punksnotdeadbutiam

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

★ summary: you didn't imagine meeting your boyfriend's parents for the first time would start with you crash landing on their lawn in the middle of the night

★ pairing: clark kent x reporter!reader

★ warnings:  18+ mdni, fem reader, implied smut, cursing

★ word count: 4.3k

★ notes: thank you all so much for all the great feedback on my first work!!! ily all sm!! i hope you enjoy c:

Crash-landing a flying saucer on your boyfriend's parents’ freshly tended lawn was not the way you intended to introduce yourself to them. But here you were, lugging a very sluggish Superman down the stairs of the spacecraft. The two huddled figures of his parents came into view as they rushed over to help. His father, you presumed, took the brunt of his weight on his shoulder. Krypto sped past you four immediately, running around, rolling in the grass. Completely oblivious to the stress radiating off of all of you. In a hurried rush, you all exchanged quiet pleasantries, doing your best to get the man into the quaint farmhouse.

Once inside, you were hit with the strong scent of clean laundry dried in the sun and warm cinnamon. Something warm bloomed in your chest as you took in the surroundings. You imagined a little Clark Kent running around, growing up in these same halls. 

“His room is back here.” His father grunted, pulling you out of your thoughts and into harsh reality. With teamwork, you managed to roll the man onto his blue twin-sized bed. He was still exhausted and dazed. Your heart broke into a million pieces when he grabbed onto his mother, talking about how he was sent here to destroy people. Beyond the physical pain, he was mentally anguished. Heartbroken at how he felt like his whole life was a lie. 

“Is our boy gonna be okay?” His Pa asked, his voice lined with tears. 

“Mr. Terrific said he’s gonna be okay. He just needs some rest.” Your voice sounded foreign to your ears. Spending the last few hours in a pocket dimension, not knowing if he was alive, then having to fly across the country in the dead of night with a super dog on your lap had shaken your nerves more than you thought. 

“Oh, don’t worry about him, he’s a big ole mush when it comes to our Boy,” Ma said, both of their hands cradling their son's face gently, taking him in.

He never looked as small as he did now. Curled up in his childhood bed with his parents holding him. Your eyes never left his frame once as he was slowly lulled to sleep by his parents' hands and reassuring words. As soon as his breathing evened out, it felt as if a weight had fallen off your shoulders. A shaky breath you had no idea you were holding escaped your mouth. All you could see was Clark’s sleeping body in your tunnel vision before a soft hand touched your forearm. You didn’t even realize your hands were shaking. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Ma asked, nothing but love in her soft eyes. You shook your head and let out a couple more heavy breaths. 

“It’s just been a long day.” The defeat was evident in your voice. Surprised you were still standing upright as the weight of everything crashed around you. 

“Let’s get you some tea.” She left no room for debate as she ushered you to the door. You paused as you passed the bed, letting your hand drift down to Clark’s forehead. Pushing his messy curls back, you leaned down pressing a soft kiss to his clammy skin. A large smile was on both of his parents' faces as they watched this, causing a blush to grace yours. They had no clue who you were to their son, but it was probably quite obvious now. 

You let them guide you through their home, and that was how you ended up sitting in their kitchen while Ma put the kettle on. 

“I’m Y/n, by the way. I’m sorry, this is my first time meeting you all. I didn’t even introduce myself. That's so disrespectful, and thank you for letting me into your home-” Your embarrassing rambling was cut off by a dishrag being waved around. 

“No, none of that. You’re family, as far as we’re concerned. I’m Ma, and this is Pa if you’ve gathered.” She waved to her husband, who joined you at the table. 

“Clark hasn’t talked about you much, but we haven’t heard from him all that lately.” Pa trailed off, sadness lingering in his eyes. Fear of seeing his boy so hurt—another layer of sorrow underneath from only seeing him when he was knocking on death’s door. 

“Well, we just started seeing each other.” You admitted, your hands wrapping around the steaming mug as Ma dropped it in front of you. You thanked her graciously while she took the seat next to you. She and Pa were sitting across from you; their mugs both had little Superman logos placed on them. Tears almost sprang to your eyes, imagining the Kents going into a local store and buying those mugs. The pride they had in their little secret, no one knowing that was their boy. 

“He’s also been so busy with work and you know, saving the world.” Small chuckles left their mouths as they looked at each other, admiration in their gaze. Their love for each other was palpable, even in these small moments. 

“Well, tell us about yourself, Miss Y/n, and how you ended up here in that bizarre-looking spaceship out there.” Pa bellowed. 

You didn’t even know where to begin, so you just talked. Feeling welcomed and as if you’ve known them for years. You told them how you both met working at The Daily Planet together. How he stumbled around you awkwardly for months, until one night when you both had to stay late to finish a paper, he finally worked up the courage to ask.

The office was dim with nothing but the sounds of the ancient coffee pot and keyboard tiles clacking. Clark’s tie had long been undone, his glasses falling down the edge of his nose. His feet up on his desk, he leaned back with his laptop on his lap. You were spread on one of the cold leather couches, pen in your mouth and papers spread out all around you. Before a yawn could escape your mouth, a cup of coffee was placed down in front of you. It was as if he read your mind. 

