawl into bed. tears fall, but not for him, for you.

———————————————————————————————

The last text he sent was at 7:30. you asking where he was sent at 8:00. It’s almost midnight when you hear the front door creak open. you don’t get up to greet him. instead you close your eyes, resuming your curled up on your side position under the sheets.

when your bedroom door pries open, you still don’t open your eyes. you hear him pad across the hardwood, landing on his side of the bed.

he peels back the covers, gently crawling into the bed next to you. you feel the weight in the bed shift, but don’t move a muscle. he leans over, kissing your exposed shoulder and down your bicep. you softly stir on instinct, halting your movements as quickly as they started.

“‘m so sorry, baby,” he whispers between pecks. “caught up at work again - perry has been on us this week.” he attempts to joke.

you don’t roll over, you don’t shift, you only softly reply, “i can’t keep coming in second.”

his brow furrows, pulling back. “what do you mean, honey?”

“Were you with Lois?”

the silence is deafening. and it’s all you need to hear. it’s a moment before he speaks up again.

“yeah, uh - i was. why?”

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you mutter, voice hoarse - evidence of the sobs that wrecked you not even an hour prior.

time stops for clark. a tear you didn’t realize had been forming slides across the bridge of your nose.

“what?” his voice is no longer a whisper. “why? baby-“ his hand is on your arm, prompting you to turn to him, but you don’t. not looking at him makes it easier. you can’t cave, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. letting him do it to you. he pauses, pieces falling into place in his mind. “because- cause of Lois? baby, we were working, I promise-“

“I know,” you interrupt. “your work is important to you. you should focus on that.”

“no, baby - no. stop it,” he’s lightly shaking your arm, begging you to just look at him. “baby - can you just look at me? please?” nothing.

“Lois, too - you can have the best of both worlds without worrying about how to make time for me.”

he’s panicking now. you’re right next to him, but he can physically feel you slipping further and further away. he’s trying to grab you, pull you back in, but your slipping through his fingers like sand.

“honey, what are you even saying? i love you, more than anything, you’re the most important thing to me.”

“it doesn’t feel like it.”

“then I’ll do better. you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m so sorry for making you feel like you weren’t. I love you so much, don’t wanna lose you,” his voice is breaking. you fight every urge to turn around and comfort him.

“you started losing me the first time you didn’t show.”

he thinks he’s going to be sick. your words hit him like a punch to the gut. all those missed dates, all those late nights - they come flooding back to him. he can just see you, alone in the apartment, glancing at the door every few minutes for him to come in, and it never happens. how could he do this? what has he done? is he losing you forever? all these thoughts are running through his head - all he knows for sure is it is no one’s fault but his.

before he can say anything, before he can keep begging for you to listen to him, that he loves you, that he’d never intentionally make you feel like less than you are to him, you speak up once more, with a finality in your voice that breaks his heart into even smaller pieces than it already had.

“leave your key in the morning. goodnight, clark.”

he lies awake that night, listening to your breathing, unsure if he’ll ever fall asleep to that lullaby again. in the morning, with tears in his eyes and a heavy heart, he slips out the door. you choke on sobs when you hear the door close on your lives together.

———————————————————————————————

present day.

you shouldn’t call him. you owe yourself that. yet you can’t ignore the pull you feel towards him when something goes wrong - after the day you had, you yearn for just a glimpse of the comfort he always gave you before. fuck it.

the tone only drones once before it clicks, and Clark’s voice comes through the speaker.

“hello?”

“hey,” you breathe. there’s a beat where neither of you speak, silence killing you softly. “I, um- sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you - I just didn’t know who else to call,” he hears you sniffle on the end of the line, perking up as alarms sound in his mind.

“no, swee-,” he stops himself before he can fully call you sweetheart. he bites his lip prevent him from further embarrassment. he can’t call you that anymore, but it was once so natural. like instinct. you catch it too, more warmth growing in your tummy at the slip up than you’d like. “no. y’re not bothering me. ever. what’s going on?”

“can you just- can you come here?” you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an impact that wouldn’t possibly come. he would come. any time you call, he’d come - no questions asked.

he’s caught off guard, making few sputtered starts of sentences. he manages to set himself straight, speaking an eager (but not too eager), “of course i can. im wrapping up in the office, be there in 15?”

“yeah, no rush. thank you, clarkie.”

he smiles at the nickname. “always. whenever you need me.”

he was going to fix this - with hopes that he’d never have to hear your voicemail again.

———————————————————————————————

a/n: still not over the love on my last fic, thank you 🥹

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glowwayne · 3 days ago

Text

I need you to feel alive

clark kent x f!reader

cw: smut (mdni, 18+), superman stamina, reader passes out during sex, worried!protective!lclark, a thousand apologies, p in v, creampie, overstimulation (r)

wc: 1k

a/n: I recently fainted (in a very different scenario than this one) for the first time in my life and I feel like it changed me as a writer lol, so this was born

now playing: Void - The Neighbourhood

Your thighs ached, your clit throbbed and you wondered whether you were drooling. Clark’s cock bullied your cervix with every thrust – and not for the first time tonight.

The number of releases you had shared in the last few hours was lost on you. Your brain had stopped working somewhere after number six and that had been when the sun was still setting. Now, it was pitch-black outside.

Sweat dripped from Clark’s brow as he thrusted into you again, the mushroom head of his cock slipping along your velvety walls until it met that spongy spot deep within you. A broken cry elicited from your lips along with a breathy whisper of his name. You weren’t sure if he even heard it. Actually, you weren’t even sure if any sound had made it out of your mouth.

Kryptonian stamina was not to be underestimated, so the fact that Clark was at the point of sweating was rather telling of the kind of night you had had. Purple marks littered every inch of your skin, from the underside of your jaw to the curve of your breast. Saliva, cum and your own juices were in places they had never been before, dripping between your thighs, mingling on your back and painting the skin of your tummy.

It was filthy, it was nasty, it was so Clark and you.

“You with me, baby?” He asked, not stopping the roll of his hips as he tried to merge himself even deeper in you. There was a rasp to his voice, an almost broken quality while he let himself be enveloped by your fluttering walls.

You nodded as dark spots flickered across your vision. “Mhm,” you slurred and he halted. Still sheathed in you, he grabbed your chin with a trembling hand as he struggled to keep himself in check.

“Can you say it with big girl words, please?” Clark mumbled and brushed his thumb across your jaw.

“I’m good,” you muttered, “But this is the last one, okay?”

He nodded affectionately and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek which contrasted like black and white as he resumed rutting his hips into yours.

“Last one,” he echoed, “You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Taking it like the best girl in the world. My girl.”

The bed creaked dangerously as his pelvis pushed forward again, and your eyes rolled back until you saw stars. He panted in your ear while his whole length twitched in you. Three shaky fingers found your clit, drawing messy circles, almost slipping off with how wet you were. Anything was lube tonight: spit, previous cum, sweat.

He fucked into you a little faster like he had taken pity on your aching body. One part of you – your brain – knew two things: You should either tap out or at least tell him to hurry up. But the other part of you – namely your cunt – clenched around him so tight that he winced, not letting go yet.

“Baby, gosh, you are gonna.. oh my…,” he grunted and circled your throbbing bundle of nerves faster while diving harder into you, little desperate sounds tumbling from his mouth, “Please, you’re…. you feel so good. Just one last…”

The spots on your vision darkened even more and spread as your orgasm built up.

“Clark,” you whined and he misinterpret severely.

“I know, baby, almost there,” he drawled and increased the rhythm of his hips and fingers even more.

Your release washed over you like a tidal wave, tingling from your spine to your fingertips and toes. A moan that rivaled any pornstar’s slipped from you and your nails weakly dragged across his back while he buried himself to the hilt in your warmth.

Then the world went dark.

“Oh… oh gosh, what the… baby? Sweetheart? Please, oh my gosh, please wake up. Can you hear me?”

Your vision didn’t return immediately, neither did the feeling in your fingers. You laid on the mattress, something warm dripping out of you and a clammy hand held yours.

“Sweetheart?” Clark repeated and then you started seeing him. At first it was just a faint silhouette, then his edges sharpened and baby blue eyes looked at you, filled with horror, concern and relief all at the same time.

“Clark?” You asked, feeling cold sweat pool on your skin.

He breathed out a shaky laugh and you saw tears build on his waterline.

“Fuck, you scared me so much. Are you okay? Can you hear me? Can you see me?”

You hadn’t heard him cuss that often in the time you had been together, so his word choice was quite the shock to you.

“Yeah,” you muttered and wiped a hand across your face. “I’m good.”

When you attempted to sit up, his large hand immediately sprawled across your collar bone, pushing you back down.

“No, sweetheart, please… just stay. My word, you… you were gone for… I don’t know… twenty seconds? I think my heart didn’t beat once.”

He pushed a sweat soaked strand of hair from your forehead and placed a kiss right against your temple. “You feeling okay? Can I… can I get you some water… or something to eat?”

You shook your head and the feeling in your hands returned, like needles pricking your fingertips again and again.

“No, I don’t need anything. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He gently cradled your face between his hands and tilted your head to meet his eyes.

“Please don’t apologize. That was… that was on me… I am the one who’s sorry. I shoulda…. I shoulda seen that you were done. I’m sorry, I was so selfish. Please forgive me.”

Clark’s voice shook with unshed tears, his fingers desperately holding onto you. His lower lip wobbled and his eyes… his eyes glistened as he struggled to meet yours.

“It wasn’t your fault, baby,” you muttered and now you were the one reaching out to cup his face. “I should’ve told you. But nothing happened, I’m fine. Just… you’re just that good.”

A wet chuckle sounded through the room and he pulled you into his arms.

“You’re insane. And I love you. But you’re insane,” he muttered, gently swaying the two of you back and forth.

❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

Text

touch tank

you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.

wk: 14.8k (worth it i pinky swear)

the best and the worst part of teaching is that you never stop having summer break— two and a half months of pure boredom and relaxation that always go the same. you find a job, you visit family, you take random classes at the community center just to get yourself out of the house. you really did not expect this year to be any different, any better. you expected the same boredom, the same routine, the same desperation to find someone to occupy your time.

however, you didn’t count on clark kent to stumble into your life and take your world by storm.

you met in late may, the first time you came around the daily planet selling pictures for the paper. you spent a lot of your free time behind a camera, capturing moments you didn’t want to lose— and you really needed some extra cash. metropolis might pay better than most cities, but at the end of the day, a teacher’s salary is a teacher’s salary.

you were hopelessly turned around, clutching a small, manilla file that was nearly overflowing with the photographs you felt were relevant enough to submit with one hand and biting your freshly manicured thumbnail with the other, staring up at the very useless building directory, reading the names and numbers with little understanding. the receptionist had told you to go to perry white’s office for your meeting— but she hadn’t been so kind to tell you exactly where you could find it.

the signs were no help. you are embarrassingly lost, and—

“need any help?”

you turn around, dropping your hands to your sides. you’re met kindly with the direct view of a man’s chest, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

and there he was. six foot four, built like a linebacker and stuffed into a suit, wearing glasses that looked a bit too small and a smile that seemed a bit too warm. the man you would come to know as clark kent— the center of your universe.

and those eyes. bluer than the ocean, captivating you so wholly you forgot to breathe. one’s that looked to you with such unequivocal kindness, coupled with a smile that was breathtakingly gentle— you forgot how to breathe.

he’s staring down at you as if he’s not the only one who needs to catch his breath. as though he finds something about you to be just as overwhelming as you find him.

he pauses, clearing his throat. “i just mean— ah, sorry, you look lost. i-i can help you. i work here. uh, reporter— um, i mean—“ he takes a deep breath, extending a hand. “clark kent.”

god, he’s adorable.

you smile up at him, taking his hand in yours and giving it a gentle shake. you note how large and uncalloused his hand is, and try to ignore the shocks of electricity you feel with that first, all-consuming touch. you tell him your name, thankful that you don’t manage to stumble over your words, and he jots it down in the back of his head like it’s sacred. “i’m looking for mr. white’s office? i have some pictures for the paper.” you explain, holding up your file.

“oh, yeah, that’s my boss. i’ll walk you there.” he says, looking down at you with a soft grin that renders you so useless you nearly forget why you’re here. carefully, he motions for you to follow him, and you oblige, walking slowly down the arched hallways of the daily planet at his side. your heart begins to pound out of your chest.

there’s a beat of silence as you walk, before he breaks it with, “can i see them?”

he points to the folder in your hands, the one that you’re clutching like a lifeline. you hand it over without a second thought— how are you supposed to say no to the ridiculously cute, dorky guy guiding you through the building? you’re just not.

he cards through them carefully, commenting on the quality, the angles, the color grading, basically just complimenting every picture while you try not to swoon. he pulls one of the prints out of the file, a rare picture of superman you managed to get two weeks ago. you consider it the strongest picture in your portfolio. most of the photos of superman are blurs of red and blue, or shaky selfies he’s taken with fans. this one is still, certain— hopeful. you took it candidly. he was crouched with a kid, one of your students, helping him fix his broken project with gentle hands.

you think about that moment every now and then. it changed you from a casual viewer of superman’s heroics to someone who supported him completely. you watched him stop, and with hands capable of much greater things, sooth the worries of a child when he could have been doing anything else. it instilled a kind of faith in humanity you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“i like this one.” he mumbles, sliding it out of the folder, staring at it like it means as much to him as it does to you. superman fan, noted.

he pauses, staring at it a second longer than he did your other pictures, memorizing every detail before sliding it back inside the folder. “i don’t see how perry wouldn’t buy these— you’re an amazing photographer.” he says with a smile, handing you back the file.

you do your best not to turn completely red at the compliment, looking up to meet his gaze. “i’m a teacher, actually.” you explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “just looking for a side hustle. that picture of superman? he’s helping one of my kids.”

“really—? wow that’s really, uh, very cool.” he says, wearing a smile that you try your best not to read into. you both stop in front of an office with the name Perry White stamped across the door in shiny silver lettering. as anxious as you are to start the meeting, your heart sinks when you realize your time with clark is over. “well… good luck.” he says, all shy and dorky in a way that makes your knees weak. “i have a feeling i’m gonna see you around.”

you can’t help but grin, thanking him for walking you— and for the vote of confidence. you really don’t want to say goodbye, not when one look from him already disarms you.

he opens the door for you, and he’s lucky enough that you don’t realize how long he lingers by the office, memorizing every detail he can catalogue— the way you stand so confidently, yet with a demeanor that is so kind and genuine it makes him reevaluate everything he’s been looking for, the way the draft from the vent in perry’s office blows through your hair and makes you look like a movie star, the way you speak like it’s your favorite thing to do.

you leave the meeting with a steady freelance gig, and a yellow post-it note you hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked into an interior pocket inside your file.

i really hope you call me (xxx-xxx-xxx)

-clark :)

you’re in your apartment when you find the note, and you can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, heat rising to your ears and dusting your face a rosy shade of pink. you waste no time dialing that number.

——

you meet superman before you see you clark again. actually, you’re on your way home to get ready for your first date with clark, trying to not let the nerves and anticipation shake you.

you’re excited. like— bouncing off of the walls, can’t stop thinking about him kind of excited. you text constantly, and he calls you like talking to you is the highlight of his day, not some chore he has to do to maintain a relationship. you’ve been talking for about a week, and all the time with him has done is confirm your many blooming suspicions about him: he’s sweet, gentle, incredibly well-spoken and not afraid to be open about his interest in you in this shy, dorky kind of way that makes you kind of want to melt.

you’re practically skipping down the street when it happens. it’s barely sunset, but you suppose crime doesn’t really depend on time of day anymore, not in the era of aliens and meta-humans. a hand darts out of the alleyway, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the shadows. before you can think to scream, to ask for help, anything— there’s a knife at your throat and you realize that your silence is a lot more valuable than your survival instinct.

“wallet, now.” you can barely see him— a combination of the dark alleyway and blurry vision. you make out dark clothes, dark eyes, and an expression that tells you to comply with whatever he says.

your heart is beating so loudly you can feel it in your fingers. you’re shaking like a leaf— fumbling with your wallet, trying to hand it to the mugger.

it drops from your hands. you look up at the man, eyes wide with the overwhelming fear for your life. you fucked up. it’s over. you can practically envision your funeral: sad, sparse, the death of someone who’s never really lived. you slam your eyes shut.

but then there’s a gust of wind, and the knife disappears from your neck.

it takes a moment for you to breathe, to process, to blink open yours and face a blue chest with a red and yellow emblem.

“are you okay, ma’am?”

your gaze moves up to meet his. you’re not all there yet. there’s still adrenaline moving like shocks of lightning down your veins and the phantom breath of death sticking up the hairs on your neck. all you can really focus on is his eyes. impossibly blue like the deep sea, captivating you so wholly you forget yourself for a beat too long.

“ma’am?” he repeats, and his voice less authoritative. instead a gentle, concerned call to your senses, breaking out of your haze.

you down, taking a deep breath. “yes, uh…” your hand darts to your neck, feeling for any imprint the knife could’ve left. you’re grateful to find nothing but untainted skin, like it had never happened at all. “i’m fine.”

he nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells you he isn’t totally convinced. he hands you your wallet, a small, green leather clutch you’ve carried around since you were eighteen. somehow it had become the last thing on your mind.

“you’re safe, i promise.” he says, and his voice is so tender it makes you nearly forget that it’s superman standing in front of you, making sure that you’re okay. “the danger’s gone.”

you look up at him, eyes wide, brimming with tears you don’t know if you can hold back for much longer. he leans in a little closer, just enough for you to notice, his eyes checking over you carefully. maybe you’re just thrown off, because of the whole… mugging situation. but he almost looks a little scared, maybe a little relieved, like you mean a bit more to him than a civilian he saved.

you shake the thought. you’ve heard he’s like that anyways, kind, caring, a boy scout through and through. the look you’re seeing now can’t be anything more than that.

he clears his throat, leaning back, taking on a more official, heroic posture. “can i take you home, ma’am?” and just like that, the moment’s over.

you nod, letting him guide you out of the alleyway with a touch that is impossibly gentle for someone you’ve seen pummel aliens into the ground with a single punch. a comfortable silence hangs between you, and you’re grateful the streets are empty enough for no one to pay the pair of you any mind.

you must look ridiculous together. the thought makes you smile, and your adrenaline-induced panic is officially over.

“thank you.” you say, breaking the silence. you smile up at him, craning your head to meet his gaze. he honestly looks a bit surprised that you’re thanking him. “for… y’know, saving me.”

“of course. i’m glad i made it in time.” he says with a quiet nod, his eyes meeting yours. his smile is so genuine, so human, you wonder how anyone could really hate him.

you miss the lovestruck look in his eyes.

you laugh. “me too.” you say, your hands swinging freely at your sides. “i know you don’t normally handle, uh, muggings, so… i feel pretty lucky.”

his eyes dart away, looking around at the block— anywhere but you, really, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “well, i try to keep an eye on the street. y’know, on the rare days when aliens and robots don’t tear apart the city.”

you grin, his eyes meeting yours again. “yeah, i know.” you say, looking up at him with wide, starry eyes that make him forget he’s superman and not anything besides the man lucky enough to be by your side.

your eyes are so focused on the god beside you that you miss a step, losing your balance because the tip of your heel got caught in a sidewalk crack. you fall into him— no, you practically dive into him, because of course you do.

“woah there.” he says. his hands, which are just warm and huge and tender, carefully grab your sides and he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet.

you pause, flush with embarrassment. “i’m so sorry,” you cringe, looking up at him. “my heel got stuck because i had to humiliate myself and ruin the moment.”

he laughs, sliding his hands away and looking down at you with a soft smile. “no harm done. just glad i caught you, miss.”

you pause, returning his smile with a grin that you just can’t seem to push down.

“i saw you once, with one my students. he broke his history project, a popsicle stick model of the golden gate bridge?”

“i remember— jackson, right?” he asks, and there’s something so touching about him knowing the name of the random child he helped— it makes you want to melt. “smart kid, i’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about geography.” he says, nodding towards you.

“right? he’s a little genius. i’m pushing him into architecture. i teach third grade, which is, i think, the best, ‘cause you get to see their passions develop in real time.” you say. you’re not sure why talking with him feels so easy, so natural. maybe it’s the whole superhero thing, or his impeccable bedside manner— but whatever the reason is, you can’t remember the last time you smiled so much.

“that sounds very rewarding.” he says, a gust of wind blowing his cape through the air. “i wanted to be a teacher, once.”

“got busy?” you ask, gesturing to the suit.

he laughs in the sort of way where his shoulders shake and his voice booms throughout the street, even though you didn’t say anything particularly hilarious.

“you could say that. how’s jackson doing now?”

“he’s on his way to becoming a very talented fourth grader.” you hesitate, before you continue. “i got a picture of you two, when you helped him.” you pause, stopping in front of your apartment building. “not in like a creepy stalker way— i’m a photographer too. kind of. hence the photo.”

he pauses, peering down at you curiously. “may i see it?” he asks.

you stop, your eyes locked with his. you can’t kick that feeling— how familiar he is. you can’t quite place it, so you push it back down deep for another day. “yeah.” you say, softly, pressing on the door. “i’ll be right back.”

it only takes you about a minute to retrieve the photo, digging through that same manilla file for your spare copy, the same file that clark stuck his number in. god— you were supposed to start getting ready, like, fifteen minutes ago.

you pray clark is late.

there’s a shadow over your window before you start heading back downstairs. right. flying. superman can fly. not crazy at all. you stumble over towards your fire escape, grinning up at him while you slide up the window.

you stick your head out, leaning on your arms, halfway out the window.

“here, uh, this just a print.” you say, handing him the picture. he takes it gently, his fingers brushing against yours. he stares at it for awhile, his eyes tracing over every detail.

“could i… keep this?” he asks, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the world— in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs.

you nod, because really, how could you say no when he’s staring at you like that? you didn’t have a choice.

“thank you.” he says, before clearing his throat, floating back out towards the alleyway. “i, uh, i should be going.”

“you got big plans tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

he laughs, a soft chuckle that rings like wedding bells in your ears. “something like that.” he pauses again, looking back down at the picture and then up to you. “…see you around… miss.”

there’s a burst of wind and just like that, he’s gone.

and maybe, just maybe, you have a tiny crush on superman.