“I know it tastes like oil, but it’ll get you through the night,” Clark said, appearing out of nowhere. 

“Thank you.” A smile graced your mouth as you looked up at the disheveled man. You threw some of your papers onto the table and gestured for him to sit next to you. He took the seat, happily looking around your pile of mess. 

“I promise there’s a method to my madness.” Embarrassed by the various empty coffee cups and trash surrounding your makeshift work station, your desk chair began to hurt your back, so you always gravitated to the couch. Making yourself at home. 

“Oh, I believe you. The uhh candy wrappers add to the creative process.” He picked up one of the butterscotch wrappers, twirling one around in his hand. A scoff left your mouth. 

“Oh, you’re mean. I’ll think about that next time you steal one off my desk.” You joked, turning to face him. It was then your thigh brushed up against the thick muscle of his own. Realization dawned on you at just how close the two of you were. He could hear the way your pulse quickened at the accidental contact. He took this as his chance to finally ask you out. 

“Would you wanna get out of here?” He blurted, knowing if he didn’t say anything, he would push it off once again out of fear. An awkward silence filled the room for a moment as you raised your eyebrow at his suggestive comment. His heart fell into his stomach, and he stood up quickly, his hands moving around animatedly as he spoke. 

“Oh, not like that. Like it’s so late and we’re not gonna finish tonight anyway, and we should go get coffee. Good coffee! I’ll buy you good coffee, but that’s only if you want to. As a date. Unless it's not a date. If you don’t want to date me, that would be fine, but it would suck.”  He was out of breath by the time he finished, his cheeks a shade brighter. The word vomit spewed everywhere, metaphorically staining the couch in front of him. 

Soft giggles escaped your mouth when his frenzied eyes met yours. “I’d love for you to buy me good coffee.” You smiled, then clarified. “ As a date.” 

His eyes sparkled at your answer like a kid on Christmas morning. You held your hand up for him, and he took it, lifting you off the couch. He wasted no time in draping your jacket across your back. Hand in hand, he led you to an all-night diner just a few blocks from the office. 

He kept his promise and bought you a drinkable coffee, and you talked until the sun rose. When he demanded that he walk you back to your apartment, you left him with a kiss on his cheek and told him you’d love to get dinner. Now here you are, a couple of months later. That was how you ended up together. Stealing secret kisses in the break room, having a drawer at his apartment, and now saving him from alternative dimensions. 

Pulling yourself out of the memory, you focused back on his parents in front of you. “We’re just so glad he has someone like you looking out for him. We worry sometimes-” 

“All the time.” Ma cuts Pa off, teasing her husband for being so worried all the time. He presses a soft kiss to the back of her hand. 

“My wife loves to call me out on my worries. Not good for my heart, she says.” he chides. “I’m just glad he has you. It’s nice to meet you and have you in the family.” 

Your heart feels like it’s going to fall out of your chest for the hundredth time tonight. 

“It’s such an honor. Thank you for being so kind and welcoming. You raised the best son.” You beamed, tears brimming in your eyes. “He-he’s my whole world.” 

Ma leans over and wraps you in her arms, hugging you tightly. After a little more small talk, the night was getting late, and Pa had yawned one too many times for Ma’s liking. You assured them you would go back home tonight, but they insisted you stay. She made up the couch for you and made you promise you’d make yourself at home. 

Long after they’d gone to bed, you were unable to get comfortable. Knowing Clark was so close yet so far. With a frustrated huff, you collected the pillow and blanket, trudging down the hallway into Clark’s room. He was still in the same position, his face relaxed in a deep sleep. Knowing there’s no way you’d fit on the bed with him, you made a small pallet on the floor next to him. At least this way, you were closer if he needed anything. You settled as comfortably as you could on the floor and let Clark’s mellow breathing lull you to sleep. 

You were abruptly dragged out of your slumber by a fur tickling your nose. In a bleary state of confusion, you rolled over, seeing Krypto had managed his way into the house and was curled up right in front of your face. “Hey, sweet boy.” You yawned, letting your arm drape over the uncharacteristically calm dog. Soon enough, his panting had you falling back asleep. The animal had undeniably grown on you in the past few weeks.

When Clark woke up, he was jolted into reality, sitting up in a panic, not remembering how he got here. A million worries circled his brain at once. As soon as he registered, he was in his childhood room, he calmed down. It wasn’t until the small whine from Krypto that he looked down at the floor. There you were, comfortably curled up into the dog. He couldn’t stop looking at the two of you. You looked so peaceful and comfortable using the restless animal as a makeshift pillow. He tried his best not to disturb you, but the dog would not stop whining the moment he found out Clark was awake. 

“Shhh, Krypto." Trying desperately to get him to calm down. Never one to listen, Krypto sprang out of your arms, jumping on the bed, content to lie on his chest. 