——

your date with clark was an awkward, disastrous, mess— in all the best ways. the flowers he brought you had somehow gotten smushed, even though he insisted they came from the little shop on the corner right by your apartment— but they were your favorites. the restaurant lost your reservation, so you ended up having a picnic with food from the best food truck you’ve ever been to. the conversation was bumpy, at times a little difficult to navigate, but by the end, you had never laughed so hard in your life.

you really had never met anybody like clark kent.

he’s a gentle giant, a man who, despite being extremely built, you truly incapable of hurting a fly. he’s also the perfect gentleman, the definition of a man. for the entire evening, he refused to let you open a door, or pay, and when you started feeling a little chilly when he was walking you back to your apartment, late at night, he tucked his jacket over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain. he’s also just… kind, plain and simple. he stopped to help an old woman cross the street, to ask a kid where his mom was and led him back to his parents, and, no shit, he literally rescued a cat from a tree. mind you, all in the span of four hours. he’s a good person, the kind of guy you read about in fairytales and grow up thinking doesn’t exist.

but here he is.

“i had a really good time tonight.” he says, lingering by your door. you nodded in absolute agreement, looking up at him with a giant, uncontrollable smile that he returns in full.

“yeah, me too.” you respond. the distance between you closes quickly, you lean in just enough to feel clark’s breath ghost on your face.

he flushes and looks down to his feet, like he’s working himself up for something— before his eyes dart back to yours. “i, uh… i really want to kiss you right now.”

you can feel a red hot fire spread to your cheeks, and you pray that the dim light of your apartment prevents him from seeing it. your eyes meet his, staring through his glasses into a sea of endless blue.

you’ve never actually wanted someone to kiss you more than you do right now.

“yeah?” you ask, your voice teasing him ever-so-slightly while you move in closer, your fingertips brushing against his.

“may i?” he asks, sliding his unbelievably large hands on your sides then down to your waist, leaning over you in a way that makes you feel incredibly warm. you have to physically tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and your mood nearly sours at the idea that at some point you’ll have to pull away.

you nod, and slowly, delicately, he leans in— pulling your body gently against him, his lips pressing into yours. it isn’t an eruption of passion, or some overwhelmingly fervent kiss, no. it’s soft, slow, sensual, an agonizingly perfect connection that makes you knees go weak when you’re in his arms.

it’s too short, that’s your only complaint. he pulls away breathless, smiling down at you with a pink tint dusting his cheeks, ushers you back into your apartment and demands that you have a wonderful night, insisting that he’ll call you in the morning.

you go to bed that night an hour later, only certain of two things.

this was going to be the best summer ever

you like clark kent so much it makes your head hurt

you want to see if superman is as good a kisser as clark

——

“here.”

clark pushes a cup of coffee that is somehow still piping hot into your hands, smiling down at you. you’re not sure how he even knew you were coming to the planet today, much less when to meet you at the door, but you liked that about clark. he always knows a lot more than he lets on. you chalk it up to the investigative journalist in him.

“you got me coffee?” you ask, feeling the warmth from the cup spread through your hand. apparently, no matter how hot it is outside, none of that leaks into the planet. it’s freezing.

“yeah, i didn’t know what you liked, uh, so there’s cream and sugar— not too much, though, uh, well, i mean, hopefully there’s enough—“

you press a kiss against his cheek and that effectively cuts off his rambling and leaves him quietly flushed, his eyes focused only on you. “thanks, clark.” you say, taking a sip. it’s a bit too sweet, but so incredibly thoughtful you might just start taking your coffee this way.

he smiles, going red from his neck to is ears— god, he’s so cute. “you’re seeing perry today?” he asks, walking with you down the hall. you nod.

“apparently he likes my work so much i get a daily planet issued camera.” you say excitedly. clark chooses to leave out the part where he practically begged perry to lend you one, a privilege freelancers don’t usually receive. he has to do an extra mountain of paperwork every night for a month— but gosh was it worth it to see you so giddy.

“makes sense.” he muses. “perry rewards the incredibly talented.”

he says it in a silly way, but you can tell he’s completely serious. he’s so sweet it literally makes your teeth hurt.

you’ve been on three other dates since the first, and you’ve bumped into each other at the daily planet a couple times before this— everything is going extremely well. he’s so caring, thoughtful, and the more you learn about him the more infatuated you get. you swear, when he puts his hands on you it makes you dizzy.

it’s perfect. he is. there’s only one issue: his constant tardiness, and his tendency to cancel last minute, or just not show up at all. it bugs you, when you’ve gotten all dolled up just to have to fight back tears at midnight, forced to leave an angry voicemail or two after you’ve downed a glass of box chardonnay, stuck alone, in your living room.

but he makes up for it with a thousand apologies and small gestures that make you wonder why you were ever mad.

it’s frustrating— the doubt creeping in about whether or not he likes you, the anger of being left behind without so much as a call, the loneliness that swallows you like a black hole. but when you’re with clark, he makes sure that his feelings for you are never in doubt, swearing up and down that he just has supremely bad luck and it doesn’t have a thing to do with you. still, it makes you wonder: what makes clark kent so busy?

“my lunch break is at one,” he says, taking your folder like it makes all the sense in the world for him to carry it and not you, “if you want to hang around a bit after your meeting, we could grab something together?”

you nod, looking up at him as you approach perry’s office. “that’s perfect. i was gonna stop at the bookstore down the street and grab something for my mom’s birthday. pick me up there?”

“yes ma’am,” he says in a way that is all too familiar, and he hands you back your folder, tucking it underneath your arm, his hand ghosting at your side. “good luck.”

“don’t need it. i’ve got you.” you say, opening the door and heading in. you don’t see the way clark flushes, this time redder than a tomato, nor jimmy laughing at him from all the way from across the building.

——

you’re on your way to the bookstore when it happens— the sky opens up, a giant alien-whatever pops down and starts wreaking havoc on the skyline of metropolis. the event is far enough away to where you would normally just shrug and continue on your path towards the bookstore while the people wait for superman to show up.

except that you’re a photographer now. professionally. and professional photographers run towards their killer shot, not away from it. besides, your meeting with perry didn’t go… the greatest. he said most of your shots were unusable— and he wanted more pictures of superman.

but it would be stupid to run into danger like that— clark would disapprove, so would probably anyone with common sense. the ground is literally shaking because that demon thing knocked a skyscraper over like legos— you really should walk away.

so, obviously, you end up climbing a tree about a hundred yards away from the creature (and superman, who stepped in about a minute ago), trying to find your perfect shot. it’s stupid, really, the way that you’re about twenty feet off the ground, perched just right on the branch so that if you can get superman and the alien to stay still for half a second— you’ll have your picture.

unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for the monster to have giant fireballs spewing out of its fingertips, with one specially aimed at you. foolishly, you expected it to be the normal kind of cryptid.

so, you shut your eyes and brace yourself, praying that you’ll be the sexy kind of burn victim and not a crisp, dead one— but the impact never comes. instead, a pair of arms wraps around you and you’re on a rooftop— ridiculously far away from the scene with no way down.

“stay here,” superman says, flying back with a harsh burst of air. he sounded… angry, probably from the fight but… you can’t shake his eyes met yours in that single glimpse, before he had gone back into the fray.

the fight takes four minutes. you’re like, a mile away, on top of some random building with a pretty subpar view of the action— but you manage to still make out the flashes of blue and red that surround the being and shoot him back off to space.

you frown, peering over the edge of the building. there’s no rooftop access, no door, nothing. you’re kind of just stuck— which is perfect, because it’s 12:55 and clark’s about to get off for lunch, so he’ll get stood up while you figure out how to get down.

“you need to be more careful.” a voice behind you says, and you jump, nearly toppling over the side of the building.

a hand grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, steadying you— it’s superman. thank god.

you nod. “yeah. probably.” he looks unconvinced, and maybe a little pissed. his arm drops back to his side and he shoots you a stern look.

“it’s irresponsible to run into danger like that. you could have died, ma’am.” he says. his hair looks a bit windswept, curling around the edges like clark’s does when he tries to tame it. his eyes zero in on the camera hanging around your neck. “no picture is worth your life, okay?”

you nod, looking down, a tad embarrassed. “yeah… adrenaline kinda beat me on this one.”

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do anything like that again.” he says. when you look up at him, he doesn’t look angry anymore. he looks scared. its the kind of thing that makes your heart jump into your throat.

“please?” he asks quietly, his gaze locked with yours.

you nod, swallowing down the strange feelings twisting around in your gut. “okay. i promise.”

there’s a beat of silence before he steps towards you, beaming down at you like you’re any other citizen. “let me get you down from here.”

“please do.” you agree, and he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, slowly flying you down until your toes touch the concrete.

“by the way,” he begins, speaking quietly as you land, stepping back, “i framed that picture you gave me. thank you.”

he’s gone before you can say ‘you’re welcome,’ just a blur of red and blue that disappears into the sky like a shooting star.

he remembered you.

he probably remembers everyone he meets on the street— he’s known for stuff like that, being so kind, so hopeful.

but he remembered you. and that feels different.

your phone rings and you shake off whatever you’re feeling, because clark, the guy that you really really like and who really really likes you is calling and there’s no reason you should be thinking about someone as untouchable as superman in the way that you are right now.

“clark, you will never believe what just happened—“

——

today is july first.

your one month anniversary with clark. the day that marks one of the best months of your life coming to a close— and hopefully a sign that these next months are going to be just as good, if not better.

this month, clark kent has literally swept you off your feet. perfect dates, amazing chemistry, gentlemanlike in a way that all seems too good to be true. and maybe it is.

because, well, it’s three hours after your date was supposed to start. clark had been talking about today all week, texting you every free second about the amazing evening he had planned— but he’s not here. he couldn’t even send you a text, “hey, so sorry i can’t make it. raincheck?’ nothing.

you wonder what the excuse is, this time. had to work late? ma called and he lost track of time? you hate it, how small you feel when he forgets about you. you suddenly wish it was august again, so you could have school and a whole new pack of students to occupy your time with— you wouldn’t even have to think about clark, you’d be so busy.

right as you reach for another glass of wine, there’s a knock at your door.

you frown, tiptoeing silently towards the peephole like you don’t already know who it is.

it’s clark— and he looks rough.

there’s a nasty shiner on his eye, and he’s got blood peeking out from under his collar, and you wonder what other injuries his clothes are hiding. it takes you half a second to swing the door open, your hands flying to his face.

“holy shit clark— are you okay?” you ask, eyes wide, checking every inch of his face to see just how bad it is. you’ve never seen him have so much as an odd bruise before, but now…? he looks beat. “what happened?”

his eyes don’t follow your hands, or your movements, they don’t stick to the ground, they just find yours and hold your gaze once you’re done giving him an extremely thorough once-over for any prevailing injuries. “you were crying.” he frowns, looking down at you.

you pause, lowering your hands. “yeah, but—“

he hands— which are notably shaky, press against your biceps, wrapping around your upper arms as if to ground himself.

“i’m so sorry.” his voice is so tender it practically kills you, pure, genuine guilt and sadness that makes you feel like a jerk for even being mad in the first place. and those eyes— god, those eyes. they take you and they refuse to let go.

“clark, you look like shit, i’m not upset—“ you start, biting down on your lip. he cuts you off by pulling you into a suffocating embrace, holding you so close and so tight he practically knocks the air out of your lungs, not that you mind.

he traps your lips in a kiss— one that isn’t soft, or gentle, not the way that clark usually kisses you. it’s fervent, sloppy and overwhelming— he surges into you like he never thought he’d be able to do it again.

what you don’t know is— with the battle he had, the one he lost, that was exactly what was on his mind.

“i’m sorry i missed our date. i promise i’ll make it up to you.” he mumbles as he pulls away. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, squeezing you like he can’t get you close enough. you have no idea what’s going on, but you like the way you feel when he holds you, so you don’t stop him.

you tentatively wrap your hands around him, unaware of the fallen god that has you in his arms. “what happened?” you ask quietly, your voice just a whisper against his ear.

he gives you a final squeeze that toed on the line of breaking your ribs before pulling back, looking down at you. “uh, i just… this lady got her purse stolen, picked a fight i couldn’t win. i’m fine, promise.”

you nod, your heart swelling with both concern and pride. you picked the guy who’d risk his own safety to help an old lady get her purse back— the thought makes you all warm and fuzzy, especially now that you know he’s okay.

you have to push down the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on.

“do you wanna come in?” you ask, tilting your head. he shakes his head.

“i uh, i can’t. gonna sleep this off— but i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank. i just didn’t want you to think i flaked for no reason.”

you smile up at him, shaking your head. he’s too damn sweet for his own good.

“okay, well, get home safe, okay?” you say, pressing a kiss on his cheek before sending him away with the promise that everything will be fine in the morning.

——

you didn’t think that “i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank.” meant breaking into your apartment to make you breakfast, but apparently that was clark’s exact line of thought.

you didn’t even register the sound of him in your apartment when you stepped out of your bedroom— your hair a mess, makeup peeled off, wearing nothing but an oversized sleep shirt and your panties. you yawned, stretched, then nearly jumped out of your own skin when you noticed him staring at you from over your stove like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

“what are you doing here?!” you yelled, darting back into your room, searching frantically for a hairbrush.

“uh, i, um— i wanted to make you breakfast?” he starts, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “starting to realize how creepy this is.”

you sigh, laughing softly to yourself, the shock slowly wearing off. “it’s really sweet, clark, just give me a minute to look… presentable.” you say through the door.

“you look beautiful— but, sorry. take all the time you need.”

you emerge ten minutes later with your rats nest combed out, your makeup done, and wearing a pair of shorts that fit snuggly around your thighs. clark smiles at you in a sort of, i’m-sorry-for-breaking-in-but-hey-here’s-some-breakfast, kind of way.

you shake your head, walking over to him and letting him wrap an arm around you, taking a deep breath to smell the absurd amount of pancakes he made for the two of you. seriously, there’s like, three stacks and half a bowl of batter left. you lean against him, enjoying the warmth.

“sorry for freaking out.” you say as he presses a kiss against the top of your forehead.

he shrugs. “sorry for breaking into your apartment.”

you laugh. “yeah— how long have you been here, and how did you get in—“ you pause, looking up at him, noticing how clean his face is for the first time. “your bruise is gone.”

he leans back, rubbing his neck. “yeah, uh… i’m a fast healer.” he pauses and shrugs like that’s the only answer he can give you. “i’ve been here for like, thirty minutes. your neighbor let me in. mrs. stilinsky?”

you nod— decide not to question anything, moving back to lean on the countertop. you note the way he shifts in the back of your head and move on.

“i still feel bad about last night,” he starts, pausing to lift you up and onto the counter like you’re featherlight. you giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. “hence the breakfast. if you’re not busy today, i’d like to make it up to you.”

you raise a brow. “you know you don’t have to make up ‘getting jumped’ to me, right? i kind of get that one.”

he leans back to flip another pancake, shaking his head. “this is non-negotiable, honey.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a pancake off of one of the stacks. “actually, i could use another set of hands to help me decorate my classroom…” you say, taking a bite of the pancake, looking up at him. “god, this is good— how did you make this?” you ask, mid-bite.

he laughs, a motion that moves through his shoulders. “kent family recipe. ma would kill me if i shared.”

“—is there pumpkin spice in this?”

——

clark insisted on being the only one to carry anything— so you’re mapping out your classroom while he hauls stuff from your car, little by little.

you’re switching to second grade this year, so you have a newer, slightly crappier classroom a mile farther from the teacher’s lounge, and a new curriculum to teach— but you don’t particularly mind. eight is a good age, you’ll just need to practice a little more crowd control during your lectures.

most of your stuff was brought over from your old classroom last week, this is just the stuff you bought with your daily planet money to get a fresh new look for your class.

clark drops the last of the junk gently by the door, smiling down at you as he approaches. he hooks an arm around your waist and presses a kiss atop your head, giving you a quick squeeze. “so, what are we doing today?”

you grin up at him, leaning into his side while you begin rambling about your big plans for the room.

you kinda prefer this to big dates. there’s something special about the mundane when you get to do it with clark. you just like being around him, basking in that sweet farm boy energy that has you totally whipped.

“okay, so, i’m gonna move my bookshelf to this corner, and then i’m gonna put up a bunch of posters in this area and make it, like, a reading corner, right. i’m gonna put up one of my big art wall things here and the other over there, and—“

you’re cut off by an earthquake.

clark instinctively tightens his grip on you, looking up and around for any danger. your frown, leaning into him.

he looks up at the ceiling for what seems like a beat too long when the ground shakes again. a couple trinkets fall off of a bookshelf, and one of your boxes topples over. he looks down at you, ushering you out of the classroom. “is there somewhere safe to hide?” he asks, looking up and down the hall.

“here, c’mon,” you start, leading him down the hall. “kids go in the gym for tornado drills— it’s kind of the same thing?”

he nods, following you with his hand tightly interlaced with yours. the ground shakes again and little bits of drywall fall from the ceiling— none big enough to do any real damage, but enough to spook you.

you and clark make it to the gym, where the infrastructure seems a lot more sturdy. you run inside— but he hangs by the door. “i’m gonna see if anyone else needs help, okay? i’ll be back.”

“clark—!“ you start, but he’s already gone.

you frown. the school is empty save for the two of you. he should be back in two, maybe three minutes.

but he’s not. he’s not back in five. or ten.

by the twelve minute mark you’re worried in a way that is all-consuming— and the building keeps shaking. you nearly got smashed by a ceiling tile that came loose, and you’ve spent the last few minutes half focused on clark’s survival and your own.

you give up on waiting, going to the administrative office to check the cameras for him, a relatively easy journey. you flip through them all twice. you give time for him to leave any blindspot. he isn’t there— he just ditched you.

you try not to throw the computer across the room. you could, logistically, and you could blame the damage on the whatever going on outside— but you don’t. you just storm out of the building, looking up at the sky.

superman’s fifty feet above your school fighting some robot-looking thing mid-air. to be fair, he’s winning, but not enough for you to be particularly thrilled about the sighting. you look around for clark, and he’s nowhere, which is just great.

“clark!” you call out, looking for him, ducking debris from the action above you. you turn the corner of the building, looking around by the dumpster, trying to see if he was hiding with some sweet old lady or doing anything besides running away and abandoning you.

you rush past the wall— and maybe if you were a bit less panicked and a bit more observant you would have noticed the pile of clothes peeking out from under the dumpster, or the glasses that belonged to clark kent reflecting sunlight onto the stack of bricks behind you.

but you continue, rushing out to the courtyard, met with a great big field filled with nothing but astroturf and gym supplies.

“clark!” you call again. he’s not there— you know he isn’t and you’re really, really freaking out. what if he got caught under a chunk of debris? what if that robot monster up there crashed into him? what if he really did just abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself?

you brush that last one off. he wouldn’t do that. you know him well enough to know that. he’s good to his core, he’s not the type of guy to run from danger.

you look up at the fight above you. superman is pummeling into the robot like there’s no tomorrow, getting closer and closer towards the ground. he’s right above the field you’re hanging around, and—

oh shit.

they both crash against the ground, knocking a literal crater into the field. the impact of the collision knocks you onto your ass, and despite being fifty feet away, the yelp you let out when you hit pavement attracts superman’s attention— and the thing he’s fighting.

it happens in slow motion: you, with wide eyes, scrambling to get up on shaky legs, the robot, hurling towards you impossibly fast, and superman, an inch behind, trying to stop it

you’re frozen. you can’t run, or fight, or even move— you’re just stuck, shaking, your heart beating out of your chest, adrenaline shooting through your veins like fire.

you think it’s the end, but superman grabs hold of the thing when it’s an inch away, pulling it back and throwing it across the field so hard the boom that follows sounds like a missile strike. you just stare, your breaths uneven and panicked, watching with teary eyes as superman punches that thing into the ground, ripping the machine’s head off with bare hands, tearing it apart until it’s nothing but scrap metal and wire.

and then he turns to you, moving faster than the speed of light across the field to gently help you up.

“are you alright?” he asks, taking your hand. your legs are shaking so bad that he has to practically hold you upright, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

you nod. “yeah, i’m okay.” you say, taking a deep breath, swallowing down your panic.

he checks you over for any injuries, the same way he did the first night that you met. “you shouldn’t have been out here.” he says, and he sounds frustrated— you feel bad. bad that he always seems to be saving you, and that you seem to be his least favorite regular. he’s saved you once a week for the last month at least, sometimes when you’re taking pictures for the planet, sometimes when trouble just seems to follow you home. either way— you have seen a lot of superman lately.

“i uh, yeah, i was looking for… clark kent? i know he’s interviewed you before, have you seen him?”

his gaze softens, and he takes a breath, looking down and shaking his head softly like he’s having a conversation in his head you aren’t privy to.

“he’s fine.” he says, looking up at you. you’re captivated— it’s always those damn eyes. bluer than the pacific, you don’t know how a man so perfect can exist.“i, uh, he was about to get crushed by some debris, so i moved him half a mile west.”

you breath a sigh of relief. “thank you.” you say, steady enough to stand a bit taller. he doesn’t let go.

“you get into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” he asks— not in a, ha-ha we run into each other a lot way, but in a, hey i’m kind of concerned about your well-being kind of way. your heart leaps to your chest.

“yeah. kept my promise though. didn’t come out here for a picture.”

he smiles— you almost swoon— and shakes his head. “do i have to start keeping a special eye on you, miss?”

you try not to blush. you fail. “with my luck, that might just be necessary.” you say, smiling up at him.

you pause.

you are totally flirting with superman. and even crazier— superman is totally flirting with you.

you have clark. loving, caring, sweet, handsome clark.

but can it really hurt to indulge in the fantasy for a minute longer?

“well, if you need anything, ma’am, call out for superman, and i’ll be there.” he says.

“anything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “i might just take advantage of that.”

he laughs— a laugh that seems too familiar. “i hope you do.”

you look up at him, tilting your head. “thank you, again, for saving me.”

he smiles, looking down at you, giving your hand a final squeeze before he lets you go. he leans in a bit closer, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart jump to your throat. “i’m always gonna save you. i promise.”

the way he says you gives you pause. it makes your knees want to buckle. it makes this whole thing seem completely unreal.

because he’s talking about you like you mean a lot more to him than a pedestrian he’s had to save a couple times. like you’re someone he cares about— which confuses you a lot more than you care to admit.

he leans back, clears his throat, acts like he said a bit more than he should have and returns to that superman persona he let slip for half a second. “you try to stay safe, okay?” he says, raising an eyebrow, and you nod, a little dazed.

“on it.”

he steps back and shoots back off into the sky, and you stare until he’s completely gone, now just a whisper of blue in the skyline of metropolis.

“hey! there you are!” clark’s voice echoes from behind you. you spin around, overwhelmed with relief that he’s safe and running back towards you.

you practically crash into him, simply relieved that he is safe and not smushed under a building or something like that. his arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe, and you hold him so close you think your arms might break.

“i got so scared when you didn’t come back.” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. he nods, pulling back, looking down at you.

“yeah, uh, i was looking for others and this giant piece of wall almost got me— superman swiped me out and took me like, three blocks away.” he says, taking a deep breath. “i’m really glad you’re okay.”

you nod, swallowing down the guilt forming in your chest. here clark is, all worried about you, who literally ran back from half a mile away to come and get you, and you were just flirting with superman.

“yeah, uh, superman saved me too. guess we both got lucky.” you say, chewing on your lip. you feel horrible.

he frowns. “a-are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. you hate how he can read you like that.

you nod. “yeah, uh, i think i just want to go home.”

——

that night you sent clark home, promising you would call him in the morning. you told him that you were just a bit shaken— and you were. but not from the whole… robot trying to kill you thing. from the superman one.

you just felt guilty about it. confused on what made superman so keen on you. you’ve felt confused a lot, lately. about clark, superman, your own feelings.

to make it clear: you are 100% whipped for clark. he is your perfect man, and he has never made you doubt for one second that he likes you just as much as you like him. the whole superman thing feels like a fantasy come true— having some angelic, godlike protector single you out. it’s probably very human to have some feelings, to get a little flustered when someone like superman flirts with you.

there’s just something about superman that feels achingly familiar, in the kind of way that bugs you wholly. his laugh, his voice, his eyes. the eyes get you the most— like there’s something right in front of you that you just can’t see.

you take another sip of your beer, looking out at the moonlit skyline from your fire escape.

“are you alright?”

you jump, whipping your head around to see superman floating ahead, approaching you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll scare. he smiles, leaning against the railing of the fire escape, looking down at you with this weird, soft look in his eye. like he’s worried.

you nod. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “i wanted to make sure you were okay, after today.” he says, staring at you with those impossibly familiar blue eyes.

you raise an eyebrow. “do you check up on all the people you save?”

he chuckles, and shakes his head. “just the lucky ones.”

you pause, offering him a beer. he waves his hands no, climbing over the rail to sit with you.

“you’re real friendly.” you observe, taking another swig of your drink. he shrugs.

“just concerned.”

there’s a long beat of silence before either of you speak again. you’re not really sure what to say, how to proceed. you can feel him staring at you, while your eyes trace over the buildings around you.

“how’s your day going?” you ask, blinking back up at him. he stares for a second, then smiles— and those eyes capture you once more.

“been an odd day. y’know, stray robot attacks and all.” he pauses, giving you a once over. “you?”

you shrug. “odd’s probably the best word for it.”

“would you like to talk about it?” he offers. “i’ve been told that i’m a good listener.”

do you wanna talk about it? it’s kind of been an emotional roller coaster of a day. of course, it’s the kind of thing that would only happen to you, having superman on your porch step, asking how you feel. at first, all the running into each other seemed like dumb coincidence— now it all feels a lot heavier.

“i’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.” you say, tilting back your head to get a better look at him.

he nods. “is that a bad thing?”

you shrug in response. “it’s an odd one. especially ‘cause—“ you start, cutting yourself off. you look down, chewing on your lip so you don’t confront superman for being a huge flirt.

he looks at you inquisitively, a small frown playing on his lips. “‘cause?”

you take a deep breath, looking down. “i have a boyfriend. well— he’s not technically my boyfriend, yet. he hasn’t asked, but like, y’know. i really like him.”

you look back up and he’s smiling, almost like he’s trying to suppress a grin, which confuses you even more, because, like, two minutes ago he was acting all into you.

“and how are things going with your not-boyfriend?” he asks, leaning back.

“great. so i need you to stop flirting with me.”

he laughs— he actually laughs, with his full chest. acts like you saying that is the silliest thing in the world. like he didn’t randomly show up at your apartment to ‘check on you.’

he smiles up at you with this weird, knowing twinkle in his eye. “you’re right. i’ve got no business getting between you and clark.”

you pause, your eyebrows knitting together. you didn’t mention anything about clark.

“how’d you know it was clark?” you ask, frowning.

he pauses— like his body stutters. “uh, well—“ he starts, stumbling in a way that seems so familiar, just like everything else he does. god, what is it about him? “i assumed, since he was who you were looking for at the school.”

you nod, training your eyes on the loose curl sitting on his forehead. you guess that makes sense, at least, enough for you to not dwell on it any longer. yet, coupled with everything else you’ve noticed, it’s all just… very strange.

“i’m onto you, superman.” you say, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. you see it, just the briefest, tiniest moment of panic in his eyes before the superhero persona sets back in. it’s just enough to let you know that you’re not crazy.

“onto me?” he asks, slightly incredulous. “what for?”

you shrug, leaning back against the railing, taking another quick sip of your beer before placing it down against the barred floor of your fire escape. “just whatever it is that you’re hiding from me.”

he nods, like he’s barely entertaining the idea. “i could just stop running into you.” he says, a bit more serious now than he was a minute ago. “if i was hiding something.”

you smile, shaking your head, standing up and leaning back against the railing. “you could. i doubt you will.” you say, flashing him a grin, hoisting yourself up to sit on the railing.

he tilts his head. “why’s that?”

now, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t at least two beers deep, and right now, you’re three and a half in, so your judgement is maybe… slightly impaired. besides, it’s not like this is the farthest you’ve ever gone to prove a point.

you slide your legs over the rail, and without a single thought or hesitation, you push yourself off.

you plummet for a bit longer than you thought you would— not like the drop would kill you, anyways, you live three stories up, but you’re a lot closer to the ground than you thought you’d be when he catches you.

his arms wrap around you bridal style— and he looks kind of pissed. he doesn’t quite look at you, not until you’re back up safely on the fire escape and he’s floating back out in the alleyway.

“that was, gosh—“ he starts, looking down at you, arms crossed. “why would you do that?”

“i knew you would catch me.” you say, your eyes glancing up to find his.

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do that again. ever.” he asks, eyebrows firmly knit together.

you nod, which, doesn’t seem to be good enough for him, because he tilts his head and looks at you with a gaze that is incredibly stern. you reach out your hand, extending your pinky finger out towards him.

“i pinky swear.”

he smiles, locking his finger with yours. “thank you.”

there’s a boom somewhere off in the distance, one loud enough to attract his attention. his hand slips away from yours, and with a nod, he’s gone.

you’re gonna figure him out.

——

it’s been two weeks since that night— and that was the last time you saw superman, a new record for you and him. you enjoyed the space as much as it infuriated you— so your time has been spent cataloguing every interaction, sorting through everything that bugged you, even slightly.

you don’t tell clark about it. it can’t feel good to hear that your girl is constantly thinking about another guy— especially one that is a god amongst men.

you and clark do have a good rhythm, though. he spends most nights at your place now, and he spoils you with two ‘real dates’ (as he calls them) a week. it’s nice, having him around. someone you can force feed your baking to and cuddle up with when watching scary movies.

it’s nights like tonight, actually, that make you so into him it scares you. he came over after work, and after making you a pasta salad that tasted like heaven on your fork, you sat together on the couch to watch some random sitcom he liked. his arms wrapped around you immediately, and he held you so close and so tight it was basically impossible not to fall asleep in those big, bulky arms of his.

you blink awake now, soft light and sound still playing on your television despite how quiet everything else seems. you listen to clark’s breathing, steady and even, snoring softly with his grasp loose around you.

you slide out of his arms quietly, surprised that you didn’t manage to wake him when you knocked into the table behind you on your way to the bathroom. you come back two minutes later, wiping your hands on your sleep shirt and looking down at him.

he looks so peaceful, so relaxed. it makes you smile. carefully, as to not wake him up, you slide his glasses off of his face and put them on your coffee table, and grab a blanket off of your armchair to throw over him.

in this motion, you realize you’ve never actually seen clark without his glasses before. you look down at him, tilting your head, squinting for whatever shapes you can make out with such little lighting.

you didn’t realize how strong his prescription was, because he looks quite different. like— noticeably different.

huh. he looks a lot like superman.

you frown. squint a little harder. besides the hair, he’s nearly identical.

you shake the thought. it has to be some weird coincidence, right? clark, your clark? not possible. you’re too sleepy to give it much thought, anyways.

still, it bugs you. it bugs you the next morning, when he makes you breakfast. it bugs you the day after, when you see him at the planet. it bugs you for another week, because the similarity is just too damning.

you stare down at that picture you have of superman. of him, helping your student. the one that inadvertently led you to clark. the one that superman himself framed. you’re looking at all the similarities of note between clark and him. sure, they’re different, but everything different is something easily changed. hairstyles, tone of voice, hell, even posture.

you chew on your lip. it’s 5:30, clark’s supposed to pick you up in two hours.

but, hypothetically, if you went to his place now and looked around when he wasn’t expecting you… would you find this picture hung up somewhere?

it would be just to get the thought out of your head. you’re like, 95% sure there is no way in hell that clark kent can be superman. especially because, if he was, and he’d been flirting with you as superman? you’d be beyond pissed.

you knock twice on the door. “clark?”

you hear a shuffle and a pause. it takes thirty agonizingly long seconds for him to open the door, but when he does it’s all smiles and laughter— “hey, what are you doing here? thought i was picking you up later.”

he urges you in and gently shuts the door behind you, smiling down at you. your eyes trace every inch of the apartment, looking for something you pray you don’t find.

“i didn’t want to wait any longer,” you say, looking back up at him, “i missed you.”

he grins, wrapping an arm around you and giving you a squeeze. he looks nice— white button up, black slacks, his hair impossibly perfect. you lean into him, nearly forgetting about your mission.

“do you want to just hang out here tonight? skip the date?” he asks, sliding your purse off of your shoulder and setting it down on his mahogany front table— one that he made himself when he still lived in smallville.

“actually,” you say, uncertainly, sliding off your jacket. “that sounds perfect. i wanna talk.”

he raises a brow, taking your jacket and hooking it the coat rack. you lead him to the living room, flopping down on the couch. “do i need to be worried?”

he sets himself behind you, leaning against the back of the couch, smiling down at you. you look around, still looking for that picture— one you’re sure you won’t see amongst the decor of his apartment.

“yeah, maybe.” you say, your eyes meeting his. his smile fades, and those ocean blue eyes stare down at you with just enough concern to make your heart skip a beat. “what are we?”

you don’t know why you picked that question to stall for time, but here you are.

he takes a breath, like that question somehow relieves him— what an odd guy.

“what do you want us to be?”

he asks it gently, hopefully, like he’s easing you into it. he is— he wants you, bad. more than just a summer situationship. clark isn’t built for that. but he understands hesitation, he understands if you want to take your time. he’s got all the time in the world.

you pause, taking a breath. “well, i really like you clark.” you say, scooting back on the couch, patting the empty space next to you as a signal. he dances around the side of the couch, extra careful not to knock into anything and disrupt a moment like this one. the couch dips beside you and you sit with your legs crossed, facing him.

“i really like you, too.” he says, quietly, like it kills him not to say more.

you nod, chewing on your lip. “and i want to be your girlfriend.”

he breaks out into a grin, leaning back, looking at you with nothing but love in those ridiculously blue eyes. “yeah?”

“not that you don’t still have to ask me, cause you do, and you have to make it, like, the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.” you say, smiling up at him. he nods— super serious, like one of your kids planning out an assignment in their head.

“i promise.” he says, leaning in. “i’m gonna romance your socks off, babe.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. he presses a quick kiss against your lips— one you’re careful not to get sucked into; you’re not done yet.

“now that that’s settled,” you say, forcing him back with a playful push that elicits a groan from him. “if i’m gonna be with you— you can’t hide anything. i need complete, open honesty.”

he nods, looking away. you frown. “is there anything you haven’t told me? anything important?”

he pauses, his eyes trained to the wall, like he’s deliberating on something super important.

were you right? is clark really… superman?

he looks back at you, smiling, like that moment didn’t happen. like everything is alright. “i stole one the toys from your classroom.” he shrugs, laughing a bit. “the stuffed deer? it reminded me of you.”

you gasp, feigning offense. “i’ve been looking for him everywhere!” you exclaim in fake horror, but you can’t help but giggle.

what were you thinking? clark, superman? sweet, adorkable clark? it’s more likely that he’s secretly mother teresa.

his laugh grounds you, and he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. “i’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “wanna watch a movie?”

you nod, looking up at him. “i’ll let you pick it if you make popcorn.” you grin, pressing a kiss against his jawline.

“yes ma’am.” he says, standing up, lingering in your touch a second too long before leaving for the kitchen.

you watch him, unable to suppress a giant, dorky smile. god, you love him.

oh god, you love him.

you decide to table that thought for when you get home.

“i’m gonna change into one of your shirts!” you call out, standing up and heading towards his room. you’re still in date night attire, and you would much rather be dwarfed by one of clark’s nice, cotton, smallville t-shirts than brave the night in jeans and a tube top.

“have fun!” he calls back, and you can hear the sporadic popping of the popcorn from the kitchen.

you make it to his closet, filtering through the half-dozen tees he keeps hung up. he doesn’t have that many clothes, you note, a few dress shirts, a couple cheap suits, two pairs of jeans, and a box of ties below it. you look around a bit more, noting the weird amount of dress shoes he has lined up on the ground when you notice a pair of black wingtips sat above a silver, face-down picture frame.

huh.

maybe if you were a bit more trusting and a bit less suspicious you would have left it alone— but that isn’t you.

your eyes flicker to the doorway, which is empty, and back to the frame. carefully, you crouch down, sliding the shoes down to the ground, tentatively picking up the frame and flipping it towards you.

your heart beats out of your chest.

it’s the picture.

the one you took of superman, the one you gave him that first night, the one he told you he framed— the one that you decidedly did not give to clark, the one that clark never told you he framed, the one that clark would have no reason to hide except—

that he’s superman.

that you were right.

that he lied to you.

you take the picture. hold it so tight your knuckles turn white. walk out of the closet, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. drop it on the countertop so clark can see it.

the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. he looks shocked, caught, then scared, guilty. his eyes dart from the picture to you in an instant. the microwave beeps three times, the popping slows to a stop. it’s over.

“i can explain.”

you shake your head. he doesn’t need to— it’s pretty open and shut. he lied to you, and if it was just him hiding the superman thing, you could understand. “you talked to me as superman— flirted with me, asked personal stuff— you lied. you’ve been lying, this entire time, i—“ you take a deep breath, fighting tears. “i should go.” you say, spinning around on your heels.

he grabs your hand before you can move, squeezing it gently. “please, wait— let me explain it. please. you don’t understand.”

you pull away, looking at him with nothing but hurt in your eyes— because you are hurt, you feel betrayed and broken and everything you thought you wouldn’t feel with clark. you stare at him, trying your hardest not to cry— not in front of him. he looks hopeless, half-defeated, uncertain, and lost in a way that overwhelms him.

you sniffle, shaking your head. “i understand fine, clark.” you say, swallowing down your heartbreak and peeling towards the door.

“this is over.”

——

the days that follow are bleak. all you have to show for the breakup are dark, lonely hours wasted in pints of ice cream and dirty tissues. your only solace is scrolling through article after article— either ones written by clark, or ones written about him.

you push yourself through it with everything you can muster, praying that he doesn’t hear your sobs from across the city. you love him. loved him. and you’re not sure you’ll ever be so in love again.

but he betrayed you, he lied to you— he hurt you in a way that you can’t explain. you don’t want to let that push you down any more than it already has.

so, you push back. get up, out of bed, get dressed, call your friends, make plans. put yourself in a situation where you don’t have to think, especially about clark. it’s been ten days since you stormed out of his apartment and you have to move forward. it’s the last day of summer before you go back— you can’t have let it all been a waste.

you club. you party. you convince yourself that you’re having fun. you drink too much and then you spend an hour sobering yourself up before you home. you kiss your friends goodbye and toss the numbers you had pocketed in the trash outside your apartment. you head upstairs, taking a deep breath to try an avoid letting yourself think about the silence.

about clark.

and, when you get to your door, fumbling for your keys— you notice a piece of neatly-folded card stock taped below your peephole, your name encircled by a heart on the front of it.

carefully, you take it down, removing the tape with little tear and opening the letter, recognizing the handwriting before you can even read a word.

to start this, you were right. i shouldn’t have lied, i shouldn’t have pretended i wasn’t lying, i shouldn’t have spoken to you under false pretenses. the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you, and for that, i am so sorry.

i hope, for you, this past week hasn’t been as miserable as it has been for me. i hoped to have seen you at the planet, or bump into you on the corner, or find some way to see you and try and redeem myself— but i couldn’t wait any longer to explain.

yes, i am superman. i was born on the planet krypton, sent here as an infant, and adopted by my parents, john and martha kent. i have a cousin who too, is from krypton, but remembers much more than me about home, and i take care of her superpowered dog, krypto, in a secret fortress in the arctic. i can fly, i can move incredibly fast, i have inhuman strength, x-ray vision, laser vision from my eyes and breath that can freeze nearly anything, all given to me by the earth’s yellow sun.

i came to you as superman at first by accident. the night i saved you from the mugger, before our first date. i had spent the days leading up to our date spiraling. you, who are so perfect, so beautiful, and so kind, were going out with me, and i was terrified to mess it up. i realized how easy it was for me to talk to you as superman, when it was difficult for clark kent. the times i saved you, i shouldn’t have lingered. the times i spoke to you as him, i shouldn’t have been there. at first, it had been a crutch, but by the last time, it had become a compulsion.

i had to see you. to make sure that you were safe, and warm, and happy. i realize now that i violated you in a way i cannot make up for. for this and for everything else, i am truly sorry. while my betrayal is inexcusable, know that i did it because i love you. this summer has been the best of my life, i have never met someone as compassionate, hilarious, talented, and beautiful as you, i have never wanted to be around someone more than you, i have never had someone plague my thoughts and dreams the way you do. you have quickly become my everything, my reason for waking up, for helping people, for pushing through every day.

you asked me, the day of our fight, to make my request for you to be my girlfriend the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. and i promised you that i would.

and while i have lied to you, hidden things from you, and hurt you, i have never broken a promise.

open the door, please.

you look up from the note, wiping away a river of tears that had just poured out of you. carefully, your hands wrap around the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open.

and there he is.

standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a thousand rose petals, holding a giant bouquet with an iron grip. candles litter the foyer, giving his face an ethereal glow in the low light. his glasses are gone. his curls are out. he’s someone between clark kent and superman now, someone who you desperately want to know.

he clears his throat, his gaze holding yours hostage with those infinity blue eyes captivating you so wholly.

“i promise never to hurt you again. never to lie to you, or hide things from you, or betray your trust— if you’ll let me be yours again.” he says, smiling down at you like he’s on the verge of tears. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, as you approach taking in the entire set up slowly, trying not to lose what little composure of yours you still have.

you take a breath, your eyes locking with his once more.

“yes.” you say, grinning while tears— happy ones, slip from your eyes. he smiles wider than you’ve ever seen, practically throwing the bouquet so he can wrap his arms around you in a giant bear hug.

he lifts you up and spins you off of the ground, pulling an exciting giggle from your lips. it takes you a second to realize he’s off the ground too, that you’re both mid-air inside your tiny apartment— but you’re too focused on clark to mind.

he holds you close, leaning in just enough to warm your face with his breath.

“i love you.” he says, quietly, like if saying it any louder would have scared you away.

“i love you too.” you say, smiling.

he grins, leaning into you and crashing against you with a kiss so fervent it nearly topples you over— so passionate it makes your chest explode with warmth.

and suddenly, just for a moment, just for now— everything is okay again. and you know that as long as you have clark at your side, it always will be.

——

there are two quick knocks on the door, followed by a rasp “honey? you okay?”

you tremble, sat with your back against the door, bunched up in your wedding dress, trying to force the tears to stop falling to avoid messing up your ridiculously expensive bridal makeup. ten minutes ago the pressure got to you, and five minutes ago you sent your entire party— bridesmaids, stylists, even your mom —out the door so you could properly break down.

“yeah.” you say, sniffling. your voice shakes so much that the lie isn’t even half-convincing. clark can see right through you anyways (literally), so it’s not like you were really trying to lie. you just didn’t want him all concerned. it’s his wedding day too, you want it to be the happiest day of his life, even if your own experience is a train wreck.

you can practically hear his frown. “kara told me what happened.” he says, softly.

oh. yeah. your bridezilla breakdown. not one of your best moments. you aren’t exactly proud of screaming at your mom to stop messing with your hair, or your aunt for commenting on the fit of your dress, or your bridesmaids for giving you all sorts of unsolicited advice. you yelled, threw a fit, and pushed everyone out of the room so you could sob mascara into your veil.

“can i come in?” he asks, gently, and you let out a weak laugh.

“the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember?” you say. he groans, sliding down against the door, his back to you.

“that’s a silly rule.” he says, and you smile. you love how much he makes you smile.

“i don’t need any more bad luck.” you wince. “did kara tell you about my bitch fit?”

you hear him snort a little bit through the door. “she used nicer words.” he says, pausing. “wanna talk about it?”

god yes. it’s all you want to talk about. but you don’t want to bring clark down any further than you already have. you want him to have the perfect wedding, even if you are decidedly not.

“it’s fine. i just needed a minute.” you say, your voice shaking again— enough to where you know clark won’t drop it now. you bury your head in your dress, taking a deep breath.

“c’mon. i’m your husband in like, ten minutes. you can talk to me.” he says. his voice is so sweet and syrupy— you’re not sure how you can refuse him.

you lean up, back against the door, shutting your eyes so tight it hurts. the words spill out of you so fast you don’t even think about them before they do. “i wanna be married to you so bad. but god— i know we spent so much on this and we spent so much time planning it but… i just want this over with. my dress is so goddamn tight and nobody can leave me alone for half a second without telling me something i need to be doing or something i’m doing wrong. and i just— it all got to be too much. and now my mom is probably gonna storm out ‘cause i yelled at her and then my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, and i just ruined everything for no good reason.”

the end of your rant is met with a beat of silence. a terrifying, overwhelming, moment where you think you might have finally scared off clark.

of course, you didn’t. you couldn’t. “hey, honey— nothing’s ruined. look, don’t think about what your mom wants, or what your bridesmaids want, or even what i want. what’s gonna make you happy? ‘cause i could fly you off to a courthouse right now and ditch the party. all i want is to married to you— you could be in your pajamas for all i care and you would never have looked more beautiful. i just— darn it, i want you to be happy.”

you’re crying again, but this time you’re smiling, because god, your fiancé is just so sweet it makes your knees weak.