“What the fuck-” You exclaimed, nearly jumping out of your skin by the sudden movement. You sat up quickly just in time to see him settle on Clark's chest. “Oh god, you’re awake.”

The weight that had been on top of your chest since you first saw him, sick and poisoned, had finally fully lifted off your shoulders. The color had come back to his cheeks; he looked nearly like himself again. In no time, you crawled onto the twin bed, attaching yourself to his side. Krypto turned his nose into your shoulder, begging for attention from both of you.

“Hey, honey.” His voice was saccharine this early in the morning, still raspy from underuse. He pulled you into his chest, squeezing tightly. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay. I don’t know what I would have done.” Muffled by the fabric of his suit, you clung to him like a lifeline. Feeling his heartbeat in a constant pattern, reminding you that he was here, alive. 

“I don’t know what I would have done without you. You saved my life, you know that?” He pressed a kiss to your head, smoothing down your bed head. You could hear Krypto’s paws hitting the floor as he fled the room, no longer entertained by the pair. 

“More like Mr. Terrific saved you. I just forced him to help.” You laughed, moving so you were sitting up. You swung one leg over his hips and sat up so you were straddling him. “Do you know he put a tracker in your bloodstream?” 

“I’m sorry?” A laugh bubbled out of the words as his hands rested on your waist, keeping you steady on top of him. 

“It’s how we found you. You might need to find better friends, Clark.” 

You cupped his face in your hands, just admiring him. His baby blues found yours, then slowly flickered down to your lips. Reading his mind, you leaned down, kissing him softly. Your lips moved in gentle tandem, both of you relishing being in each other's arms again. His hands tightened their grip on your hip, fingers digging into the plush skin. At this, your hips instinctively rolled onto his, the friction causing a burn to stir in your lower belly. His response was almost immediate, his growing bulge pressing against your inner thigh. 

Groaning, he kept your hips still, looking up at your blushed face. Your lips are red from his own, messy hair falling around your shoulders. You've never looked as beautiful to him as you do now. 

“I feel like I’m living teenage me’s wildest dreams.” He finally spoke, his thumb stroking small circles into your skin. “The most beautiful woman in the world is sitting on my lap in my childhood bed. I don’t even think I could've dreamt this, not really.” 

“Was the suit included in these fantasies? Huh, Superman?” You teased, your finger outlining the S embroidered into the fabric. His hands tensed at the name. His length twitched slightly underneath your hips from where his hard cock was in his silly little briefs. You’d never used the name on him before in these moments, but at the end of the day, he was just a man. 

“You’re such a minx.” He snickered, trying to pull your body weight on top of him fully. Before he could kiss you again, you pulled away. 

“As much as I’d love to fulfill teenage Clark’s fantasies and ride you into this lovely twin bed…” Your snickers were cut off by his frustrated groan. His head fell back into his pillow dramatically. 

“I just.. I just got hurt badly, you know? And this is worse. So much worse.” You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek before rolling off of him, standing next to the bed. 

“I’m not gonna sleep with you while your lovely parents are two doors down.” You punctuated by throwing a pile of clothes at his chest. The ones that Ma left out for him. “Besides, you stink.” 

“I stink.” He grumbled under his breath as he sat up with a hiss. 

“Seriously, are you feeling okay?” 

“I’m okay, sweetheart. “ His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, his dimples barely protruding. You didn’t pry, simply smiled back and kissed his forehead as he went to shower. While waiting, you selfishly took advantage of the time and began peering around his room. Sports trophies lined the wooden shelves, alongside pictures of the cutest baby Clark. The wall was adorned with band posters you’d surely tease him about. Wandering over to his small desk in the corner, your eyes drifted to a framed photo of Clark on the football team in high school. The biggest ears he had yet to grow into, with the widest smile on his face. 

“The journalist in you never dies, huh, nosey?” His voice startles you, making you jump, setting down the photo awkwardly. His curls were damp, hanging against his forehead, the white t-shirt sitting deliciously on his shoulders. As if he didn't dry off completely before shrugging it on. His shoulders strained against the almost see-through fabric.

“I’m sorry you were just the cutest little boy.” A snicker left your mouth. “I bet all the Smallville girls were drooling over you.” 

“Don’t look at those. Seriously. Go shower, you stink.” He scoffed while walking over to try to turn the photo over on its front. You stopped him with a gentle smack to his hand. 

“Oh, I didn’t stink when you were trying to get into my pants earlier.” 

“You started that.” He pointed at you.

“Oh sureee…” You trailed off, passing him and heading into the bathroom across the hall. After the shower, you felt somewhat human again, drowning in his clothes. You had borrowed a flannel and some very outdated sweatpants of his from when he was younger. Smelling faintly of detergent and something so undeniably Clark. Ma demanded that she clean both of your clothes before you left again. Clark stopped before you could even protest her doing so, he said it made her feel better to have something to do.  