“what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks again, his voice so soft and tender it makes you turn to putty.

you sniffle again, wiping your tears with your fingers while trying not to further destroy your $120 makeup. “i really want a hug.” you mumble, staring down at your mascara-stained hands.

“on it.” he says, and you hear him stand up and try for the door— which is still very much locked.

you giggle a bit, standing up with him ��i can’t let you in, though. the rule?”

he scoffs. “that rule is just plain— gosh, it’s just ridiculous. let me in, please, or I’m gonna break this door down.”

you laugh— god, it feels so good to laugh. you haven’t seen him all day and it felt like you were drowning.

you pause, giving in and slowly turning the lock, but you don’t quite open the door yet.

“promise me you’ll keep your eyes shut?” you ask, knowing how silly it sounds. god help you, you’re a bit superstitious.

“scouts honor.” he confirms, and you slowly open the door, peeking out to see clark, who looks breathtakingly stunning, with his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold.

you laugh, smiling so wide the muscles in your mouth start to get sore.

“there she is.” he says, reaching out blindly for you, his hands— impossibly warm, feeling around for your shoulders. “you feel very beautiful.”

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and burying yourself against him, your head in his chest. his arms circle your body and he squeezes you so tight you might faint— exactly the kind of hug you needed.

you do your best not to let yourself cry, but clark has a way of forcing the tension out of you, one way or another. one hand presses into the small of your back, the other strokes your hair softly. little praises and comforts slip from his lips like sugar, while you sob into him.

“i love you so much.” he whispers, giving you another squeeze.

“i love you too.” you cry, holding him so tightly your arms ache. “i am so excited to be married to you— this is not cold feet i promise.”

he laughs, nodding against you. “i know, honey, i know.” he says, and god, he knows just how to sooth every one of your worries away.

finally, you pull away, looking up at him. his glasses are tucked into his pocket, his hair is slicked back with one little curl popped out against his forehead. his suit is a deep black, with a navy blue tie (still covering his eyes) and a matching pocket square that makes him look irresistible.

“you look really nice.” you say, sniffling, but you can’t wipe the smile off of your face.

he shrugs. “i’m sure it’s nothing compared to you.” and he says it like you aren’t already a mess and you’re not blushing like, well, a bride.

you grab the edge of his sleeve and use it to wipe away your tears. his thumb brushes against your cheek, falling to your bicep when you let his sleeve go.

“so, what’s the plan, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning down at you with that five-star smile that gets you every time. “are we sneaking out and going downtown?”

you take a deep breath, shaking your head. “no, no we’re doing this.” you say, leaning into his touch. “but if you, say, asked one of your superhero friends to slip a roach down my mom’s dress, i think i’d skip down the aisle.”

he laughs, squeezing your arm and pulling away. “i’ll see what i can do.”

you smile, memorizing how dorky he looks with that tie around his eyes and his cute open mouth smile.

“see you on the other side?” you ask, tilting your head.

“see you on the other side.” he confirms, stepping back with just enough uncertainty to let you know that he’s not using any x-ray vision.

you watch him through the crack in the door until he’s gone, smiling so wide you might be stuck that way.

half an hour later the music starts, your dad takes your hand, and you’re walking down the aisle like nothing ever went wrong.

first you eye the crowd, looking over the array of friends, family, and superheroes that showed up. thank goodness clark is a reporter and not, say, an office worker, because you don’t know how else you could explain the random celebrities like bruce wayne and oliver queen who are sat in the audience.

then you look at your feet, which, are hidden beneath the dress, but you want to make sure you don’t stumble and embarrass yourself with a hundred pairs of eyes on you.

finally, you look up at clark, who’s staring at you in the sort of way that makes you feel faint. like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. like you’re about to make his knees buckle. like he’s in pure awe. he doesn’t even look nervous— a trait which you envy, because you’re an absolute mess right now. he just looks captivated.

you make up to the alter, looking up at him with a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. he’s looking down at you like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life.

“i love you.” he mouths, grinning at you.

“i love you more.” you mouth back, and he shakes his head with glee.

“—you may now share your vows.” the officiant says, looking to clark.

he smiles, looking down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up at you.

“for… for a long time i didn’t know what to write. i had about six… thousand drafts, but i don’t think there’s any way i can put into words how much i love you. how much i depend on you, how much of my happiness is thanks to you. i have so much purpose now. because if i can make you happy— if i can make you safe, if i can make you feel loved and supported and half as good as you make me feel every day by just being you… i’ll have accomplished more than i’ve ever dreamed of. i love you, honey, so much it makes my chest hurt. and i am the luckiest man in the world to be the man who gets to marry you— my soulmate.” he looks back up at you with stars in his eyes— your spaceman.

there’s like, five tears sliding down your cheeks by the end of that speech. you literally cannot stop smiling. you expected a lot— his job is writing for chrissakes— but wow.

wow.

“i, uh, wow. i don’t think i can top that.” you say, and a gentle laugh echoes from the crowd. you take a deep breath. “clark, i— i spent a lifetime thinking i’d never find someone like you. you’re, literally my knight in shining armor. when we met, and you walked me to perry’s office when i was so, horribly lost, i remember thinking how much i wanted this guy to ask me out. and then i found your number in my files, and i didn’t even realize how lucky i was. clark— my life has become so much better because you’re in it. having you, my rock, my best friend, my soulmate— i don’t have to dream any more. every morning with you is one come true. you are the incredibly dorky, adorable, and unfathomably amazing love of my life, and marrying you is the best thing i will ever do. i’ve never been certain of anything, but for this i have no doubt: i love you, clark kent, and i will love you no matter what life throws at us— i know that despite any tragedy or circumstance, i am yours, always and forever.”

you smile up at clark, droplets of water falling further down your face while a single tear drops from his eye. he smiles at you like you’re all he could ever want. you are.

“by the power vested in me by the state, i now pronounce you mr. and mrs. clark kent, husband and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”

clark grins at you and leans in, his lips pressing gently against yours, his hands pulling you in by your sides. the music plays, the church erupts in applause, and your husband knocks the breath out of you and for one moment, just one, everything is completely perfect.

this is so easily the longest fic i've ever written.... i am very proud of her though i very much hope you all enjoy!!

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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If me and Superman were in a relationship together I would have him fly me hundreds of feet up in the air and drop me and dive to catch me and I will tell him it's a "trust fall" when in secret it's my evil kink thing

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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put you in a bodybag or in my bed. ( clark kent )

clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him?

superman! clark kent x fem! journalist! reader (no use of yn- clark nicknames you neutron)

themes: onesided enemies to lovers (you are enemies- he thinks you're lovers but he's also a brat), hidden feelings, workplace rivalry- clark is not that nice in this (neither are you tbh which is not canon i know bit it is an enemies to lovers- sue me!!!) drunk shenanigans, kissing, implied smut, and love confession, fluff, angst, betrayal (juicy angst), mentions of insecurities, feeling overwhelmed, confiding in superman, previous relationships and an ending inspired by "how to lose a guy in 10 days"

wc: 15k (CLARK HURT COMFORT FINAL BOSS)

masterlist.

it's the smug half smile that catches your narrowed eye unwillingly, the sympathetic look your best friend jimmy sends your way and the fresh copy that lands at your desk to settle the fire in your blood.

you love the smell of fresh paper printed; the crispness, the warmth of the stories it tells and trusts you with. the faint inky scent that bleeds under your fingertips, excites you to new highs- you're sure this could very well be a strange addiction. but now? seeing clark kent's name printed small under the overbearing headline that's most certainly not yours but very well deserves to be, you've never felt the urge to scrunch it up, crumble it to death as it shreds along with your pride.

metropolis' man in the cape saves again: his thoughts on humanity, hope and his place in the world.

and he might've. you applaud superman, he's a man of the people, a story worth writing and you've even asked to interview him once- he never replied, like a ghost, except he haunted you through repetitive interviews with your mortal enemy clark kent and it burned. and from that day? you preferred batman, at least he rejected you with honesty and a bluntness you could appreciate. he didn't get cosy with the enemy, he punished them and relished in the feeling of it, just how you wished you could do yourself to one person in particular.

"you'll get em next time tiger," and its a stiff pat of the lazily dropped on to your shoulder, a smile imprinted in the air that englufs you. you don't even have to look up to recognise the unwanted looming 6'4 shadow towering above you, as if from that height you couldn't feel anymore smaller- be anymore smaller compared to him. the rage bubbles over in your stomach, steaming at your organs and quietly releases through the air that flares from your nostrils. you're seething and he knows it, he tortures you with the same lame comfort every time he makes the front page and you don't- which these days, feels way more often than not.

but you won't burst, not yet, and definitely not infront of the one person who's waiting for it to happen. you wouldn't want to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that he's won, he's under your skin and you let him roam free there. so you grit your teeth, open your document and begin to list all the things you hate about clark kent.

. . .

"golly, if it isn't jimmy and neutron," shining blue eyes twinkle with a tease and you feel the bile rising up in your system already. the play on words had gotten old very quickly; matter of fact a day after he met you quickly and decided that because you were pushing in the field of science journalism, using your physics degree to explore current trends in space with an environmental focus often- clark had used his big brains to label you as neutron, fitting for your best friend jimmy. it was also the last time you wore red, clark's evil pretty smile basically bursting when he saw the correlation and on your first day, before lunch time had even hit- clark kent had made two embarrassing (on your part) mistakes. first, he had thought you were the latest intern and asked for his coffee order and then came the likening you to a fictional character- the nickname sticking to you with hot embarrassment. months later and you're still neutron, you're pretty sure you may die as neutron.

"ha, ha," the stale echo leaves your mouth as you shoot him your best disapproving glare. it doesn't deter him one bit, you get a flash of teeth in return, a blinding superstar grin that just fuels your disgust- god, how could anyone be as obnoxious as him, you think.

"hey clark!" jimmy calls out and clark responds with a wave, you hiss at your friend, the outward act of betrayal infront of your own eyes as you duck your head low to avoid any further confrontations with your mortal enemy. that's enough evilness for one day, anymore and you'll be at the gates of pure hell, clark kent's poster face ready and waiting.

"keep walking jim," you whisper through your teeth, giving clark one last glare before continuing on to the lifts and into your lunch time plans- the weather seemed nice enough to eat outdoors, you two had thoroughly checked the weather days in advance, hoping to get some much needed serotonin, sunshine and serenity the city can offer.

"hey jim, say if you see this nerd about yay big," he levels your height with his hand, purposely making you look smaller, "tell her the second page is looking for her," and you flip him off as you walk away, hearing a loud weight of boyish laughter thud in the air of the daily planet. a sliver of his stupid face disappears once the doors shut, though it lingers at the forefront of your mind- the crevices and lines etched of his skin burnt into your memory as the words echo again. you rub at your temples, massaging them softly as you slump your body against the wall- jimmy immediately taking your bag from you and lightening the load on your shoulders.

he doesn't have to say anything; he knows what has you so uptight and part of him thinks its the funniest and silliest game of cat and mouse that you and clark are locked in, both blissfully and painfully unaware.

"i hate when he calls me that," you mumble into your hands, feeling the anger seethe, bubble and then you mute it down into what feels a lot more like practised exhaustion and fatigue. there's no bark in your bite whenever clark isn't around, there's just something in his presence that greatly amplifies your annoyance and the secondary feeling of insecurities pushing on you. he's clark kent. he's loved by the whole team, he's buddies with superman, he makes the front page like it's his birthright with such ease, he's built like a damn machine and he has a dog, he talks to his parents every other day, he watches star wars and he is kind- albeit kind to everyone but you. you can't help but feel like this is all a personal attack- of course clark kent isn't perfect and has enemies, he chose you as his target, you as his nemesis- he must've seen some sort of match to play though often than you'd like to admit you do feel way out of your sparring depth.

"i think it's cute," jimmy shrugs, and by the downward turn of your curled lip, bordering into snarl territory he knows you disagree- and hard.

"he said i had a big forehead!" you didn't mean to shout, but the outrage is astronomical, the disbelief burns in your veins. clark kent cannot find you cute- he's satan in disguise, this will ruin everything, everything you've worked for and against because that will mean you are wrong and clark kent is actually capable of being a decent person.

"he called you a genius!" jimmy tries to reason and the look you level him with incredulity makes him want to hide away and wait this out.

"a young boy genius-"

"the most renowned of minds," he compliments, trying to make it sound way better than what it is, not that you have a giant forehead or the one instance you wore red and became the butt of a joke. you're his best friend, and he loves you more than anything but some part of him wants to just shake you awake, that clark kent must be drawn to you if he only ever acts this way around you. for two incredible journalists, you two are so stupid with the evidence right there infront of you.

"oh yes jimmy, because that's what every girl wants to hear- not that i'm hot or that my work matters and is good enough to make the print but that i'm a young boy genius with a forehead the size of fucking space- what? why are you looking at me like that?" you take a step away from him as the lift finally opens and leads you outside and on a pathway to the nearest park where you can settle down, let the breeze run through your skin and hair and squash any thought of a certain black curly haired nuisance in your already occupied brain.

"oh nothing," he teases, "why would you care about clark kent, your quote unquote "nemesis", calling you hot?"

"i don't," you immediately spit out, aware of how suspiciously quick the response came and the smug look jimmy olsen tries to hide. it's like your brain had this rehearsed, formulated in a strict "clark kent protocol" and shot it out along with any inclination that you could feel anything other than a strong dislike for your co-worker.

"okay," jimmy shrugs, his hands drop lazily in surrender but the smile he sports is as clear as day; soft as the clouds you sit under as you unwrap your sandwich and kick your legs free.

"i said i don't," you repeat, even minutes after the conversation dies down and jimmy is busying himself trying to find a movie on his laptop, but it bugs you the indifference- no, jimmy not siding with you immediately, like there's some secrecy he's holding to himself instead of defending your honour boldly.

"i heard you the first time babe," he mumbles, scrolling and clicking, "how do you feel about star wars?" he asks, and your heart knocks against your ribcage, a slump at having to work overtime at the constant reminder of clark fucking kent. but you know jimmy, saying no and bringing up clark's strange addiction with the series would only prove his point- that as much as you dislike him, some part of you searches for his opinion in a sick and twisted way.

so you take a bite of your sandwich, swallowing pesto and your pride and let it grow stale in your mouth as you nod, "sounds good to me," you try for a careless, offhanded comment of indifference but it burns, it bothers you in ways you can't even explain.

"okay," fuck you, okay.

. . .

"oh, she loves when i call her that," he doesn't even try to dull out the laughter when he spots your middle finger sent his way, his tongue presses in his cheek, mischief laced in his mind as he watches your form disappear through the doors and out into the wind. he swivels back in his chair, the wheels rolling as the gears in his brain turn- he really needs to think of a new article for next week's brief, check in with perry, come up with something that can top your new advancement on the science column. that task enough was difficult, you were smart and everybody included clark kent knew it and had to deal with it, you really gave him a tough run for his money in the fight to make the front page.

"do you know if she's seeing anyone? she's hardly with anyone other than jimmy- maybe she's seeing jimmy," he mutters as he closes the millions of tabs open on his screen, his stomach rumbles and he's due for a break soon. he was tempted to join your and jimmy's picnic, overhearing you guys from across the corridor and he salivated at the mention of you bringing some banana bread and tea in flasks. he lingered at the printers, waited to be given an invite, even focused on jimmy- the weaker of you two to crumble first but the pure steel you gave him as you moved to the opposite side of the room with your best friend following like a lost puppy as soon as you caught sight of clark staring intently, it was clearly not going to happen.

"clark, what do you care? you give her absolute hell-" lois' warning is cut off by clark's brows shooting to the ceiling at her admission.

"i do not! it's our thing-"

"i think this might be a you thing-" she tries to reason to her colleague, bring him out of the depths of delusion he's ran himself through and back to the surface of reality.

"she likes it!" clark scoffs, you engage in this mini war just the same as he does- the effort does not go unnoticed by him. out of everyone he's ever met, only you've come close to his wit, his intellect, his humour- you're his equal and if he has to mess with you to keep the competition on your toes and your focus on him, clark kent will spend the rest of his life playing this dangerous game. and if anything, he loves a challenge. you didn't swoon when you first met clark, you didn't bat an eyelid or even go out of your way to impress him but you've stolen his attention from the first look and the rest is history.

"and what makes you think she likes it?" you. lois wants to say, but she doesn't think her friend is ready for that type of conversation yet. but the real meaning is unspoken but heard, lingers in the air as his eyes are struck on the spot where you've left.

"she smiles," and he sports one of his own, if lois focused a little longer than maybe she would've heard the subtle pick of his heartrate, the dreamy sigh that leaves his lips followed by a little gasp when he pictures you, how he has to press his lips together to stop himself from bursting out the seams.

"at everyone but you," lois, the true voice of reason and honesty, tries to hit him with.

"exactly," he's smug when he faces his friend, kicking his feet up on his desk and relaxing back in his chair, "mine are reserved," he brags. he thinks about the small smiles kept with clark kent's name attached to them. how they're half teeth but all heart, with your lips pressed together but clark can see the small curve of your lip. the smirks that radiate confidence, how clark marvels at your talent and intellect, the small snarls where you mean to throw disdain but clark catches it with pride that he can rile you up this good. then there's the smiles where you don't think he's watching but he always is, where your eyes crinkle and your whole existence seems to soften with something gentler, something kinder, something so overtly hidden from him that he doesn't want to ruin the moment and let you know he's there.

he must've trailed too far off into the distance, overstayed in the shrine he's built of you in memories that lois' knowing look pulls him back to the surface and he tries to return back to their earlier conversation- the start of it all, questioning the existence if there's someone out there other than clark who is deserving of your attention, "i don't think her and jimmy are a thing, i mean i saw her wrestle him for a coffee mug in the break room earlier," and he tries to hide the fondness with a poorly executed scoff.

"clark again, what do you care?" except this time lois doesn't bother to hide the giggle of stupidity at one of her closest's friends and clark panics, he doesn't care. he can't care- it'll ruin his easygoing relationship with you and if you have to hate him for him to get access to a side you don't give out to anyone else, clark kent will do it.

"i don't, i told you, maybe if neutron got laid or was seeing someone, she'd like i don't know lighten up," he excuses but the words feel as misplaced as they leave him, when they linger in the air and cut through the thickness with a swift elbow jab from lois. it feels wrong, like a branding he's put out there- a label on your character but he needs to throw his friend off his trail. he's clark kent, he's number one and you're the competition. and then a heavy silence takes over and clark trails lois' apologetic gaze to where you stand just a few feet away from him, sporting the same glare you always mean for him but a new faint red blush creeping up your neck.

oh lord, he thinks.

because somewhere along from torturing yourself with star wars and your work nemesis thinking of your smile, you've made it back to the office- forgetting a cup for your flask. and at that moment in time, fate is a cruel twisted and funny thing because your ears burn hot with the intensity of the words he's hit you with and they paint a tomato hue of embarrassment you can't bring yourself to die down.

"dick," you scoff in his direction, disgust laced on your features but its a little more of a weaker whisper than you'd like.

"hey, you can borrow it whenever," he tries to recover, regain the comedic banter and shoots you a wink to recover from his stumble. but you just stare, stare and stare till he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. when you're satisfied with his squirming you turn to head back to your desk to grab a small blanket and some cups.

"i'd rather eat glass," you return smoothly, "glad to know a dry spell is also hitting you too or do you just you offer your services up to anyone?" it's snarky, but if you weren't so thrown off guard, you know you could've done better.

"ah, not anyone, just you babe," another smirk. but when you've disappeared he faces a stern lois who stands with her brows raised clearly unimpressed, theres just something about you that brings out the competitive childish side in him and he doesnt know what to do. his mouth moves far too quick for his brain to keep up with, anything for you keep your eyes on him. until you don't.

"oh gosh," he breathes when you're out of earshot, though he'd never let you hear or give you the satisfaction of throwing him off his usual calm, collected and smooth game.

"a little too far, kent," she pats him on the back, its a little harder but carries the consequences of him mouthing off "keep that up and you'll drive her too far out you'll need a damn map to bring her home."

"oh i'm not trying to bring her home," he rolls his eyes and a beat of silence passes the two of them.

"clark, i think you like her," lois softens.

"i think you're being crazy and should just help me with damn article," he huffs, directing his attention to literally anything but the confession his friend hits him with. he can't like you- he can't, but lois saying it doesn't make it feel any less real. so she lets it go, settles into their easy routine and helps nitpick where he's gone wrong and what he can do better, clark listens obediently and tries to focus but he can still feel you in his orbit. he needs to do something to salvage the mood and so he does what he knows he can do- pure journalism.

"full disclaimer not that i care or anything but for purely based on my outstanding deductive skills as a journalist- that means she's not seeing anyone," he breaks the shifted mood to recall your earlier comment from memory, like his muscles remember the contraction, the wave of oxygen it takes to formulate your name and your entire existence like its a secret oath he's sworn to protect.

"not that you care though right," lois teases and he feels his friendship slowly restores its balance, his earlier slip up not forgotten, just lightly grazed over into something familiar.

"of course not," he confirms and ducks his head lower into his desk, not without sneaking a look in the direction of your desk that still sits empty- you must've returned to your picnic with jimmy and afternoon without the tyranny of clark kent.

"it was on the record- observational, i'm a journalist," he excuses with a shrug. lois catches the ramble fondly but clark is too far in his head to notice. and maybe if he repeats it enough, he'll believe it enough.

. . .

the thing is, clark kent has tried to be nice to you. a truce of some sorts.

it started with coffee cups that he would leave on your desk, watch you sniff cautiously and the first few you spilt down the sink along with his eager-eyed hope for peace. you weren't sure of who was leaving them until you arrived to work a lot earlier than usual- your plans to leave a lot earlier that day and make up the time.

you watched him pick up your mug from the cupboard through blinking tired eyes- it had to have been a blur, a lapse in judgement you were half asleep. but the guilty look, his widened eyes like a deer in headlights, its a look you'll score into your memory.

from there, he still made the coffee and he'd watch you drink it in agonising slow slips, never once did you acknowledge it, thank him other than a slight nod, but he held onto it.

he tried through giving you pointers on your work, just little comments to push you in the direction and you were pushed alright. you didn't speak or look his way for days, the cold shoulder freezing clark out as you poured yourself into long days glued to your desk to come out better, to do better, to be better.

he even offered to walk you home and you looked at him like he was insane; and maybe he was. maybe he shouldve known it came across as weird, out of the blue, i mean you two were hardly even friends and your commute was in the entirely different direction of his but he thought it was gentlemanly, honourable even but you gave him one weird look and left. and he never asked again.

and from then, clark decided there was higher reward that came from annoying you than what came from being nice to you. nice didn't earn him your attention, didn't push him to be his best for you and him, in fact he owes a large part of his career growth to you- it's nice to be challenged but being nice wasn't going to get you to look in his direction and linger. nice was for strangers, for friends and you and clark? he knew your connection was meant for more.