“Well, good morning, hun!” Pa spoke from his recliner in the living room. His warm smile filled the room. It was hard to believe there was no blood relation as his dimples mirrored Clark's. 

You bid your good mornings to them all, Clark’s oversized flannel hanging over your hands as you made your way to the table. Clark looked comically oversized, sitting in the wooden chair, hunched over a bowl.

“Now it’s no fancy breakfast. We weren’t expecting guests, so we haven’t been to the store in a few days.” Ma said, scooping up your bowl of oatmeal. 

“Ma, this is perfect. Thank you.” Clark finally spoke, his eyes wafting over your frame. 

“You look good in my clothes.” He whispered to you when you finally sat down next to him. 

“You look clean.” A toothy grin hit your face. He shook his head, smiling into his bowl. Thanking Ma with a small kiss on the cheek when she dropped off your bowl. You both ate in comfortable silence, watching his parents move around in their normal morning routine.

“Oh, Y/n, I have some baby photos to show you of Clark. Don’t let me forget.” As soon as those words came out of Ma’s mouth, you were taking your last bites of oatmeal in haste. 

“Why not now?” You stood up with a devilish grin. 

Clark turned around in his chair, glaring at her like she had just betrayed him. “Okay, what if we didn’t do that-” 

“Oh, let's,” Ma said, shuffling to her room to gather the evidence. 

You cleaned up your bowl quickly and kissed Clark messily on the cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll only take a picture of a few of them.” 

You followed Ma into the back of the house, leaving Clark as he griped in protest. While you were helping Ma bring the cardboard boxes into the living room, the boys had made their way outside. You could see Clark’s slumped outline on the bench through the screen door. No doubt watching Krypto try to play with the cows. 

“Now this was the day he came to us.” Ma beamed, showing an old photo of a tiny baby Clark, wrapped up in a towel. No doubt from when he crash-landed onto their small Kansas farm. Thinking of Ma and Pa taking him in and raising him as their own almost brought tears to your eyes as she spoke about how he was as a baby. He’s always been so gentle and kind by nature. 

Sooner or later, you were curled up on the floor by the table, sorting through hundreds of Polaroids and digitals of Clark. Your favorite photo was of him as a kid, maybe 5 years old, holding up a small toy dinosaur. His smile was wide.

“He brought that dinosaur everywhere with him. If he lost it, he’d cry for hours.” Lost in nostalgia, her smile was contagious. "It's still in his room somewhere. Teenage Clark swore he was too old for toys, but Ma knows best."

“He was the cutest.” You fawned, rubbing the edges of the photo gently in your hands. 

“Keep that one.” Her face turned serious as she looked at you. 

“What? No! I couldn’t possibly take it from you.”  Trying to hand the photo back to her, she pushed it gently back into your palm. You were learning not to argue with Ma the longer you spent here.

“Honey, I have hundreds more of him here. Take that one and think about giving us a grandchild.” 

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head at her nonchalant statement. You were at a loss for words. The panic written on your face. She began laughing again, her laughter contagious. Suddenly, you were both lost in fits of giggles. 

“I don’t know about that.” Finally, you said, “But I do love him. More than I’ve ever loved anyone before.” At this, her eyes sparkled softly in the dim morning light. 

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted for him. I get so nervous with him being in that big city all alone.” She wiped her eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling. “I don’t want him to get lost in the Superman of it all.” 

“I promise I already humble him every day.” Grabbing her hand softly, you squeezed it. “I’ll try to make sure he calls more. We’ll take more trips out here, too.” Her smile mirrored that of her sons. She tugged you into a tight hug, murmuring about how she was just so glad Clark found you. 

You were both taken out of your moment by the television coming in with a breaking announcement regarding the situation in Boravia and Jarhanpur. Not even a full 24 hours of Superman being down, and they were already invading Jarhanpur. Ma stood up quickly, walking outside to let Clark know he needed to come see what was on the 'box'.  You mindlessly grabbed your phone, turning it on for the first time since last night. You had hundreds of missed calls and texts. You texted Jimmy back first, letting him know you’d be there soon to cover the story with him. They had leads on Lex Luthor and needed you there. When Clark came in, his face turned serious, watching as the citizens stood on their border, brave and ready to defend their country. 

No one spoke as the little boy pulled up the makeshift flag with Superman’s symbol on it. All of you are laser-focused on the horrors happening on the screen. Both of you knew what was about to happen. He would have to get there as soon as possible to put a stop to it, and you’d have to get back to the Daily Planet and do your best to bring Lex down for good. 

“I cleaned your boots, Clark. Y/n, your clothes are dry too.” Ma broke the silence, looking at both of you. When you looked up at Clark, the tension was ever so present on his face. You wanted so badly to grab his face in your hands and smooth out his furrowed brows, but there was no time. 

Finally, your eyes met, with no words spoken between you, you immediately rushed to grab your clothes and get dressed. He did the same, both of you stumbling into your clothes. You kept his flannel over your shirt, shoving your leather jacket over top of it. Your bag slung over your shoulder, frantically texting as you walked down the hallway. Clark was already at the door, saying goodbyes to his parents, when you stumbled into the room. 