. . .

it's wednesday and you have the mornings off, entering the daily planet just after the callback from lunch is announced and you step into the meeting room ready for a debrief.

you've had your hair cut, clark notices immediately as he catches sight of your frame slipping through the door behind perry. he likes it, a lot, he decides. it looks so soft and bouncy, styled in a blowout that clark for a second, thinks what it would be like to feel the strands through his fingers, like silk. do you use silk pillows?

you catch sight of lois, send her a sweet smile and it drops to a slower polite one at clark, who lets his fingers dance in a teasing wave as you walk past the pair to get to your usual seat- right across from him. he gets a faint smell of vanilla and deeper notes of cherry that intoxicate his bloodstream and lure him deeper in your vicinity- is that a new fragrance? he doesn't have time to notice because a laughter like sunshine streaks through the sky, throwing planet earth off orbit.

"that good?" jimmy murmurs, and you shake your head, eyes widening and flashing in delight,

"incredible," you gush in a whisper and clark feels left out. there's clearly something unspoken in the air, you just feel lighter. you've abandoned your usual slacks for a fairy-like skirt, paired with a simple knit sweater and bow ballet flats, you look ... nice, he wants to say. like, you always look nice but today, you look really nice. you look softer, less guarded and it is drawing clark in like a magnet he can't turn from.

before he can even tease you, the room drifts off into a deep discussion as they pass around their ideas for the week and when it gets to you, clark uses the opportunity to ask you the most useless questions, hold your gaze intently as he quizzes on random hypothetical scenarios and when he hears the frustrated sigh leaves your lips as you pack up your things, clark faces a tired lois, ignoring how he hears you mumble a faint "i'm going to kill him jimmy, i'm going to go down for first degree murder and i give lois permission to have that story."

"what?" he questions. she levels him with a look and he shrugs it off, "she looks different today," he adds a little quieter today.

and then lois swats his shoulder in annoyance, "dude," she breathes, "you know, maybe she finally got laid and eased up a bit" lois repeats a stale regurgitation of his previous words and scoffs at how ridiculous it sounds. and as if by instinct, clark's fists clench and rumble under the table as he pins a dark look to your seat. he can't imagine it- you? sharing an electric chemistry with someone other than him? must be a nightmare he's stuck in because suddenly clark doesn't feel as special anymore. he feels lonely, and a little bit childish for getting such a reaction out of you. he tunes out on lois' teasing and taps his fingers against the table in thought and then without saying goodbye, he leaves lois lane confused behind.

for this type of journalism, clark has to go out on the field.

he tries to find you on many occasions to conduct his investigation on your love life but it seems you're playing hide and seek, though he does spot jimmy olsen refilling his coffee in the break room and very subtly leans his back to the counter, facing jimmy cooly.

"can i help you, clark?" jimmy furrows his brows, looking around to see if there's anyone else clark is here for.

"hey jimmy," he smiles and it's strange, unnerving even. clark has always been nice to jimmy but his little stunt flustering you in the break room after you've clearly had a good morning, jimmy feels the need to protect his honour and show his loyalty today to you today.

"listen, i gotta go," he swats off clark, holding up two mugs and clark catches it instantly- the mug he used to refuel so often for you. he matches jimmy's stride within seconds, his longer legs having to slower down a few steps to keep up in tandem with him. jimmy catches on slowly to what clark's doing and speeds up, narrowing a corner and hoping to lose him.

"what do you want?" jimmy breathes out, trying to catch his lungs up to this metaphorical turned physical chase.

"neutron," clark stops him, extending his arm as a physical barricade to the wall and cutting him off and jimmy nods slowly, careful not to pour any more spillage from the steaming mugs he's transporting. "she uh, she doing okay?" he asks.

"is she doing okay?" jimmy dumbly repeats, "yes?"

"yes?"

"yes?" he repeats,

"why are you saying it like a question, she is or she isn't," clark rumbles in exasperation.

"yes she's fine! what do you care?"

"why does everyone keep saying that!" clark bursts our and quietens down once he sees the few stares that have accumulated his way. jimmy rolls his eyes and sends him a glare, eerily similar to lois' but all clark can focus on is how its nothing like yours.

"clark, you're like, a menace-" jimmy gets out, "in the nicest way possible, i think you're out of your depth," and clark doesn't make a move, just sets his lips between his teeth and sits on it.

"she's not seeing anyone is she?" he speaks low, a depth he's sure can touch the centre of the earth and meant for jimmy's ears only. a smirk settles on your friend's features as he tries to hide the smile.

"you'll have to ask her yourself," he shrugs trying not to act too smug, "her business is her business." and he ducks his head under clark's arm of a barricade and carries on his way, he walks around the corner slightly again out of clark's way but sends a final look back in resignation and slight pity for your work nemesis who's clearly trying to branch out into friends and more territory with no clue how to, "clark?"

"yeah?" he answers hopeful, the beat of his heart skipping as he jumps to each conclusion.

"save her a dance tomorrow, i think she'd like that," and he nods to himself, that's if you don't kill him before the daily planet gala starts.

. . .

"girl, tomorrow you wear the dress. trust me on this, no questions, just do it."

. . .

there's faint buzz of something questionable, something familiar and something that makes the butterflies soar in your stomach as you take a walk around the room. it's been decorated so beautifully and you take the time to just soak up the ambience- the warmth it offers as you're here so often this place is basically your second home, you've made friends, enemies but so many memories that tonight is a celebration.

you let yourself looser, you dance as much as you can and let the liquid courage swim through your veins as you float carefree, until you hit the deep end. 6'4, 240lbs of a deep end.

"clark," you nod and sip into your drink, you had wanted to avoid him tonight but coming to think of it, there's nowhere in existence you could go without clark kent following you at your side.

"neutron or would you prefer my sweet nemesis?" he grins, taking in your attire and he lets his eyes roam on your frame, it warms a different kind of fire in you, a little bit of a burn that wraps around your frame- the kind that comes from a campfire, settling into the sweet night.

"you look well," you get out, ignoring his trap and his smile grows. well. he straightens to his full length, relishing in your compliment and fights back the drawl, he knows he looks good. and he knows that you know he does. he looks fucking incredible in his navy suit, his slicked hair with a small curl that hangs to the forefront. it drops, dangling dangerously infront of you and you feel the urge to reach out and wrap your finger around it, tug it enough for him to fall into you and-

"you look incredible, you know," he leans in with a tease, "for a nerd," and your heart races at the intensity of being so close. you take a step forwards, ignoring the beat of a drum in your ears and the warnings blarring in your mind and you whisper, letting it simmer in the air and lands on his lips.

"you look well," you repeat, "for someone who's about to be second place to me," and he rolls his lips together, melting your words into his soul, imprinting what he knows and loves. clark kent doesn't come second place- it's not in his nature, but the confidence you shoot at him, it sends something straight to his head and his heart. god, he loves a challenge- he likes you. and he just doesn't know what to do with all of this.

he replaces your empty glass of drink with his own, and when your lips touch the mark where his own had been moments before something tingles down his spine. you chug it down in one go and face him with a smile. your best friend's words come to you earlier and remind you that tonight is a party and you're allowed to enjoy yourself. you're a professional, you work hard, you deserve to let loose and you'll be damned if you let clark kent steal all your energy to keep up with his immature banter. there doesn't have to be a fight or arguement tonight, you could be civil coexist in the same place as clark kent and not have everything go to shit.

"jimmy said you were gonna save me a dance or have you gotten all chicken-shit?" you lay the bait and he takes it, burning at the red of your dress that flashes in his brain. he wants to photograph this moment, burn it into his soul for permanent memory because the twinkle in your eyes is dangerous, he's falling in deep. he tries to play it safe, knowing that you'd hardly let him close to you if you were sober and aware- the alcohol numbing your nerves and feeding in his delusions. so his hands find your waist at a respectable distance as he sways you to the beat, your own wrap around his shoulders and before you know it, he's skipping you around the room, twirling you in his arms and all you can feel is him.

"i need another drink," you laugh when you detach yourself from his hold, patting his chest (and pretending like you didn't feel a whole bunch of muscle under that white shirt) in a forced friendly manner and making a bee line for the table set up.

someone needs to stop you before its too late, so he warns your best friend who cheekily nods at him before he takes off in the same direction, needing the same liquid courage that has you seeing stars though clark kent is far from sober himself; his tolerance just a lot higher than yours.

the shots line up and clark takes them with each loosening his muscles and drowsing him with replays of how you smiled at him, how your laughter sounded when he finally let go of you. how tonight you weren't pretend enemies, he was a man standing infront of the most gorgeous woman alive and pretending like he wouldn't sacrifice anything to be close to you.

it's sloppy to get drunk at a work function, but clark decides its sloppier to let the only person who's ever made him feel so alive walk away so he searches for you in the sea of souls, eyes straining as he dodges body to body till he sees a sliver of red make a beeline to the bathroom and he follows.

come on clark, you're superman, you can do this, the alcohol cheers him on.

you can tell her that you love her and it all won't go to shit.

. . .

the knocks at the door interrupt your application of a fresh coat of lipstick, the red as crisp as your dress and you feel yourself blush slightly; you look good and you feel great too, which makes a really nice change for once.

"occupied," you raise your voice and steady yourself at the sink, taking a deep breath in to pace yourself. it might be a good idea to think about turning in for the night, making sure you have enough rest- you have the day off tomorrow but, still. you've had your night of breathless fun and it's time to clock back into being responsible you.

the knocks clutter again and you huff, ripping the door hinges with more force than you intended that you stumble your balance, reach out for the frame to lean on for support and face the almost intruder.

"clark?" you don't mean for it to sound like a question but it just does.

"you are infuriating," he breathes. his speech is slightly slurred and you scrunch your brows in annoyance, then your nose at the smell heavy in the air. god, he's ruining your mood already.

"all you had to do was wait," you hiss, it doesn't come as quick as you'd like but it lands all the same. he's blocking the corridor to get back out on the dance floor with that looming intensity and you wait, tapping your foot- the click of the heel signalling where you want to be.

clark refines the sound and aligns it to his heartbeat, matching each click with a footstep closer to you until he has you up against the wall, milimetres and months of tension separating the two of you. "i've waited so long," he murmurs, suddenly softer and his hand reaches out hesitantly, his fingers stroke your jaw before he cups your cheek in his hand. the other snakes around your waist and you close your eyes, subtly leaning into his touch and he hums.

"this colour on you," its a whisper as his fingers trace your lips and his eyes darken with something heavier and unfamiliar you can't name but it excites you. you wait so patiently any moment now to feel his lips on yours, if you angle your head just slightly, bend your waist into him, you'll be there yourself

"you talk too much," and sparks fly when you decide to close the gap yourself and bridge something new. theres a soft "oomf" as you throw yourself at him and he bends immediately into you, moulding your soul to his as he lets his lips lock into yours, catching your lip between his teeth as he makes further work down your neck.

"clark?" you whisper and he hums against your skin, the breath as warm as the blood pooling through your veins that you have to press your hand against his abdomen to steady yourself.

"look who's talking too much now," he rumbles and a small gasp escapes you when you feel the graze of his teeth.

"clark?" you call out again, tugging the curls of his upwards to lift his gaze to yours and you find a hint of concern hiding in them.

"yeah, baby?" and the gruff sends a new sensation to your heart, bleeding through the edges as you scramble to find a new home where you can slot the words "yeah baby" into existence for the rest of your life. it goes straight to your head, weakening your knees to jelly as you fold. for a moment it reminds you of why you don't like being called neutron when clearly, baby is the best option out there by lightyears.

"not here," you shake your head softly,

"mine?" he asks in the inches that separate you.

"yeah," you breathe before you're tangled in him again.

you're the picture of grace and elegance as you wobble away back out into the main hall. you wave to your friend goodbye and jimmy yells for you to get home safe. minutes later, clark does the exact same except he doesn't stop for anyone. he tears the front doors down like they're a mission and meets you in biting secrets of midnight. a taxi is called, the two of you two drunk to drive and keep your hands to yourself as you land at his door.

with his mouth on yours and his hands clearly busy, it takes four tries to get the key through the door before you almost trip over yourself getting in. he catches you effortlessly and where the door had taken four attempts, it only takes clark one and possibly four seconds to have you undressed and feel his skin on yours, and not just linger under it like he usually does.

it's a night filled with praises, a messy tangle of the months of yearning and miscommunicated feelings that rush to the surface. and as your back hits the soft clouds of his mattress and he sends you to a new type of heaven, you forget all the reasons you've ever hated clark kent. how could you not? when he's hell bent on making sure you're loved enough in one night for a lifetime.

. . .

the first thing that unsettles you is that when you wake there's no sunlight that peeks through your blinds which alarms you dangerously.

it then amplifies when you sit upright and the sheets slip, pooling at your naked waist that you gasp horrified, clutching them back to cover you as you dart your eyes in your surroundings.

the hangover rushes to your head, a drum that pounds with panic as you bite your lip down, blood rising with a bruised ego as you realise just where in the hell you were.

in hell.

in satan's homeland you've lost your dignity.

you stand, the urge to cry in embarrassment as you flush, desperately grabbing your trail of clothes all over the room and dressing at the speed of light. the mirror catches your reflection, the print of pillows that aren't yours etched onto your cheeks, the ruffled of your hair a sloppy mess- a direct echo of how you feel and you shudder at your appearance. this feels like a far cry from how you looked last night- you just look so undone and it nags at you as you plan your escape.

heels may be too loud with their clicking, you ponder so you clutch as the straps and pad barefoot out of the bedroom door. the eery quiet and silence of the house just makes it easier to hear your heart thud in your chest, begging to break free and relieve itself from the anxiety building up in your system.

just a few steps to go and freedom will feel so incredible.

"not even going to join me for breakfast?" and its a deep runble, etched with fatigue and gentleness that pulls you from your escape plan as you freeze. you're mid-tiptoe and pause, turning swiftly to face the bane of your existence, the cause of all your problems and most recent mistake with a cheesy smile.

its a new one, clark thinks and he makes a mental note to jot it down for later safekeeping. it's childish even, curled with nerves at the edges as he watches you try and come up with an excuse. he sets the frying pan down on his oven and makes his way towards you. unlike you, a hot mess, he's dressed in a cotton t shirt and pyjama bottoms- like a normal person would be and you couldn't help but feel more stupid. he plants his hands on your shoulders and steers you into the direction of his kitchen, ignoring your pleads and excuses with a hand firmly pressed to your mouth, stifling you to silence.

"come on neutron," he mumbles, "eat." and the plate placed infront of you unlocks something ravenous, caveman-like, setting back your mannerisms years to the beginning of existence. you swallow your pride and some of the omlette he's made slowly and clark smiles, it feels like the very first time he saw you actually drink one of the coffees he made for you at the office and its funny how the deja vu just hits him.

if he could take it back, he would have tried harder, he thinks. would've made the coffee regularly into a habit, wouldve showed you in the smaller moments that he can be more than the competition, he could be a steady force in your life. or maybe, he could've just pavlov'ed you into expecting a coffee that when it didn't come, it would've caused you to seek him out either way.

"fuck," you mumble, of course clark kent had to have been a good cook too- this feels highly unfair on you, you think.

"yeah we did," he mutters into his steaming mug of coffee and when he feels you freeze under the table opposite him he apologises. its the softest of "sorry"'s you've ever heard in your life, the first from him for sure that you test how it feels on your ears, savour the sensation and decide you like it almost as much as you loved hearing the word "baby" slip from his lips last night. clark sends you a softened look, hoping his slip up hasn't scared you off- gentle steps, he curses at himself. he knows you, knows the structure you value that any sort of off balance will drive you away and he intends to keep you as close as he can.

he waits for you to finish breakfast and you sit there awkwardly, "i can do the dishes?" you offer and he shuts you down instantly, letting you linger in your shame a lot longer than you'd like as you try to come up with new escape routes.

"i can feel you thinking from here neutron," he offhandedly calls as he dries the dishes he lays on the rack, his broad back is still turned to you and you mouth a plethora of curses at the muscle you could recite like its the word of god. "lay that big brain on me, baby."

baby.

and your heart skips too many beats you fear you may go into cardiac arrest, so you settle for deflection instead, "i think last night was a mistake," you rush out. and its painfully slow how long it takes him to put down the rag, turn around and lean against the sink counter, the slight tense of his forearms as they brace at his sides the main inclination he already doesn't like what you're about to say.

"i don't think it was," he tries to catch your gaze and as soon as he does, its an intense lock of eye contact as he searches deep into your soul.

"clark we were drunk!" you try to reason, squirming under the intensity of it all. and that's the last time you'll ever drink, you swear to yourself.

"and i would do it sober," he shrugs, he bounces off the sink with a little leap as he stalks towards you, each step an echo of how he approached you last night and how you know how easy it could be to just slip and fall into his embrace all over again; clark kent is pure poison, evil and intoxicating that you feel a strong dependancy on him. you don't just love somebody like clark kent and when he leaves you make it out alive- you just about tried hating him and it feels like you're hanging on for dear life. the consequences should be earth shattering, heart-breaking disastrous.

"you don't think we have a chance here?" he asks, his fingers tipping your chin upwards to him, crushing some centimetres of distance.

"i don't think we'd work," you softly speak, "up until last night, i'm sure you hated me," and he recoils, letting out a strained sigh before nodding.

"i couldn't hate you, no matter how hard i try. i don't think we hate each other at all," he confesses, "i think we feel a lot for each other, maybe too much we can handle and know what to do with it so it possibly gets misplaced. warped and wrapped up but it's shaped in the love i feel for you," he reaches out for your hand, lays it on his chest where his beating heart rests and spreads your fingers so you can feel the extent of the contraction. "i don't know what to do with all these feelings but i do know, with my life and more than anything, that i want to be with you and i want to try- we worked so well last night, that was just a tester baby, i'd be so good to you, we," he pleads, "we could be so good to each other." and he presses his forehead so tenderly into yours, a greater look into your vulnerable gaze.

"i don't know how to do this clark," you whisper, "i'm scared," and the voice that escapes you is so small and foreign, clark's own heart breaks at the sound of it.

"we'll do this together, slow. i'll take the lead if you want but i won't pursue this if this is something you don't want," if i'm someone you don't want, he doesn't push to say.

"okay," you swallow, blinking back a few stray tears and he narrows his eyes, assessing if there's any underlying feelings you're hiding from him. part of you doesn't know if this is okay, but the word leaves you before you can stop it.

"okay?" he asks, to be sure.

"okay," you breathe and he holds your head against his chest, rocking you into his embrace and you stiffly pat his back. you've never been anything other than clark kent's work nemesis before and part of you feels way out of your league, this is unfamiliar territory and you're wildly unprepared for being someone he could love. but the way he looks at you, like you've lifted the sky to its height and hold the weight of his entire universe, you have to give it a try or it will crush you whole.

. . .

the first time clark kent holds your hand in his you almost scream.

his own is dropped at its side and when he walks with you up to the office, he tries to be subtle with how it knocks into yours. a soft slide of skin as he slows his steps to match yours. it happens four times before you grow suspicious but he doesn't bother to look down at you, the guilt is already lingering in the soft smile he tries to downplay. and then he just interlocks his hands in yours, sends you a sweet smile and carries on walking like it's the most natural thing to do.

it's unbelievably warm, protective and holds what the future could be like for you one day. it swings in tandem as you walk and he only lets go once you've made it to your desk. he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, then to your forehead and whispers "have a good day honey, meet you for lunch?" and all you can do is stand there, dumbly nod as he stretches out his arm to the full length before he actually has to let go of your hand and walks in the direction of his own desk.

you stand and then you sit, trying to regain composure of how different it felt to not have to have the snark ready on your lips, to not have to brace yourself for a day of matching wit- your heart beats softly, telling you to relax, get a grip of yourself- it's still clark. the clark who's showed you the worst of yourself and has still chosen to take an interest in you. he's clark, for god's sake, that hasn't changed.

"what the heck was that?" jimmy's head pops up into your view and you stutter, trying to find the words, but nothing comes up right.

"i don't know," your wide eyed gaze startles your friend. he's seen you seconds before a deadline, after a five coffee caffeine crash, when your past partner broke up with you months ago because of how much of a workaholic you were but the stillness in your gaze as you wander in the direction of where clark sits. as if he can sense your attention like its a damn superpower he meets your stare with a grin, a poke of his tongue out as he waves and you slowly return the wave back. his grin grows larger and he swivels back around but the nerves in your stomach still stay.

"honey, are you okay?" jimmy crouches to your height, "when did all of this happen?" and you look around before whispering carefully, hoping it reaches his ears only.

"i slept with him the night before last and when i woke up i thought we could go back to normal- he hates me, i hate him, whatever but," and you shake your head, "he's being really nice to me and i don't know what to do, this feels so strange, jim, this is," and you groan, dropping your head into your hands.

"oh honey," he sighs, "do you like him?" he asks quietly and you nod slowly, hoping the tears don't start spilling from your waterline and ruining your mascara.

"i think i might," you murmur, "i don't know yet, i haven't given it the time for this all to really settle yet- am i making sense?" and jimmy hugs you gently. he thinks you do already, it'll just take time for you see past the previous persona clark has shown you- that he can be more than a rival, he can be dependable, trusted, loving.

"i'm giving it a try," you add, "i mean you never know unless you try, right?" and he pats your head affectionately.

"i'm here if you need me, my friend," and you pat his shoulder in return, thankful for one thing that hasn't changed in the last few days that have blurred past and thrown you off course.

"thanks, jim."

. . .

your days moves slower when there's no arguing that takes place; it's kind of peaceful, slower paced in a way that lets you regain control of your feet. it feels a lot more intentional; the uneasy weight from the last few days slowly slipping away as you enter this new normal and you've been enjoying it.

the sex is incredible- it's hard to think when clark keeps you busy when you're alone and when he's so soft and tender in the moments after, you feel incredibly grateful to see this new side of him. there's something special between the two of you and you look forward to seeing clark, to spending time with him as you learn more about him.

like how he also loves the theatre.

you find this out when you're catching your breath, your back to his mattress and bare tummy to the air as he lies next to you.

"question," he murmurs, planting a kiss to your shoulder.

"that's not a question," you tease and roll over to your side, he flicks your nose in return and continues.