“We’ll see you soon.” You promised, giving them both frantic hugs goodbye. Ma swore she’d hold you both to it as you both rushed outside.

In the frantic rushing of it all, Clark stopped at the bottom of the stairs, holding his hand out for you. You took it gently, jumping from the top step into his arms. His arms wrapped around you tightly, lifting your feet off the ground. 

“Please be safe.” He spoke into your hair, and he gripped you as you were slipping through his hands. 

“Always. Go save the world, Superman.” You leaned back, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you for dinner?” 

His eyes crinkled, nodding at you. “See you at dinner, darling.”

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Yall 😳

‘N Side (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader)

summary: “You say it’s big, but you take it, ride cowgirl” — riding Clark for the first time

warnings: minors dni (18+)— porn w/out plot, size kink, big dick clark supremacy, cowgirl position, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation (?), slight breeding kink , hyperspermia, clarks loves to praise

word count: 3.3k

a/n: heard that lyric from Pyramids by Frank Ocean and something came over me like a feral beast. I need David Corenswet’s Clark Kent/Superman SOOO FAWKING BAD BROO, I made this to help w that unyielding thirst Ive got for him🙂‍↕️. title name is from the Steve Lacy song. Hope you all enjoy <\3 !!

In, out, In out. 

You repeat the words to yourself like a mantra. Your chest heaves softly, breaths ragged and short as you try to calm your racing heart. You can feel it thumping in your chest, trying to crack through ribs and run free. 

Your face is flushed, the heat of cheeks has your head spinning. Every nerve of your body is taut, pulled and aching in anticipation. You bite your lip, bruising the softness while your fingertips dig into your boyfriend's chest. 

Your nails leave small crescent moons around his shoulders, knuckles going white from how hard you grip at him. 

Breathe, breathe. 

You’re practically shaking, mouth going dry and you have to close your eyes to collect yourself. 

 “Are you alright, baby?” Clark asks in a sweet voice, concern coating the words. His large hands are settled around your hips, squeezing and massaging gently at the plush flesh in an attempt to calm you. 

“It's okay if you can’t do it, we don't have to.”

He looks up at you with those big puppy eyes, stripping your soul bare with one look. It has you feeling exposed,  even though you’re already naked in his lap. 

If it were any other night, you would only see the raw hunger and desperate need he had for you bubble up out of him. Watch it take over and fill his lungs like water, consuming him until he’s not even thinking rationally anymore. 

But tonight, right now, all you can see is the pure love and affection he has for you. You’re watching it spill over and out of him with small tears, batting them away and letting them get caught onto his thick lashes. Overwhelmed with your sweet presence. 

The sight makes your heart clench, you know you can’t lie to him. 

You nod gently, moving to cup his cheeks in your hands. Your thumb wipes away the few stray tears that fell, mouth planting a soft kiss upon his lips.

You both sigh at the sweet taste of each other, Clark’s grip on your thighs tighten. 

“I’m okay. Just need a second.” You rasp out, pressing your forehead against his. 

He hums, pulling your body closer to his. 

He adjusts his hips slightly, letting you fall closer into his chest. Your thighs slide over his, a small whimper escaping from your lips as you feel his hard cock nudge against you. 

It wasn’t always like this. Most of the time you were the one stirring him on, begging and moaning for more as he held you beneath him. His hands gripping your hips tight while he split you open with each harsh and slow thrust he gave you. The sound of your combined moans and ragged breaths filling the room, sounding like a symphony made just for the two of you to hear. 

But tonight, you’re sitting on his lap, naked as the day you were born with him beneath you. His shirt was torn off, hair messy and cheeks painted a dusty pink from your shared kisses. His glasses are slowly sliding off the bridge of his nose, crooked as he looks up at you. There’s something in his eyes that makes it seem as if he was holding the world in his arms. 

A bolt of pleasure runs down your spine, trickling down between your legs until you can feel your own desire. 

Of all the times you’ve been with him, this suddenly felt like too much. 

From this position, you finally got it through your head just how big he was. The massive length and thickness of him has your head reeling.

It’s heavy, the tip a soft pink and dripping with so much pre you wonder if he hadn’t cum already. It lays against his lower belly, twitching beneath your soft touch as your hand goes to stroke him. 

He’s so hard. Soft whimpers escape Clark as you fist him, thumb swirling the wetness that leaks from his tip before spreading it all over the length. You pump your wrist up and down, lips moving back onto his and drinking up each sweet sigh that escapes him. 

Your cunt aches for the sweet stretch of him filling you up. You’re tightening around nothing as you remember for the way he loves to enter you slowly, feeding you inch by thick inch until you’re crying by the time he bottoms out. 

Sometimes you swear you can feel him in your throat. Feel the way he practically rearranges your insides, nudging against your sweet spot with every thrust and desperate rut. 

His tongue pushes past your lips, large hands gripping you by the back of your neck to keep you still. You whine, feeling him deepen the kiss, tongue tasting your mouth while saliva begins to slowly spill out from the corners. 

You let go of him, hand digging into his curls and grasping at them as he hungrily steals the air from your lungs. 

Mindlessly, your hips begin to move against him. Blindly searching for any kind of pleasure you could find and take. You feel him pressing into your thigh, skin softly gliding against it from the stickiness that leaks out and coats him. 

The feeling has both of you moaning, lips parting and puffy from the pleasure. Your lungs are burning now, nerves coming apart and ready to burst from not even doing anything. 

“Honey, please…” Clark begs in a broken whisper, 

hips thrusting up into you. The motion spreads you wider, leaving a space for his cock to nudge perfectly against your clit.  

You moan, nodding your head swiftly while trying to take deep breaths. Your hands grab at his shoulders again, holding yourself up from falling over into him. 

“Okay, baby. Okay.” You whisper back, voice coming out in a rasp. You tilt your head down, gulping down the small lump that started to form in the back of your throat. 

You pull a hand away, letting it wander down his chest. It roams over his skin, feeling the heat radiating off of him and into your fingers until you're gliding over the small trail of hair that leads down to his v line. 

You breathe in deeply, taking his heavy cock back into your hand. You lift yourself up slightly, just enough so that you can feel his head brush against your folds. 

You bite your lip, hissing in at the sensation of him parting through your wetness. He glides through easily, his own hand coming down to help guide it to your entrance. He teases you a bit, nudging and rubbing his tip up and down your lips, smearing pre cum all over you until he nudges over your clit again. 

The hand still on his shoulder pinches him hard, a silent warning to stop. He huffs out a low laugh, stopping the motions and finally lining himself up against your entrance. 

It happens fast, the way you sit down and let his cock fill you up. You wanted to go slow, get used to each inch like you were taking him for the first time all over again, but you just couldn’t. The second you felt the painfully sweet stretch of him enter you, it was hard to resist. 

Your thighs fall flat against his, wind knocked out of your lungs as you feel him split you open. Your back arches, hands bracing yourself on his shoulders again as you let yourself get used to him. 

Your walls flutter around him, molding into the shape as you try to catch your breath.  

 The position makes him feel deeper than ever. Bigger, longer, thicker. You’re practically shaking on top of him, thighs clenching around his own as you try to position yourself at a more comfortable angle. 

“So big,”. You whimper out shyly.

You move your knees slightly, spreading them out until your posture is straight and you find a good balance. You straddle him like one would a mechanical bull, holding on tightly in fear that you may get thrown off suddenly. 

“Feels bigger than usual.” 

You tilt your head down to see the way he disappears into you. In the dim light of the living room, you can see your wetness glistening as it drips out and onto the dark messy hairs at the base of his cock.  

The words have a guttural groan escaping from Clark, rumbling from his chest and out his throat. You can feel him twitch inside of you as he does, shutting his eyes tightly as his hands grip at your hips once more. 

You feel a tinge of cockiness at the reaction, biting a smile back. A shiver crawls down your back when you finally decide to move. 

It starts off slow, moving with small and soft bounces on his cock. You lift your hips up and down, locking and working all strength to your knees as you savor the sweet stretch of him. It feels better as you slide him in and out of you, not all the way, but pulling out just enough so you're able to feel him nudge at your sweet spot with each thrust. 

You would say you’re hardly moving, but the way Clark looks under you makes you think otherwise. His face is flushed, blood rushing and coloring his cheeks a bright red now. His head is tilted back, exposing his neck full of kiss marks and his puffy lips were parted just enough that you can hear each whimper and moan that escapes him.

His curls are messy, sweat dripping down his forehead and covering his toned chest in a thin layer. He opens his eyes to look up at you, glossy with tears of pleasure before roaming over your body.  

The feeling is intoxicating. It spreads through the veins from your head all the way to your fingertips, feeling like you’re on fire just by touching him. You fasten your pace, happy to watch your boyfriend fall apart into a pile of mush. 

“Baby,” He groans the nickname like a prayer, the strong grip of his hands on your hips faltering to go roam over your body. 

He squeezes at your thighs, softly massaging the plush skin of your ass before making his way up to your tits. His thick fingers run over your ribs, shaking as if he was afraid to even touch you. In his head, you were a goddess sent from heaven just for him. Your divine purpose to drive him mad with love and lust, his place of worship between your thighs in exchange for the intoxicating feel of you riding and milking his cock. 

His hands cup your breasts, holding and feeling their weight in his palms. Your movements make them bounce lightly, the sounds of your wetness gushing around him fill the room with your sweet little gasps. 

He thumbs over your nipples, rolling and swirling the soft buds beneath the pads. He pinches and pulls softly, relishing in the way your hips stutter and eyes close in response to the feeling. Every touch he gives you goes straight to your pussy, waves of pleasure coming over you like a rock being worn away by the sea. 