"last week when you came into work-"

"i come into work every day, clark-"

"well baby, if you let me finish my sentence," he rolls his eyes and it feels like the clark you've always ever known and you really like it. and then there's that damn baby again that has you weak in the knees all over. you smile and gesture for him to continue, "you had your hair cut, you were smiling- but not like you always do- but like," he pauses, "it was radiant, magnetic like you looked happier," and you stop and try to think of what you had been up to recently.

"oh," you mumble into his chest, noticing the slight tense he holds in his frame that you pull back with a wrinkle in your forehead.

"was there someone else?" and its the quietest you've ever heard his voice before, it wobbles a little at the edges and knifes a jagged edge into your heart.

"oh no," and you try to hide yourself in his embrace, an embarrassed chuckle leaving you as you squirm, "you're going to think this is so lame," you groan and he twists so you're underneath him, trapped by his huge arms as he hovers on top of you.

"what?" he chuckles at your sudden nervousness, an astronomical size of relief taken off his soul knowing that there's only him- even when it hadn't even been him.

"jimmy got me tickets to "hamlet" as an early birthday gift and it was incredible," you beam, "the haircut was just an addition but god clark," and when you're excited, rambling underneath him he can't help but linger into your space, cut you off with a swift kiss to the corner of your lips as you chase him for more.

one ends up into two then three and soon enough, forever.

"that's insane," his breath tickles into your skin and you scrunch your nose in delight, "because i also happen to be a former theatre kid-"

"oh my god, clark," you laugh, "who's the nerd now?" and he pinches at your side, "clark kent, a fellow drama lover- who would've thought?"

he talks with you about his favourite plays, how he wishes he had more free time to see them live, how wonderful acting is as a profession and when he lists off all the things that excite you the very same way you realise that maybe after all, you and clark aren't so different after all.

he makes a promise that this friday, the two of you will see "romeo and juliet" live as an official first date and you can't hide the soar of butterflies swirling in your stomach that you check it down into your calender immediately, pepper him with an insane amount of kisses and mentally start preparing your outfit.

he stares at you with such fondness as he listens to you talk about your family out of the city; how it was your mother who first showed you the importance of maintaing a creative outlet when pursuing such an academic and intensive career and he listens and listens and wants to soak up every single word like a sponge and wash away the doubts that have circled in his head the past week.

he worried he was moving too quick, then too slow but all he really had to do was show you he's here, that he wants to get to know you beyond your work ethic and integrity, beyond the conversations he has to search for details about you and slowly, he thinks its all falling to place.

its in the quiet of the night where he asks you again,"you sure you're okay with this?" he wouldn't be upset if you weren't, he'd bear the weight of patience and wait forever for you, he really would with how bad he wants this to work.

"yeah," you breathe and when you say it this time, the earth settles into a slower spin, and when it tilts you're ready to hold your balance. it feels right when you look into his eyes and say just one word, and you really start to believe it that this is okay, more than okay and you're only scratching the surface of how incredible it could be.

. . .

a week into spending more time with each other and dating, it feels like this is what your soul was meant do that you feel silly for even worrying about this all at the beginning.

it's monday, which means there's four days until your next theatre date with clark, you had so much fun last time that you've decide to make this a weekly occurence when you can. it's a secret you're going to surprise him with after work on the way home, you'll lean into his side, whip out the tickets like theyre gold and you know he'll be insanely pleased; its the first time you're making a move in this relationship and it's a big deal for you.

you don't see clark whilst you're at work and you think it's strange- clark's been known to disappear randomly and you've not noticed it too much in the time you've officially spent together to be bothered by it in the slightest. your main concern is finding your boyfriend and seeing if he has plans after work.

its 3pm and you start to worry, you don't want to draw any attention to you by asking others for his whereabouts but you catch lois lane in the far corner of the room who tenses when you come near and its the first warning that throws you off.

"lois?" you call out and she awkwardly turns around, feigning surprise like she hadnt stalked you for a few minutes before making your way over there.

"hey!" and you watch her cross her arms over her chest, a defensive posture, you note. why?

"have you seen clark anywhere?" you ask, and she shoots you a careful look before sighing.

"i think its best if you give him some distance for a few days," and you crumble immediately, panic flaring in your chest as your gaze narrows. god, you knew this was too much- that you were too much, you should've-

"i didn't realise how deep your feelings were for each other," she mumbles and it cuts your spiral off eerily short.

"what?" you pause, "what do you mean?"

"i think the word document says enough," she winces, "i thought the rivalry thing was a joke but.." her words trail off because you don't give her the time to finish. your heart is racing as quick as your footsteps out the door and you break out into a full sprint.

the purring of cars and clattering of metropoliton city drown out the whispers of gossip from the daily planet and your muscles burn but you keep going, you push and push and push till they give way and your heart collapses.

a sob escapes your throat in a raw guttural sound and this time, you can't stop the tears. you have no idea where you are but you know that this all just fucking hurts. your tears well up and are caught in your hands that also carries the weight of your head and the world as you just cry. knees tucked in close to your chest against the side of a building, you just cry. hours have passed and when you look around, hardly anyone around to have noticed your breakdown you just about stand. the energy completely taken out of as you sigh, you wish the ground could just wake up and swallow you whole for how stupid and careless you had been.

of course it was a word document that was going to be your downfall, you had made a lame list of things you disliked about clark and on the torturously long walk to his house they burn in your mind.

i hate the way he laughs so loudly, it rings in my ears i'm pretty sure i could go deaf in the near future.

i hate the way he looks at me like he's got something to say but never does or maybe he's too much of a coward.

i hate the way he's buddies with superman- lame.

i hate the way he sneaks up on me, throws me off guard- he's so big it consumes my space and i can't think.

i hate the way second best to him still feels like its worth something- it shouldn't.

i hate the way he makes me feel.

i hate him.

you've got to find him, you've got to apologise to him, salvage what you can and make it out of this alive, hopefully still with him but each word you remember, each muscle moved to type the childish betrayal raises a fresh new wave of tears and you're a blubbering mess by the time you reach his door.

"clark!" you shout, your voice raspy from crying, exhausted from thinking if you could run quick enough, you'd be able to outrun all your problems. you tap against the door, then full on bang with urgency as you shout his name, "clark, please!" you try, panicking when you can hear the shuffle of footsteps behind the door but no words in reply.

"clark please baby," it slips from your lips- the first time you've ever called him that in a sheer moment of desperation and you recoil, you don't deserve to call him that right now- you had the privilege and dishonoured yourself with it, "clark please open the door!" and you bang your head against it, the hot touch of your forehead cooling against the steel. "i didn't mean it," you cry, "i didn't mean any of it, i swear- i don't hate you, i promise please just let me in, please let me explain," the choked sobs rise and you're mumbling, half coherent but the words land the same. "i wrote it ages ago long before we started to get to know each other, i don't feel that way god no, you just gotta let me explain, i don't hate you, i lo-" and you're cut short by the rapid movements and the sudden open of his door.

he looks devastated and still so beautiful that it knocks the already very little air out of you. like he too had spent the afternoon working mentally in overtime, he shakes his head, restraint evident as he grips the door. his ocean eyes pierce your soul and when you move to take a step forward he grits out a sharp, "don't" and closes the door just an inch.

you can see forever through that sliver, it's so close but it's so far away, just out of your depth and reach.

"clark please," you cry and he shakes his head, torn between wanting to comfort you and wanting to protect you.

"don't," he repeats, its heavier, a little firmer but still somehow hurts all the same, bleeding through your heart as it crackles and lays bloodied and bruised open for him. and he steps on it with his next words, "god some part of me knew this wasn't going to work and gosh," he breathes, "you really do just hate me,"

"no," you shout in desperation, shaking your head and all your senses, "i don't! i swear- clark, i'm in lo-" and he cuts you off.

"i don't think you should say things you're not ready to mean," he whispers and he looks as though he might reach out, grasp your hand a final time but decides better of it.

"you win neutron," he speaks softly, lethally tender and it destroys your entire existence in one soft breath, "i thought for a second we were working, that everything was fine. but, if everything's ever just been a competition and that's all you've ever seen me as, then you win. i give up, this game? it's not for me, not if i'm never going to come first place for you," and he closes the door with a soft thud.

you don't move from your position, crying and knocking on the door once more, "clark, please!" and you fight the urge to just slump and slide against it, to camp out here forever until he opens the door and gives you an inch to redeem yourself, to clear the air and just listen. "clark, i don't hate you- i could never hate you," and fate is a cruel and twisted thing to have you repeating the same words he promised to you the morning you woke and everything changed. "i can explain, please let me explain," and you know it's heard, it just doesn't matter enough to be actioned.

you hang your head low, the image of the door closed bruising your optic nerves that it's time to go home. the damage is done and its time to mourn the casualties of getting crossed in the fire. you knew you'd never come out of loving clark kent alive, you just didn't realise hating him had burned you first long ago.

. . .

you try to catch him at work but he's missing for the first two days and you're subjected to the growing whispers and judgemental looks that are shot your way as he proceeds to just plain avoid you. he's never at his desk when you pass by, he's never at the break room, when he gets an inkling you're in his vicinity he takes off completely in the opposite direction and you can't even feel him, but you can hear the thoughts about him.

"i knew she never liked him,"

"she's actually gotta be deranged to make a whole document- imagine who else she's got written in that death note."

"i don't know babe, clark wasn't exactly the nicest to her."

"didn't they try dating?"

jimmy takes a seat beside you after the great shift where he's noticed you avoiding every single person in sight, including him and it hurts. you try your best to smile at him in greeting, force the ends in an upwards curve that it falls embarrassingly flat.

he sighs, leaving your newly filled coffee cup at your side and rests his head on yours affectionately, a little bump of support to let you know that he's always been on your side and always will.

"people are talking," you mumble, "i get it if you want to take some space," you nod tightly and he scoffs.

"we're not going anywhere," his voice is firm, "i don't care about what they say, you're my best friend and i am here for you." and you breathe out a thanks of appreciation, begging yourself not to cry again as he wraps you in a hug.

"you okay?" he murmurs into your hair and can feel you shake it against him and he sighs once more.

"he'll come around," when he pulls back.

"how can you be so sure?" you whisper, broken.

"because he's clark, he's never been one to stay away from you," he grins but your heart drops. not this time, you think. maybe not ever again.

but still you try, you pull tricks out of his own book in a pathetic grovel of sorts- but you just have to show clark that you're here, you're waiting and you'll do whatever it takes to show him.

so for the next few days you start to get to the office earlier, you make him a fresh cup of coffee and lay it at his desk, you write little pointers of encouragement on post it notes (given the fact that you have no idea of what he's writing to return him the advice he used to give you), but when the end of the day comes and you've tried not to make it obvious the way you stalk his big build that exits through the lifts and takes your heart with him, you make your way to his desk. the coffee sits untouched and cold, filled to the brim but the notes? they've disappeared. the blinding yellow fluroscent isn't pumped at the bottom of his bin with other scraps of paper he's scrunched up. you're embarrassed to admit that you half emptied it to check, they- like clark, himself- have just disappeared and you're left to deal with the radio silence in the aftermath. which somehow hurts more when it leaves everything unsaid and then some.

and like the days that have come before and all of your life before you gave clark kent a try at this thing called love, you walk home alone and lonely, all the same.

. . .

you finally meet superman on your commute home.

its the end of the week, you're final day before you're due to take some time off and you've left the office later than usual, giving clark ample time to avoid you and leave without having to actively dodge you, and then you had to speed up your writing because you've fallen behind on schedule and with everything in your life going to shit, you just needed one thing to be constant and be completely yours.

it's actually good enough to beat clark this time, you think after perry had complimented the first draft earlier. but he's made it clear that this rivalry the two of you were enamored in is no longer something he's interested and the win feels bittersweet, pointless even you could argue, it's just not the same and you hate it.

there's a hum of billy joel "piano man" that dramatically belts through your earphones as you turn the corner of the next block and if it weren't for the extra pair of feet tappering behind your shadow you probably wouldn't have noticed the strange man following you from behind. you take a random turn, panicking and afraid of leading this stalker to your doorstep that you don't recognise the alley you've turned into.

the evening air darkens with the absence of street lamps and you shake your head softly, "please," you quietly plead and at the flash of yellow teeth you throw the first punch. it's lazily and poorly directed that you miss and he grabs at your waist. you elbow him, hit him and then plain knee his nuts as soon as he drops you to the ground. the panic turns to rage and you feel the weight of the week just climb into each punch you land that you don't even feel the body turning eerily limp below you or the flash of blue and red that lowers into the alleyway.

"miss?" a deeper, ruff voice calls out, it catches sight of your side profile and softens, "hey, hey, hey," and arms that feel oddly familiar wrap around your waist and peel you off the weird man who heaves at the floor, "you're safe now,"

"no thanks to you," you almost scream the words, "for fucking superman you sure are slow!" and the agitation turns to straight tears as you just sob, "oh my god, what the fuck even is this week?" you breathe out shakily, "it's just shit after shit and i can't catch a break? i can't even get saved by superman?" and superman (clark) part of him wants to laugh at how strange both this situation and you are right now.

he wished he could've gotten to you quicker, it took him a flash of a second to recognise your scream but of course your rage was faster and you did all the heavy work, the least he could do was lend you a listening ear, even if hearing you open up so vulnerable to him broke his heart even further.

"how are you feeling?" he tries; part of him is easier to be superman like this, he stands at a distance, giving him space between the two of you because he knows he'd just crumble. he wanted to at the first sob he heard that night? the first cup of coffee he noticed, the first yellow post it note that now makes itself home in the top drawer of his desk- he couldn't bring himself to throw your little attempts at love notes away. he pats the ground next to him, offering his cape as a little blanket which you sit gingerly on, sniffles sitting in the centimetres that separate you respectably.

"i don't know if i can tell you," you mumble and his body freezes, surely you wouldn't have caught on to his identity- "you're like clark's buddy aren't you," you scoff and he blinks slowly.

"clark?" he asks, ignoring the huge weight lumbered off his chest and lets himself breathe again.

"6'4, 240lbs of pure muscle mass and glossy onyx curls, god he's just so," you groan, "he's so perfect and i as always," you start to fear the wave of sadness take over and you lower your head between your knees, focusing on how the ground feels underneath you, how the gravel looks a lot more sharper up close, "i ruined everything," and its a heartbreaking admission.

superman doesn't say anything, he stares at you, brows raised waiting for you to continue your story, "clark and i- it was strange. we weren't exactly friends, i mean we work together but it was always different. we used to compete for the spot for the first page privilege and thanks to you," you scoff and he sends you a wince of guilt, "he would come out on top most times- but he always used to push me to just be a better writer. it was petty i know, and for the longest time i just thought thats what we were. we were enemies, we hated each other- he brought out the worst in me," you chuckle,

"and yet he always stayed, he never expected anything from me in return, he was just there, you know and one night, we got together and i didn't think i was ready but i was going to try you know, he asked me for a chance and i gave it to him. i owed it to us, to the special relationship we had, to the way he made me feel like nobody on earth ever has. and you know, i've been in relationships and they've ended terrible- i'm not the best person i know but clark made it feel like it was easy to love me like he saw the worst and loved me despite it- most people would run away but clark he," and you cry, "he was my person."

you feel a hand land on your shoulder, his thumb soothing you in a backwards and forewards motion and through the tears you can't even see superman anymore. "so what happened?" he asks, though he already knows this first hand.

"when i first started the job, clark kent liked everyone but me and it felt personal, it hurt," you gasp, shrugging your shoulders as you relive the memory, "he made fun of me, and before i learned to understand and match the digs, before i found the routine and loved it with him, it honestly felt targeted so i made a word document- this was months ago, you have to believe me," you plead, "i was childish, i started listing these nasty things about him that i hated like god his smile, his laugh, just him- i had to get out all this negative energy somehow and i'm a writer, i fucking took it out on a word document, sue me," you bitterly laugh, "i don't know how it got out but it did, because the world hates me and i'm undeserving of the good things and now, i'm undeserving of clark,"

"he's incredible and i've never felt this way about someone before, but he doesn't believe so with that stupid document and me not showing up in the ways he has when we got together, he thinks that i hate him," you get out, shaking with the thick of emotion.

"and do you?"

you press your lips together in thought, maybe to repress them, if you don't speak it it won't be real, it won't be true, it won't hurt so much. but you're a journalist and your whole career has taught you that the truth is powerful, especially when it can hurt, so you be brave for once and face superman through the tears, "i'm in love with him."

the words don't come, clark feels his heart break through his chest and he wishes, oh he damn wishes that he wasn't superman- that superman doesn't even exist, he wishes he could be clark. your clark in this moment and hold you and tell you that he wants to fix this, that we can fix this and it will be alright again, he's in love with you too, he has to let you know this.

but he can't. because being superman is bigger than being clark kent. so he murmurs some useless advice at how things take time, you'll heal and clark will come back to you if he's the person you've fallen in love with- clark kent is honest and truthful and determined, if he's right for you then he will return.

superman does nothing but let his heart plummet further as you slide a faded white, slightly crumpled ticket his way and his blood freezes at the sight of shakespeare printed in small, "if you see clark, could you give him this? i wanted to take him, make it a regular thing- show him i'm committed to this and having time for it and i know we're not talking and he hates me more than anything but, i think he'll like it."

"then i will make sure he receives it, you have my word," and the world burns when you sniffle, send him a soft smile and get up to stand. to leave your problems in the hands of superman and in the darks of the alley, there's nothing more you can do and honestly you're tired of this all. you've tried and all you can do now is play the waiting game.

"i see why clark likes you, and you owe me an interview soon big guy," you nod and he sends a tight smile back, saluting you with a wave and ignoring the way his bones want to snap at how weak he feels right now. "have a good night, superman," and he waves again.

when he sees your form disappear and his tears fall onto the worn out ticket, still warm from your sweating hands, he whispers an oath, "see you soon, neutron."

. . .

"some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them," the voice of malvolio echoes throughout the hall and you watch intently.

there's an ache as you try not to look beside you, at the empty seat- the clark sized hole that mirrors the vacant area in your heart as you train your eyes forward. the theatre has always been your favourite place to just let go and relax, have someone else feel the emotions for once and bring them to life but it feels lacking tonight, you can't distract yourself enough and suddenly the air weighs down on you and crushes you at a great intensity.

you silently grab your purse, sneak out the back row and head out of the doors. it's time to call it a night, go home and probably call your mom- maybe it's time to go home home, ground yourself with people who do love you and have never treated you any different, to be in an area that just doesn't remind you so heavily of clark, maybe it'd make the healing process a lot easier and you can actually start it.

you wave into oncoming traffic, drawing the attention of a taxi and rocking yourself as you wait for it to pull up near to you. the bag on your shoulder lightly dips as you step off the curb and into the taxi door before an arm pulls you back and youre thrust back into his orbit.

"clark," you breathe as his ocean blue orbs sink and drown you in. you've seen him in the week but this is different; this is upclose and vulnerable, this is intimate and before the world exploded on you.

"where you going?" his drawl lands breathless in lieu of an actual greeting.

"home?" you question and a small curl of his lip extends to the sky, the faint smile lines resting at peace.

"i said where you going, baby?" he repeats, earnest laced in his voice as his hold on you tightens against him, you're breaths are uneven as you intake his breath as your own air and you blink.

"come on man!" the exasperation of a third stranger breaks your trance and clark pops his head into the cab window at your side, lands a fifty note in his hand and grins.

"i'll take this one, thanks, have a good one," he wraps his fist in a gentle tap to the back of the car to signal its departure and the cab driver wolf whistles in return, counting the money and shooting clark a thumbs up for good luck, steering off into the distance.

"clark i-" and he presses his finger to your lips, silencing your tired fight immediately.

"so where you going, hon?" and the frustration builds up inside of you. you don't think you can do this tonight, you need energy, defense, bite and a plan to escape out of this untouched but its the sudden intensity he stares down at you, boyish and determined as he clears his throat, not offering anything else but patiently waiting for you to reply and then it hits you.

oh. home.

he is home.

"clark, i'm sorry," you whisper, "i'm sorry how this started and how it ended but it just goes to show we don't work," you get out, the words betray your voice in a tight strain and you shake your head softly, trying to detach yourself from his hold but he reaches for your hand and interlocks it, kissing your knuckles like its the very first time and then holds it to his chest.

"i don't believe that," he breathes, like its some secret joke only his soul can memorise. "you said you hated the way i laugh- it's too loud," and the words are a sharp stab, even as they spill from his lips.

"it is too loud," you confess, "i can hear it after you've stopped, it rings in my ears like an echo and i start wishing i knew how to make you laugh like that, how to keep hearing that sound again and again," the words start spilling before you can stop them and he softens completely.

"you hate the way i look at you, i'm a coward," he breathes.

"because you look at me like i'm the only one who ever matters and i didn't know what to do with all of that. its heavy, its all on me and i get nervous, clark," you scoff, hitting him lightly, tiny fists against his chest, "its worse when you look at me like you want to say something more but you don't because then i spend all day torturing myself with the what if's and its brutal," you stretch, resting your head on his chest in defeat and his heart sings beneath the touch.

"you hate the way i sneak up on you," he narrows his brows, "i take up too much space," he echoes and you glare at him.

"i know what i said clark," you seethe, annoyance bubbling up inside of you all over, "and you are big, you're fucking massive and you surround me, you consume me and steal all the air like its your birthright and i feel so damn helpless i hate it," you spit, taking a step away from him in hopes the chill of the evening hair will cool the fire that steams from your skin. "i can't even think when you're near and you're the only person who can throw me so hard off my game that i can't even remember my name some days and you do it so easily," you heave.

"do you hate that almost as much as you hate the way i make you feel?"

"oh thats worse, you make me feel like i'm not in control," and you take a step closer to him, "and i've never not been in control, you make second best to you feel like first place- like i'm still a winner because i get that cool look swung my way and i giggle like i'm back in school and i hate it- it's like you take all the years of hard work and practise just like nothing- you took my heart like it was nothing," and the tears are free to fall now, you don't even lift your arm to wipe them away you let him look at you, really look at you and let him feel the extent of the damage he's done- how he's caused you to come so undone.

"you hate me," he laughs, and its the same damn laugh you hate, you hate that you love it so damn much that you want to bottle it and get drunk on it every single night you spend in his absence.

"i do," you giggle and it feels like the most ridiculous thing you've ever said, you blink through the tears and he cups your jaw with his large hands that again, he's here consuming you all over. he presses a soft kiss to your lips and its not as hungry, as devouring and deep as the first drunken kiss you shared on that night two weeks ago. its slow, earnest, filled with the pinings and regrets of never knowing the right way to show your love. its wrapped in apologies and forgiveness and a promise to be brave and loud in how you feel.