Pleasure consumes you whole, running down your spine to the tips of your fingers and toes. You feel every nerve of your body become frayed at their endings, buzzing and aching as the tight knot in your stomach builds. 

“ ‘M gonna cum,” You whimper out, thighs beginning to shake around him, muscles growing weak and tired from your riding. The steady pace you built faltered, all movement reduced to your hips weakly grinding into his lap. You thought it would help you last longer, be able to have him under you for a few minutes more. But your clit catches against the coarse hair at his base, making you whimper from the light stimulation. 

Clark only stares up at you, mesmerized at the way you use him. He hadn’t even done anything, and you’re still falling apart in his arms.

Your posture weakens, leaning forward and into him as you begin to litter small butterfly kisses around his face. Your lips wander over his mouth, trailing up his cheeks and temples as hot breathy moans escape from you. 

He tries to chase your lips with his own, nudging his head up until your foreheads are pressed together. 

“You’re so pretty baby,” He moans out, raising a hand to cup your chin with his index and thumb before pulling you into a deep kiss. His lips feel like soft pillows against your own swollen ones. 

“So good to me,” his hands wander down your back, helping your needy and increasingly sloppy attempt to get yourself off. You nod mindlessly, fingers digging into his skin as a way to ground yourself to reality. 

“Take me so good too, love watching you fall apart” He whispers against you, before punctuating the sentence with a sudden and harsh thrust up into you. 

The movement makes you lose your balance, sending you flying into his chest. He quickly secures your body close to his, wrapping his strong arms around your middle to keep you tight and still. 

He feels even deeper like this (if that was even possible). Your back is arched in a way that has your ass slightly up, tits pressed flush against his chest while your face gets buried in the junction of his neck. 

You’re even more lightheaded now, whimpering at the way his hands explore the expanse of your back before settling on your ass. 

“G-gosh, baby. You’re so tight,” Clark groans out breathlessly, sounding more wrecked than you were. 

“‘S alright though, just leave it me now, yeah?” 

He gives you no time to respond. In a second, he starts to piston into you.  

His cock thrusts in and out of you at a desperate pace. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside of you. His pace is almost animalistic, going so fast you can feel your wetness gush and spill out of you, dripping down his thickness and onto his heavy balls and your thighs. 

Your eyes roll back into their sockets, mouth parted and you’re practically wailing in pleasure. The sound fills the room, growing thick and heavy with the heat of your bodies and combined need. 

You’re drooling against his skin, biting and licking at his collar bones, leaving tiny red marks as you try not to cum. 

Clark whimpers loudly, gasping softly in between moans as his hands grip you so hard you’re sure he’s going to leave bruises. 

Groans rumble out from within his chest, shaking his body and your own as they escape. You can feel the sensation crawl from your ribs down to your thighs, finding a home right in between them. 

He’s all around you, filling your ears and body so entirely that he’s all you can think of. 

From his hard chest pressing into yours, his big strong arms holding you tight, and his heavy thick cock pushing in and out of you. It was too much. 

Your thighs shake, eyes closing shut, and you feel the knot in your stomach come undone. 

It’s quick, slamming into you without a warning. It takes your breath with it, rendering you silent and not being able to give your boyfriend a warning. 

But Clark knew, he always knows. He memorized the way your pussy gets tighter around him, growing wetter as you start to take in more and more of him in. He lives for it, dreams of it. An addict to the sweet feeling of your body falling apart  just for him. 

“So good, honey, that’s right.” He whispers sweet words into your ears each time, always choosing to run his mouth and talk you through cause he knows it only makes you cum harder. 

“Good girl, you came so quick for me, yeah? Yeah, baby, it’s okay.” 

The words are slurred, growing less coherent as he keeps thrusting up into you. His pace slows, no longer as fast but still just as desperate. 

You’ve grown limp in his arms, letting the remaining shockwaves of your orgasm wash over you. You’re not even sure they’ll ever end, for the way he keeps bottoming out and rubbing your clit against his pubic hair has your head reeling. 

“That’s right baby, take it take it take it,” He repeats the words like a prayer. 

It feels like he’s splitting you open, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and rubbing at your sweet spot like his life depends on it. 

You feel the knot start to build again, pussy fluttering and tightening around him once more. It’s weaker this time, body more sensitive and not over the first one that had pushed through you. 

It’s also messier this time. There’s tears streaming down your cheeks, lips bit raw and red from biting them. You can hear the combined wetness between you two. The sound of your arousal gushing out and no doubt staining the poor couch beneath the two of you. You feel it at the back of your thighs, coating his lower belly as his happy trail keeps rubbing and grinding against your clit. 

Shivers crawl up your spine, fingers leaving Clark’s skin raw and red as you’re sent over the edge all over again. 

The feeling is enough for him to reach that peak too. 

Soft, high pitched moans spill from his throat, rising up from so deep within his soul that you’re sure you’ve ruined him for good now. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum spill deep inside of you. Filling you to the brim and dripping out from the edges even with his cock still buried to the hilt. He keeps rutting into you softly, working through his high as his cock keeps twitching and spilling more cum inside of you. 