"but here's a new one for you," you pause, "i really do hate the way that i broke your heart," you mutter ashamed, lowering your gaze but he catches it instantly with a shake to his head.

"do with it what you will; it was only ever yours to have because i'm in love with you," he smiles when he pulls away and its so loud and large your heart soars, "and you're in love with me," he presses his forehead into yours, uniting your broken hearts.

"i am," you swear, "i don't know when i fell but i know that i'm here in the deep end with you and i'm scared but i'm here clark, i promise," and he wipes away your stray tears.

the bustle of the crowds exiting the theatre breaks you free from his hold and he laughs once more, and then quieter for your ears to burn into memory only, "it's okay," he murmurs into your hair, ogling at the stars swimming in your eyes, "we have next week to make up for it," and you stare at the theatre doors and then at your lover. you lean up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips once again.

"we have forever to make up for this, so take me home, baby," you whisper.

and he does.

he does it for a lifetime and more.

riya saying hi: there's a lot to say but first hello! first clark fic after a few days off 🥺🥺 i poured my whole heart and soul into this one hence how long it is, how angsty it is - this is clark hurt comfort final boss. this by far has to be the best ive written and my most favourite love confession to date. ugh ! i really do hope you like it, i fear it did take a large portion of my energy so i will be focusing on requests for the next few days something easier and slower paced compared this monster.

i do want to reiterate that thank you so much for 1k followers! it means the world, beyond that how much this all feels and god im the luckiest person on earth. its such a gift to be able to create something, put myself in some words on a page and have it liked, and enjoyed my god i am gonna cry- but to celebrate this and you (!) because this in no way shape or form wouldve been possible without you, i am taking in clark requests and will try my hardest to get them out asap so send in whatever ! literally whatever ! (just not smut soz) but again thank you !!!!

and finally, this fic would not have been possible without the incredible, the STUNNING @hangmanwrites - anna i owe you a serious portion of my heart (not that you didn't already have it) for letting me work through this with you, helping steer it in the right direction and bring it to life. youre an incredible writing partner and your support has forever altered my brain chemistry- thank you my love, i appreciate and love you so damn much !!! 🥺💘

and again, to you readers, let me know what you think! my ask box is always open if you ever want to talk (and inbox too if youd prefer a longer conversation) thanks for being here and reaffirming kindness on this blog- love you !

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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TEASER:

deadlines and commitments || clark kent x reader

sypnosis: clark kent is pretty smitten with you. and by smitten, really, he means head-over-heels in love with you. every day he sits across the offices from you, listening to only you during conversations with lois and jimmy and asking plenty of "huh?"'s when he's caught. but as clark pines, your past creeps up on not only yourself, but him, too. and it's only a matter of time before all of the skeletons in the closet fall out.

tags: angst & fluff, clark's a lovesick idiot (we know this), inspired by the boys (2019), title from a the killers song, unrequited love, or is it?, more to come

a/n: hi tumblr!! this is NOT my first fic (my digital footprint is scary) but it is for dc and my first proper fic on tumblr! this is just a teaser for something i've been working on, when it's done i'll post the full thing! <3 much love!

my account contains nsfw content. minors dni!

Clark Kent loves his job.

If he hadn't been born on Krypton and taken upon the mantle of Metropolis' metahuman superhero, he firmly believes he would be sitting in the same position during the day; at his desk at The Daily Planet, watching Jimmy wink across the room to a group of interns. Even as his early mornings and late evenings are caught up in spiderwebs of fighting criminals and soaring through the air with a cape blowing behind, he still finds worth in his work.

He's important as both Superman and Clark Kent, and that means the world to him, even if not everyone sees it all the time.

Writing columns and holding interviews with himself once took up his time at the Planet thoroughly. Clark would often stay late, waiting for his phone to buzz at a mention of another intergalactic takeover, or even just a woman down the street trying to save her cat that had climbed up a tree and wouldn't get down, just to finish up the very last word, to edit the last piece of punctuation, or even to polish up his notes on what he'd talk to himself about the following week.

Life at The Daily Planet changed drastically when you walked in for the first time.

You transferred a year ago from The Gotham Gazette. Coming from Batman's home turf, used to pulling all-nighters trying to cover all the newsworthy events—mostly robberies, murders, etc.— that had happened within the last twelve hours, it was surely a shock when the most interesting news either came from Superman witnesses or Maria, who had grown a record-breaking pumpkin from her balcony garden.

Clark couldn't see it on your face, though. You seemed to enjoy the work you did, no matter how uninteresting it was compared to the nitty-gritty of Gotham. He, for one, couldn't get enough of your attitude. Unbreaking under pressure, but still kind. Still nice enough to reach out to Lois for help on your first day, which was when Clark noticed your eyes for the first time. They reflected the light of the harsh, fluorescent ceiling lights and somehow made them sparkle as if they were firelit candles.

When Jimmy had met you, Clark could hear his boisterous remarks from his desk. He claimed you had such a 'familiar face', and Clark couldn't help but agree as he snuck a look at your side profile. Babies would surely smile in your presence, Hell, Clark couldn't help but smile in your presence. Everything about you screamed that you were some kind of an old friend to everyone you met, an unforgettable and undeniable 'click' sounded in their heads, and that was that.

And on that day, on your first day, although everything felt so crystal-clear in Clark's mind, as if he would never dare to forget a single moment of the twenty-four hour period, he remembered when Lois brought you over to meet him the clearest.

Of course, he heard you before he could even think of seeing you. Standing in the break room, hands clammy and constantly adjusting the frames of his glasses atop his nose until they were equally as drenched in sweat as his palms were. Clark couldn't even think to grab the coffee pot that he was in the break room for in the first place, because he was terrified he'd pull a 'Clark', as Jimmy had so kindly labelled it, and let it slip from his hands and crash to the floor.

"You have to meet Clark." He could hear Lois proclaim from the offices; he could even hear the turn of her head as she craned her neck to look around for him. "He's never usually this hard to find. Maybe if I mention Superman—he's got a huge mancrush on Superman, by the way. Use that to your advantage if you need him to do something."

And then, before he could even think up a witty or interesting comment to make him look like less of a nervous wreck, you were there. You were there, standing next to Lois in the doorway of the break room, looking at him.

You beamed light into the dim room; the flickering light that Perry hadn't bothered replacing seemed so insignificant in comparison to the light you poured into whatever room you took stride in. He couldn't comprehend how someone could make everything and everyone around them look and feel beautiful. A living exclamation mark, something that could automatically make another person want to be the absolute best version of themselves.

Clark hadn't even spoken a single word to you, and he felt like he could watch you break the world in half and not even be once surprised by your strength and will. Jimmy must've been right, thinking about your face being so familiar. It was because you put this feeling into people's hearts, and, most importantly, put that feeling deep into Clark's heart.

"Hi, it's really good to meet you. Clark, right?"

He was screwed from the moment he met you, and it's only gotten worse.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman #superman x reader #superman movie #gunnverse #kal el #kal el x reader #david corenswet #david corenswet x reader #guys this is kind of bootie #i wrote this in like 2 hours because ive had this idea #for so long #but just wanted to push something out #yall seem so cool #and i want to be friends with you ALL

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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you didn't kiss me goodbye. ( clark kent )

after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.

clark kent x fem! reader

themes: accusation of cheating, lack of trust in this relationship (on both ways- also wrong, reader and clark are just miscommunicating idiots) jealous clark, angst, mainly angst, but fluff ending! (inspired by this request)

masterlist.

it starts with a sandwich- well, two of them.

jimmy had caught you standing in line at the cafe, smiled a sweet tune and before you could stop him, his phone had pinged with that familiar apple pay notification that caused you to awkwardly blush, thank him appropriately and then proceed to run away.

you were just on a quick lunch break, heading out to pick up something for you and clark when your co-worker cornered you. jimmy is nice, he's friendly- a little bit weird sometimes but you've never felt afraid of him- this little crush he has on you just seems very sweet and that's all it is. a little crush.

and all seems well enough when you return back to the daily planet. you find clark still hunched in the same position you left him in, head buried into the glare of the computer screen. and when he feels your fingers run through his hair, tugging at the sensitive spots he loves, he lifts his head upwards and shoots you a look of pure adoration and it melts right through you.

"hey baby," he murmurs fondly, and from where you're perched up on the side of his desk, he drags you straight into his lap. you've never been big on pda but something about clark kent- your 6'4, 200lb hot nerd of a boyfriend has you doing a lot of things you usually wouldn't do. you lean into his embrace for a second before placing your hands on his chest, patting him gently.

"come on, munch time- you need to get something in you or you'll crash out," and you make work of unwrapping his sandwich. and when he sends you that lazy smirk, like he's biting back his laughter at his own joke, your eyes widen and clamp his mouth shut with a hand over it swiftly.

"do not," you whisper, blushing a violent red, "say what i think you're about to say," and he muffles an innuendo against the back of your fingertips before pressing a kiss to the hand smothering him. you let go when it looks like he's going to behave himself and make a move to stand.

"eat," you pat his shoulders gently, "i'll swing by when you're done," and he furrows his brows, gripping your waist and drawing you to him.

"stay," he mumbles into your stomach, hugging you as he's still seated in his chair. you slide your fingers through the soft curls of his hair again and he leans back, sighing in bliss.

your sweet sweet moment is cut in half- literally sliced when the voice of jimmy olsen grates at your ears and you wince as you feel your boyfriend tense below you.

"hey kent! you should join us next time, enjoy the sandwiches- my treat!" he hollers as he strolls past clark's desk, sending you the biggest grin you've ever seen stretched on his small face and you groan. when he disappears from view, you open your eyes at clark, hoping to find a teasing grin but there's nothing there. literally nothing, just a glare of pure steel focused on the mark where jimmy has left, scorching the spot with a burning disdain.

"clark," you start slowly, grabbing his chin to face you upwards again. he looks away begrudgingly and into your nervous eyes. "we've been over this, jimmy is a friend- our friend!" and part of you feels annoyed that this isn't the first time you've had to remind him.

"friend is a stretch, i hate the way he looks at you," he grumbles, swiftly moving the sandwich with his pen- not even his finger as though it would kill him to touch it- and straight into the bin. a startled gasp leaves you as your eyes widen in shock at the outright revenge and you tap his chest lightly.

"clark!"

"what?" he stares at you and you cross your arms in a protective stance.

"jimmy is just a friend- we've been over this!" you whisper exasperated, aware that you're still at work and in public.

"he's a boy," clark rolls his eyes, "and he looks at you like i look at you," he growls with a pointed glare. you scoff, it's just a crush! a silly crush jimmy olsen has that you liken to a puppy love, knowing damn well that no one on planet earth would dare make a move on you with your absolute hulk of a boyfriend by your side.

"i don't get this way about lois and you spend a lot of your time with her," you counteract, you've abandoned that bit of jealousy long ago but in this moment, right here and now it feels only right to throw something back in his face- give you some bit of stance to face clark on with.

"that's different- you love lois!" you do, she's one of your best friends and an incredible journalist.

"and you like jimmy-"

"no i don't- i tolerate him and he's a fucking loser if he thinks he's got a shot with you, so no."

"clark," you moan, this all feels really childish and a waste of your short unpaid lunch break that could spend just eating a sandwich and kissing your boyfriend silly, "are you really jealous right now?"

"no," and he's stubborn with it, "i just think he's disrespectful like i'm right fucking here," he rolls his eyes, and when you take a step back out of his hold, he doesn't exactly reach for you- which hurts even more.

"clark, we've been over this and i'm getting real sick of repeating myself, there's nothing between us," you complain, "do you not trust me?" it's a light-hearted remark, sarcastic as it leaves your lips but you wish you could take it back once you see your boyfriend's reaction- or lack of thereof

he stills, frozen in his seat. it takes him a beat longer to reply but that beat is all you need to scoff, you detach yourself from him completely, mouth gaping open. "you really don't fucking trust me?" and it's a little louder than you'd like as the betrayal drums along your chest, matching the erratic beat on your heat and pounding in your head. there's just too much going on, too much to feel.

you're sure you've caught a few stares because clark is up in a second, gripping your wrist as he leads you to the privacy of the stairwell. you snatch your wrist back when the door slams and face him with a quiet fury, "oh my god, you've got some fucking nerve, huh?" you spit back, the anger at not being trusted pound in your veins.

"what?" he raises his voice back, he's tried to contain himself but it's too late- the stress of this article, the slimy look jimmy olsen sends your way and the betrayed glare you slice him with is overstimulating, he's loosing control.

"you don't trust me, i fucking knew it," you heave a heavy breath to yourself and his nostrils flare out air in annoyance. you've not let him speak this entire time but maybe that's the problem- he's not exactly composed himself to reassure you that this has all just spiralled out of control. but the fire you spit carries a heavier heat and clark detects this immediately.

"that sounds like you've got something to get off your chest, go on," he pushes, "lay it on me huh?" and you scoff at how big of a delusional idiot he's being, careless of your feelings and how he makes you feel so small, like you're the one with the problem. and the thing is, you can meet his fire immediately, if clark kent wants a problem- oh boy, you'll give him a problem.

you take the steps to close the distance, your fury fighting in the air as it wraps around him whole. you don't mean to increase the intensity but you need to make sure that this next sentence hits his ears and his ears alone,

"then why'd you tell lois about superman before me?" and its thundering how his heart roars in a panic.

"what?" he breathes, and you nod in fierce determination.

"you heard me," you return without skipping a beat, "you can accuse me of cosying up to jimmy- a baseless accusation by the way- for a good journalist that you are, you are a fucking idiot," you roll your eyes, "but lets talk about trust huh, why did lois know before me?"

"because she was smart enough to figure it out! we've been over this!" his restrained shout is met with a click of your tongue as you take a step back, sizing him up with a look. its also an echo of your earlier defense- you've been over the jimmy crush saga plenty and clark still worms it back up

"are you saying i'm not smart enough?" you drawl, annoyance bubbling in you and burning you whole. "first i give some loser the time of the day and now i'm too dumb, you're really winning boyfriend of the year, kent," and it should stop him at how you've addressed him by his surname. he's never been kent, he's always been clark- your clark.

but he's stubborn as he is tall and pushes back, cornering you into the wall, "you are twisting my words," he hisses, "and it's not like i wasn't going to tell you eventually."

you place a hand on his chest, not lovingly like you usually do but to stop him. you're not about to be backed up against the wall for a fight you did not start.

"and how was i supposed to know that?" you speak, "am i supposed to just what-" and the glint in your eyes is murderous, "trust you?" you squint and clark knows there's no way out of this for now.

he stands, feet apart holding his head high, and you scoff knowing you're the one who's going to have to break, to level this or you won't come out of this alive.

"look," you breathe but he still hasn't looked at you, "we're going to go back inside, we're going to carry on our day like the professional working colleagues that we are, then we are going to go home and you're going to tell me what the fuck is really going on, because this has spiralled out of control," you wait to hear clark's stoic murmur of approval, like he usually does when you reach the height of an arguement but it doesn't come.

"clark?" you pull him out of his thoughts and force him to look at you. "look honey, i'm sorry, i've said some nasty things in the moment and i know we've been over the lois drama- i shouldn't have brought it up again," and it's true, part of you is over it- you argued over it back months ago where you didn't take clark back after weeks of grovelling. it was petty you know, but you just needed some ammunition with all the jimmy nonsense he was gunning at you.

your phone lights up with an alarm, signalling the end of your lunch break and your stomach cries at the wasted time which you've not even had the chance to eat yet. "listen baby, we'll talk about this at home, yeah?" when you realise he's not going to give you a reply other than a singular nod, you plant a kiss on his cheek, heading back onto the floor and straight to your desk.

you don't miss the small smile lois lane sends your way and you return it back. this isn't her fault in the slightest and she's been nothing but the best of friends to both you and clark. you almost hate yourself the tiniest for dragging her into that ugly arguement in the stairwell, but being accused by your boyfriend after dating him for an entire year for being untruthful wasn't exactly on the board for your tuesday lunch time plans.

the rest of the day ends in a blur, you focus on your article and at how your grumpy lover sits a few desks away, hardly looking in your direction. five o'clock hits and you get ready to pack up all your things in your bag, the still packaged sandwich from earlier sits there like a painful reminder and you stick it in the small fridge under your desk for tomorrow's lunch. in this economy, you're not about to lose your boyfriend and your lunch, god what a wreck.

and when you walk past your boyfriend's desk you're met with pure emptiness. your tote slouches in a growing fatigue on your shoulder, already carrying the weight of tonight and then your eyes settle on a yellow post it, blinding in your vision.

"needed some space. you take the car, drive safe."

and you scoff, crumple it up between your fists and dump it in his bin alongside the pesto and mozzerella sandwich from earlier. the keys are hidden in his top drawer and you snatch them in a wave of annoyance- less anger than before and make your way to the parking lot.

the drive home feels a lot slower without your boyfriend humming along to the songs, interlocking your hands across the control panel and telling you off handed comments about his day. you sit in silence, unbothered to connect your phone to the bluetooth mode and just drive and drive and drive.

you don't go home immediately, choosing to clear your head and his fuel tank before you land at your apartment door.

it's seven pm and the house is untouched, you got off work two hours ago and there's still no sign of clark. as soon as you've set foot through the door you drop your tote to the floor and shrug off your coat, letting it land wherever next to your bag before dragging yourself to the sofa.

there's no messages on your phone, no inkling of where your other half is and it hurts you. this is classic clark behaviour, clark who runs away when things get hard and he doesn't know what to do- the only difference is, and you feel it with every tick of the clock hands that warn your ears, he's never not come home like this.

seven pm turns to eight pm and then to nine, and somewhere along the lines where you try to sit up and wait for him, sleep decides to take you in an easier feat and when you close your eyes, clark is still the one you see and call home.

. . .

you don't hear the turn of locks, or even the soft sound of shoes shuffling at the door. sleep has been kind on you and taken the exhausation out of your system, gently lulling you to a clearer conscious and its only when your airborne you begin to stir.

"clark?" you murmur, the sleep heavy in your voice it kind of comes out as a grunt.

"hi, honey," he whispers, careful not to be too loud. his body is warm against yours, he carries you like a baby, your head is up against his chest as your legs have wrapped around his waist. one of his arms comes across your back and the other just at the back of your thighs. your body could remember every single sensation he's ever sent you by heart, that you relax into his touch, melt into the warmth because in his arms you've never felt safer.

he takes you into your bedroom and lies you on top of the bed, onto your side before he leaves to change and joins you on the other side. the lights are off, and there's something unresolved in the air- clark hoped to apologise tonight for being the biggest idiot on the planet but seeing you asleep on the sofa? waiting for him? god he deserves longer to wallow in his regret and pity.

"clark?" you call out for him in a mumble and he softens, guilt filling his blood in every vessel, pumping like its trying to break free.

"babydoll, i'm sorry," he breathes, the apology lingers in the air before you speak again, slightly more awake but still tired.

"you didn't come home," you whisper, rolling over to face him, "you've never done that before," and the silence that follows is thick. he reaches out to brush a rogue tendril of hair out from your face and behind your ear. your mouth parts open at the touch, a look of sadness wavering over your features and he closes his eyes, wincing.

"i needed some space," he starts and you interrupt him.

"you couldn't have called? or texted? or passed by my desk and just let me know? i'm your girlfriend clark, if you need space you can just trust me to respect it," and its that damn finnicky word all over again. trust. clark does trust you more than anything, than anyone, he was just a gigantic jealous idiot who let his mouth run quicker than his brain could catch up and reprimand him.

" you're right," he speaks low, "you're right. i should've let you known but a large part of me was fucking embarrassed of how i acted. i'm ashamed i even implied the worst of you," he closes his eyes, hiding from his earlier regret, "i do trust you, with my whole life i just- oh god, i'm just a dick and i'm sorry, i'm sorry for even raising my voice at you earlier god, who does that? and the jimmy thing was immature, i know you'd never be dishonest with me i just got wrapped up in it and unfairly took it out on you," somewhere during his spiel, you've lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping it softly.

"thank you for being honest with me now," you mumble and he takes the cue to move closer to you, bodies almost touching.

"and you have every right to still bring up lois- if it bothers you still, we can talk through it again and again if that's what you need then that's something i'll keep being sorry for," his reply is earnest, he mustve practised it on the way home, you think and you nod slowly, sleep creeping in on you.

"clark honey, couples fight-"

"i don't want to," he counteracts immediately and you just start groaning until he gets the hint to stop speaking and let you finish.

"i said couples fight," you repeat yourself firmly, "i said some mean things to, like i didn't mean to call you an idiot but i did, so i'm sorry-"

"i believe you called me a fucking idiot," he teases and you level him with a stony look.

"okay wise guy, you also tried to call me a cheater,"

"which i apologise profusely for, it was incredibly disgusting of me to even insinuate that-"

"and then i forgive you," you lazily return, "we'll talk more on this tomorrow i'm tired, clark."

"okay," he surrenders, he can wait for the morning to come and make it up to you properly, apologise and grovel when you're alert enough to understand the weight he's trying to lift from you. "you know that i do trust you though right? i didn't mean-"

"clark," you whine, throwing your leg over his and borderline climbing on him, using him as your pillow and trying to find a good spot for you to fall back asleep. "i know that and i said we'll talk about this tomorrow, go to sleep," you beg.

he lands a kiss to your temple and murmurs a goodnight and you pause with a frown.

"kiss me goodnight properly," you moan and he does, letting his lips press to yours a moment longer than usual, melting in all the words he doesn't know to formulate but hopes you can feel it burn through him and you hum in approval.

you nestle into his hold, he wraps you up tighter, putting you in your favourite position which is having your ear pressed up against his heartbeat as your body rises and falls with the soft breaths of his chest. he thinks you've finally fallen back asleep again before he lets out a final sigh, but then you're mumbling- to yourself more likely and clark tries to bite back the laugh this time.

"jimmy olsen, you know," and it comes out as a sleep filled, drooling mumbling scoff, "couldn't have at least given me more credit and said bruce wayne." the chuckles escape him and he knows you're not even going to remember that you believe you could've bagged batman tomorrow- but hey, you managed to get superman on his knees so there's real strong potential.

tomorrow comes and clark is going to do everything he can to make it up to you, and that includes secretly killing jimmy olsen before breakfast.

riya saying hi: hii 🥺 my sole purpose in life feels like its to provide clark angst and when its requested- i fear i may have to step up and prove myself LOL anyways, i hope you enjoyed this, it was based off a request i linked at the top if you want a little more context. to op, i hope this is similar to how you expected it- again, i don't really take requests i get nervous and overthink everything and think im a piece of shit, but i did like this idea so didn't mind it. hope you liked & as always please let me know what you think! if you ever wanna say hi, come say hi- my inbox is always open! except to those loser anons who correct my grammar and try and remind me to include "x reader" as a tag; here's your reminder to actually check my tags because i do!!! get off my page!!! ugh sorry for the rant, enjoy the clark! because i dont actually have anything planned for him next so who knows where the wind will take me, love ya!!! xxx

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated! 💘

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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wiping his kisses off (clark kent x fem!reader)

summary: you hop on the trend of wiping off your boyfriends kisses off, only to cave in a matter of seconds.

content: just fluff, pet names, clark being the cutest ever i want to smush his cheeks

—————————————————————————

it was cruel. but you couldn’t help yourself.

all clark ever wanted to do after work was kiss you all over and hold you as if your body disintegrated the stress of the day from his. but tonight, after hours of doomscrolling, you just had to try the trend on clark.

you hear the lock on the front door click, in sync with a heavy exhale of relief. you turn to look over the couch to see an especially disheveled looking Clark taking off his shoes with his heels and placing his briefcase on the floor.

“hey, you,” you chirp, leaning back on the couch to get an upside-down view of your boyfriend, your voice so syrupy and inviting Clark could practically start floating.

“hi baby,” he says softly, smiling when he sees you sitting so pretty on the couch, quilt draped over your lap with a book on top. he pads over to you, stalking above your form behind the couch. “missed you, missed your face,” he bends down to meet your laid back head and presses a long, tender kiss to your lips. when you separate, he barely has time to admire your face (as he always does) before you wipe your lips with the back of your hand. he slightly retracts away, brow furrowing in confusion. he ducks down to kiss you one more time, to make sure he’s seeing right - only to be met with the same sight he’d witnessed before.

“why are you doing that?” he asks, face inches from yours.

“doing what?” you act oblivious, stuck between keeping a serious face or grabbing his and kissing it all over, saying you didn’t mean it.

“wiping them off,” he says, deflated, and it makes your heart ache. he’s so innocent and so obviously hurt. you know Clark and you know where his mind has immediately gone - to the pit of self-doubt that tells him it’s his fault. “did I do something?”

that damn kicked puppy look is what gets to you break. you spring up, bouncing in the couch cushions, to throw your arms around his neck.

“imsorryimsorryimsorry,” you say between kisses that land in various places on his face. he’s confused at first, but his arms eventually fall to their natural place around your waist. “it was a prank..” you admit, biting your lip.

“a prank?” he raises his eyebrows. “you wiped my kisses off, as a prank? What happened to my sweet girl?” he pouts, the mix of your pet name and how he looks so genuinely disappointed is enough to make your stomach sink with the realization that maybe - no, definitely - you fucked up. your nerves settle when a smile breaks at the corners of his mouth.

“jesus, you’re going to kill me,” he lifts a hand to brush the hair out of your face, palm resting on your cheek. “i thought you were mad at me or something. I got scared.” he says softly. Ouch.

“fuck, no, Clark,” you grab his face, smushing your lips to his in a harsh kiss. “i’m so sorry, I felt so bad doing it - I just saw it on TikTok - fuck, I’m sorry, I love you-“ you kiss him again, and this time he reaches up to wipe your kiss off his mouth.

your jaw falls open, releasing a dramatic gasp. “touché, Kent. touché,” you smile, tracing his jaw with your finger. “can we kiss for real now?”

“oh, now you want to kiss for real?” he teases, squeezing the flesh on your hips. “you’re lucky you’re so cute.”

“and ‘m still your sweet girl?”

“always.”

—————————————————————————

a/n: pls send asks so I don’t fall off the deep end!! im working on my last request now pls give me everything

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

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clark kent x single mom!reader

a/n: such a small blurb i’m so sorry i wanted to get something out while i worked on requests, and no banner on this one because it was late and i didn’t like what Pinterest was serving me

—————————————————————————

“wanna put her to bed?” you gently offer, almost worried he’ll think that it’s a weird thing to ask. in reality, his heart soars over how much you trust him to ask such a thing.

“you sure?”

“of course, she adores you. plus,” you stop, yawning mid sentence, “i don’t have the energy to carry her right now. i swear she grows overnight.”

“I’ll get that sleepy girl to bed, then we’ll focus on this one,” he kisses your temple before unwrapping his arms from your waist, starting quietly toward the couch.

he lifts her small sleeping form off of the cushions that practically envelop her. one arm around her shoulders and the other scooping under her knees. she stirs lightly, but quickly relaxes into his touch. quietly, he shuffles down the hall before disappearing into her bedroom. it’s scary how natural and comfortable it feels to see your child in his arms. like it’s meant to be that way.

he lays her down on her twin bed, pulling her princess comforter over her body, gently tucking it into her sides. he places her favorite stuffed animal, a purple bunny jellycat, right next to her head. he smiles watching her sleep so adorably as her chest rises and falls with each breath. just as he’s getting up, turning the nightlight on on his way, he hears the sheets softly ruffle behind him.

“‘night daddy,” she mumbles, turning in her half asleep state. his heart swells to a level he’s sure will make the artery burst. he doesn’t let himself get too excited - she’s half asleep. she thought he was her dad. a casual slip up.

deep down he hopes she knew exactly who was carrying her to bed, and her words were meant for him.

the door creaks slightly as he shuts it as gently as he can, until no light is filtering into her room. only the soft color changing light can be seen pouring from the crack under the door. he pads back to the living room, still smiling with his cheeks a soft pink.

tomorrow, before he leaves, her arms are wrapped around his neck when she says, “i wish you were my real daddy.”

he does too.

#my favourite trope #of all time #with my favourite man #i love you clark kent

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glowwayne · 4 days ago

Text

On The Dot

ʚ word count: 3.7k

ʚ summary: you and clark slowly become more familiar with each other

ʚ warnings: making out, fingering, blowjob, praise, rushed ending 😛

You haven’t stopped thinking about it.

The memory sneaks up on you when you’re rinsing dishes, folding laundry, brushing your hair before bed. That kiss. His hands. The way they felt on your skin — hot and grounding, like they belonged there.

It lingers in your muscles, in your breath, in the way your fingers twitch when you’re alone and restless.

And you’ve spent a few nights up late because of it. Lights off, window cracked, sheets pulled halfway down, trying to chase the ghost of his touch with your own. But it’s just not the same.

But now is not the time.

You stand near the big oak in your grandparents’ yard, a cold drink settled in your grip and the sound of laughter carrying through the heavy evening air. The grill’s going, someone’s passing around sweet tea, and your little cousins are chasing each other barefoot through the grass.

It’s one of those slow, familiar gatherings — extended family, old neighbors, childhood friends who haven’t changed all that much. The Kents are here too, of course. They always are.

Clark stands a few yards away, talking with your uncle and one of the older neighbors, his hand cradling the same red, plastic cup as yours. His laugh is low and soft, just enough for you to hear from where you sit.

And even though you try not to watch him, you are. Quietly.

Your eyes find him in the lull between conversations, the clink of silverware and murmured talk fading behind the hum in your ears.

Every now and then, his gaze flicks toward you. Not for long — just a second. Just enough to make your stomach pull tight.

Your eyes meet once, twice, and the third time he holds it a beat too long.

Clark’s smile flickers, then steadies. He says something to the men beside him, nods once, and then excuses himself. His stride is casual, but direct — like he doesn’t want to give himself time to second-guess it.

He approaches with that knowing, sunlit grin that hasn’t changed since you last saw him in that kitchen.

“Hey,” he says, eyes crinkling just slightly as he stops next to you. “You hidin’ from me?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms loosely as you shift your weight onto one foot. “No,” you say, your tone dry but barely holding back a smile. You could feel the warm blush creeping up your neck. “This just happens to be the only spot with decent shade.”

You look away for a second, pretending to watch your cousins chasing each other across the yard, but you can still feel his eyes on you — soft, a little amused, and unmistakably warm.

His grin fades at the edges, and something more serious settles behind his eyes.

He hesitates for the briefest moment, then looks right at you. “I didn’t make you uncomfortable, did I? In the kitchen? ”

The question hangs there, fragile and sincere. No teasing. No bravado. Just Clark — looking at you like your answer matters more than anything else going on around you.

“Of course not Clark.” you say, almost instantly. Your voice is soft but steady, your eyes holding his.

Clark’s shoulders ease a little, like he hadn’t realized how tense they were until just now. He nods once, looking down for a moment before glancing back at you. “Okay… good. I just—I wasn’t sure. It’s been on my mind.”

You feel a flicker of confidence spark somewhere low in your chest. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, just like how he was that morning in the kitchen.

“It’s been on mine too,” you admit, your voice barely above the hum of conversation behind you.

Clark’s lips quirk up at the corners again — smaller this time, but real. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Kind of hard to forget.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like it could tilt either way.

Clark leans in just a little closer, voice low. “So…What now?”

“Well, that depends.” you respond, your body fully turning towards him.

Clark lifts an eyebrow, curious. “On what?”

“On whether you’re still the type to leave your window unlocked,” you say, tone light but laced with something bolder underneath.

His grin breaks slow, amused. “Depends who’s coming through it.”

You’re about to hit him with something equally smug when a voice rings out across the yard.

“Hey! Come take the picture with us!”

It’s one of your little cousins, waving frantically from the other side of the lawn.

“Midnight. Tonight.”

Clark doesn’t flinch. His eyes flick over your face like he’s memorizing it, and that slow, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He exhales through his nose. “I’ll be up.”

You don’t wait for more.

You turn, calm and sure, the afternoon air curling at the hem of your dress as you make your way back across the lawn. And just before the space between you gets too wide, you throw him a look over your shoulder.

Clark doesn’t move. He just watches you go, jaw tight, heart racing.

—

The room is dark, lit only by the soft red glow of the alarm clock beside your bed and your open window. You’re lying on your side, head resting on your hand, eyes fixed on the blinking numbers as they inch closer to midnight.

11:59

You hold your breath.

12:00

The moment the digits shift, you slip out from under the sheets, moving like muscle memory. Your feet touch the floor as you grab your sweatshirt and quietly ease open your bedroom door.

The house is silent. Not a creak. Not a murmur.

You already know your grandparents are knocked out — probably asleep before the sun even went down. Still, you tread carefully down the stairs, skipping the fourth step out of habit because it always groans under pressure.

Outside, the summer air hugs you warm and thick as you step off the porch and cut across the yard. The Kent house glows faintly through the trees, familiar even in shadow.

You move through the dark like you’ve done it a hundred times, feet brushing softly through the grass until you reach the side of the Kent house. The wooden trellis is still there, sturdy from years of climbing vines and kids with scraped knees and too much imagination.

You grip it without thinking, fingers sliding into old notches, your feet finding familiar footholds. You climb expertly, barely making a sound, the night air thick and quiet around you.

When you reach the window, you push it open slowly. It gives with a faint creak, just enough to make your heart skip—but no lights turn on. No footsteps stir.

You slip inside, landing quietly on the wooden floor of Clark’s room.

And he’s not there.

The room is dim and still. You take a few cautious steps forward, your eyes adjusting, your breath held tight in your chest.

Then the door swings open.

Clark walks in holding a glass of water, and he stops short when he sees you. His eyes widen, just for a second.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, pressing a hand to his chest.

You raise an eyebrow, smiling softly. “Did you forget?”

He closes the door behind him and sets the glass down. “No,” he says, stepping toward you with a small grin, “just didn’t think you’d actually show up on the dot.”

You smirk at his response, brushing your hands on your thighs.

“I’m punctual when it counts,” you say, letting your voice trail off with a hint of playfulness.

Clark watches you closely, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s holding back more than he’s saying.

You take a quiet breath and glance around the room. It’s been a while, but the bones of it are exactly how you remember. The same desk pushed against the wall, cluttered with books and half-scribbled notebooks. Even the throw blanket on the bed looks the same — though it’s hanging a little looser now, a little more worn.

Only a few new things stand out: a few mechanic guide books on the floor, a newer lamp by the bedside. Still Clark’s room, though. Still him.

You glance back at him with a crooked smile. “Still messy.”

Clark lets out a short laugh, leaning against the dresser. “It’s an organized mess. I know where everything is.” You can only roll your eyes.

You walk over to the wall, eyes scanning the photographs tacked up between old ticket stubs and a faded map. Some of the pictures are familiar — Clark with his parents, school trips, a few grainy ones from old summer days. You pause at one, tilting your head slightly as you study it.

Behind you, Clark settles down onto his bed, his elbows resting on his pillows. The room’s low lighting casts a soft glow across your skin, and for a moment, he can’t look away.

His pulse quickens unmistakably, maddeningly as he watches the way your fingers lightly trail the edge of a photo, the way your lips curl into a small smile as you admire the pictures. He swallows hard, breath quiet and slow, like even that might give him away.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the way Clark’s looking at you, and lift an eyebrow, amused.

“You gonna keep staring at me,” you say, turning back to the wall, “or are you gonna say something?”

Your tone is playful, a little edged, like you already know the answer. You cross your arms loosely as your eyes move over the photos, letting the silence stretch a little longer.

Clark leans back on his hands, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Kind of hard to have a conversation when you’re all the way over there,” he says, his voice low, teasing.

His eyes stay on you, warm and steady, like he’s not just talking about distance.

You squint your eyes at him before taking a slow, deliberate step toward him.

When you reach his bed, you lower yourself onto the edge of it — close, but not quite touching him. Your knee brushes his for only a second as you settle, and your hands rest lightly in your lap.

The room feels still. Charged.

Clark glances over at you, then back down at his hands. You shift your legs, cross and uncross them, trying to ignore how warm your skin feels in the still air.

Clark’s hands are resting on his lap, fingers tapping idly against each other. You’re staring at a spot on the wall like it’s giving you answers. He shifts, just a little, like he’s about to speak, but then doesn’t.

“This is weird, right?” you say finally, glancing over at him.

Clark huffs a breath, not quite a laugh. “A little.”

Your knee bumps his again barely but you don’t move it.

He looks over at you, his voice quieter this time.“I thought you’d say something first.”

You shrug. “I was waiting for you.”

He nods slowly, eyes still on you now. The space between you feels smaller somehow, but neither of you fills it. Not yet.

Your eyes meet his, finally. There’s a pause — just long enough to feel it. Neither of you smile, not right away. It’s just quiet. A glance that lingers, a breath held.

Then Clark leans in, slow and unsure, and you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. Careful. Like you’re both still making sure this is real. His hand brushes your knee, tentative, and your fingers find the edge of his sleeve without thinking.

It deepens only slightly, but the room seems to shift with it. The weight of all that tension easing, melting between you in the hush of that moment.

Clark’s hand moves to your waist as the kiss deepens, his touch firmer now, more certain. He shifts, tugging gently until you’re straddling his lap. The heat between you keeps building, and without thinking, your hips roll against his — just once.

Clark groans, low and broken, his mouth pulling away from yours as his hands clamp down on your hips to hold you still.

“Don’t do that,” he breathes, voice rough and ragged against your throat. “You — god, you can’t do that.”

You shift just slightly in his lap, feeling the way his fingers tense against your hips, how hard he’s working not to move.

“Why not?”

Clark exhales sharply, jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut like he’s praying for strength. You lean in, lips brushing his as you speak, all teasing and sweet,

“You don’t think we’re here to talk, do you?”

Clark exhales hard through his nose, eyes flicking up to meet yours and he looks wrecked, like he’s hanging on by a thread.

But the way his grip tightens on your hips says he wants you to mean it. Badly.

Clark doesn’t answer with words — he just pulls you into another kiss, deeper this time, more intense. His hands roam your body with growing urgency, sliding beneath your shirt, up your sides, like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

You shift in his lap again, and his breath catches in his throat, but he keeps kissing you through it, mouth hot and hungry against yours.

Then his hands slip lower.

Slowly, he slides them under the waistband of your panties, his fingertips skimming over your bare skin.

“You’re so pretty like this.” he murmurs, words rich and slow, like he’s savoring every syllable.

The sound of it melts in your head, sticky-sweet and impossible to shake. It curls around your thoughts, settling low in your stomach and making everything ache.

Your face heats immediately, the compliment hitting somewhere deeper than it should. And when his fingers slip between your folds and he feels how soaked you already are — you freeze, just a little.

Clark watches your expression shift, sees the way your breath stutters and your eyes flutter as his fingers explore.

“Hey…it’s okay,” he whispers, that caramel drawl melting through you. “Just relax for me.”

Then his hand moves with purpose, he gathers all that slickness and glides it slowly up to your clit, circling it with a featherlight touch that makes your whole body tense and melt at the same time.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, still close, still gentle. “Let me take care of you.”

Clark’s fingers slide in slowly, and curl gently inside you, stretching you already. His thumb circles your clit in steady, measured strokes that make your breath hitch. You’re trembling, caught somewhere between desperate and delicate, and Clark’s grip on your hips tightens just enough to hold you steady.

He slips a hand up your shirt, fingertips grazing your ribs before cupping your breast. His mouth follows, hot and hungry, pressing soft, wet kisses along your skin before settling over your nipple.

He sucks gently at first, teasing the sensitive bud, tongue flicking over it in slow, deliberate circles that send sparks shooting through you.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, voice low and thick with want. “You’re so fucking good.”

His fingers pick up pace inside you, curling and pressing just right, while his mouth sucks harder, nibbling gently now, and you feel your control slipping.

Your knees start to tremble, your hands clutching at his shoulders as waves crash through you, deep and overwhelming.

“Clark,” you moan, voice breaking, “I can’t —”

But before you can finish, your body crumbles, shuddering in his arms as the orgasm rips through you, raw and fierce. Your breath hitches, your hips jerk, and Clark holds you steady, never letting up on his touch.

When you finally come down, your body trembling and spent, he pulls back just enough to look at you — eyes dark, satisfied, and completely focused on you.

“You okay?” he asks, voice quiet but warm. You nod, breath shaky, hands still fisted in his shirt. But it’s the way you look at him that makes his jaw flex. He brushes his nose along your collarbone, lips following as he gently pulls his fingers out of your cunt.

Clark eases his fingers out, slick and shining in the low light. He brings them to his lips without thinking, tongue flicking over them lazily — but before he can do anything else, your hand wraps around his wrist.

His brows lift slightly, surprised, and then you guide his fingers toward your own mouth instead. You hold his gaze the whole time, lips parting slow, deliberately, as you take them in.

His breath hitches. You swirl your tongue around them, and his jaw clenches — not from restraint, but from sheer awe.

You press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then trail lower — down the curve of his jaw, to the warm skin of his neck. His breath hitches as you move lower, brushing down the column of his throat, where his pulse beats wild under your mouth.

You keep moving, your movements fluid as you shift lower, easing yourself between him and the bed. Your hand slides over his abdomen, fingers dipping just low enough to brush along the bulge straining beneath his waistband.

Clark’s hand moves gently over yours, stopping you just for a second. His eyes meet yours, wide and a little glassy, his voice rough but sincere. “You don’t have to do that,”

“Shh,” you murmur, meeting his eyes. “I want to.”

Whatever hesitation was left in his eyes dissolves into something deeper. Hungrier. He swallows hard, his grip loosening slightly on your hand as he lets you keep going — his body already giving in to yours.

You work the knot of his drawstring loose and ease the waistband down just enough. He shifts under you, tension rippling through him like a live wire. You reach in and wrap your hand around the plush weight of him.

Clark groans, deep and low, head tilting back. He could feel every inch of your touch like a brand, searing and electric. His cock throbbed, already fully erect and straining towards your hand.

Your hand stills for a second. Even through the warmth of your palm, the size of him makes your breath catch — thick, and heavy in a way that has your heart skipping a beat.

You readjust yourself, your hands skimming over his sides until your mouth finds the sharp curve of his hip bone. You kiss there first, then move to the other. Clark tenses, a sharp inhale breaking the quiet, and you can feel his eyes locked on you.

You hesitate for only a second longer and finally lean in, your breath brushing against his skin.

Your tongue traces a slow, deliberate stripe along the side of his cock, and he groans, low and wrecked — his hand tightening slightly in the sheets.

“God,” he mutters, voice all gravel and disbelief. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your lips hover for a beat, heat rolling off him, before you finally part them and sink down just enough to wrap them around the head of his cock.

Clark’s breath catches, his hips twitching before he forces them still, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head with a restraint that feels almost fragile.

You hum softly around him, letting the vibration travel, tasting the faint salt of his skin as your tongue teases the ridge beneath.

You keep your pace unhurried, tongue tracing over him before you seal your lips tighter around his tip and draw back just slightly, letting the sensation linger.

When you start to move a little faster and let your hand work in tandem with your mouth, the sound he makes is almost a whimper, his hips jerking despite himself. “If you keep d-doing that,” he breaks off on a gasp, “Jesus fuck,”

The way he says it — half a warning, half a plea, only makes you hollow your cheeks and ease forward again.

You don’t slow down. If anything, you pick up your pace, your lips sliding lower with each pass until you’re swallowing him as far as you can manage. His fingers curl tight in the bedding, his knuckles pale.

The warning dissolves into a sharp groan, and then he’s suddenly spilling into your mouth, the heat of it filling you as his voice unravels into breathless praise. “Perfect… god, you’re perfect… so so good for me,”

You keep going until he’s spent and trembling, only pulling back when you feel his hand cup your jaw in a soft, grounding touch.

When you finally pull back, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, Clark’s still catching his breath, cheeks flushed a deep pink. At first you think it’s just from the heat of the moment — until his gaze flicks away, almost shy.

“That was, um, earlier than I -,” he admits, voice low like he’s hoping you won’t tease him.

You can’t help the little smile that tugs at your lips. “It’s okay, ” you tell him honestly, leaning up to press a kiss to his warm cheek. “It’s cute.”

That only makes his blush deepen, the corners of his mouth twitching despite the embarrassment.

You both sit in silence for a moment, the quiet settling comfortably around you. His hand still gently brushes your cheek, and you watch the subtle rise and fall of his breath.

Then Clark’s voice breaks the stillness, low and steady. “You should probably get back before anyone notices you’re gone.”

You glance toward the window, then back at him, your expression soft. “Already?”

He nods, eyes warm but serious. “Just, don’t want you to get in trouble.”

You lean in and press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be careful.”

You stand slowly, giving him one last look. His eyes hold yours, quiet and full, as if trying to memorize every detail before you go. The air between you hums with everything unsaid.

“See you tomorrow.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, and he replies just as quietly,

“Can’t wait.”

#my life has changed #forever #in a FANTASTIC way #im a wh0re #and its okay #need #need a clark kent in my life

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