Deep down, he wishes that none would spill. Wants it all to stay inside, let it stick and keep you so full of him that he’s with you all the time. But stupid gravity and the ridiculous amount that he gives you always ends up leaking out and onto him. 

His hips come to a slow, finally stopping to give the two of you est. 

Sweat covers your bodies in a thin layer, lungs heaving and chests flush against each other that you’re almost certain your skin has melded with his own. 

You’re both breathing heavily, mouths agape trying to greedily swallow in all the air that escaped from your bodies. You can feel Clark’s heart pound from within his chest, beating in time and at the same speed as your own. 

In, out. In, out. 

You remind yourself all over again. 

Your eyes fall, lashes brushing against your cheeks while you press one into Clark’s shoulder. You’re facing his neck, nose nudging right at his pulse point and you relish in the soft way he keeps hugging you. 

He surrounds you entirely, filling your head and soul in a way you could never be mad about.

His hands softly massage the skin over your hips, thumbs running over the tiny indents his fingers left. Later tonight, he will bend down and try to kiss bruises away, begging for the forgiveness that you will undoubtedly give. 

He tilts his own head back to you, kissing your temples and nudging his own nose through your hair. He tries to breathe you back into him, never being able to get enough.  

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asks in a rasp, voice dry and softer than a whisper.  

There’s a sweetness in the words that make you smile. Your heart aches, a warmth different than the one you feel all over your body spreads within your chest.  

“Never better.” 

Thank you for reading </3!! Comments and reblogs are v much appreciated! If you have any insights please leave them kindly!

a/n: my first time writing for Clark, I hope to write more for him 🙂‍↕️

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

First-Aid- C. Kent

pairing: clark kent x f!reader about: Clark Kent has been in love with you since he was in high school. You have been in love with Clark Kent since he was in high school. Now you're all grown up in Metropolis, both miserable because your best friends don't love you back. Lois Lane is also miserable for related reasons, only she intends to do something about it. request! "unrequited since high school but ACTUALLY REQUITED love" a/n: also known as clark kent, lying liar who lies. this is a long one! 8k and we are dealing with idiots to lovers, which i love !! i really hope you enjoy this!! thank you so much for your request!!

You wake up to a hand jostling your shoulder. It's not unkind, as considerate as it can be in rousing you awake, and it's accompanied by your name, whispered quietly and a little strained.

You shoot up, startled, and knock your head into your intruder's chin, who says a very displeased "Ow." Clark Kent.

"Oh, just let yourself in, huh?" you tease groggily, rubbing your forehead as you reach out blindly for your lamp, trying to wake yourself up.

"Sorry," he squeezes out. "I can be a real jerk."

You slam the light on and find him standing near your bed like a very tall, badly bruised night terror, slouched to one side and holding his jaw. He's a picture of pain but gives you a smile anyway. You shoot up, grabbing hold of his arm to move him onto your bed as carefully as you can. "Why are you just standing there? Jesus Christ, Clark, you're about to collapse on yourself, lay down."

"I can't just crawl into your bed," he argues weakly. "I'm a gentleman."

"What, you have to be invited in?"

"Well," he grunts when you sit him down, "yeah."

You groan, giving him an unhappy once over that leaves you even unhappier. "Honey, I've known you since you were ten, believe me, you've been invited in. We've done worse."

"Have not," he says, wincing when you hold his jaw. You loosen your grip and give him an apologetic look.

"That's arguable," you whisper, a frown pulling at your lips as you run a thumb down his cheek. He's already swollen, blooming purple bruises already faint around his pretty eyes and an angry gash stretching from the corner of his lip. There's dried crimson along his cupid's bow. Your teasing dies on your tongue. He's stood in front of you bloody and contused over a hundred times, but it never seems to dim the way your heart squeezes painfully at the sight. "Oh, angel, what happened?"

The tips of his ears pink, glancing away from you. "You need to start watching the news. There was a giant alien like three blocks away." he says, digging in when you scowl. "I'm serious, one of these days something horrible will happen and you'll have no idea."

"Okay, well, we live in Metropolis, where something horrible happens every day," you remind him pointedly, "and I'll be fine. Superman's my best friend. You'll call before anything happens."

He sighs. "I'd argue it's still important to know. I break my phone a lot. You tend to not answer."

"I don't live in ignorance," you tell him, laying him down carefully and pulling down his suit. "I get paged, I know the extent of things, I just really don't need to know the details, Clark." You pause, the dazedness that had settled over your mind at the solidness of his chest clicking into painful focus when you spot the bad slice on his side. You suck in a painful inhale and pull open your cabinet drawer, pushing things around in a frenzy. "I can't watch it, I can't watch you—" Your voice thins out and abates. "I can't watch this happen to you."

Clark stays silent, tired blue eyes on you as you blink away the heat behind your eyes and sigh. "I don't have any more water."

"I can go get some," he offers, already moving to get off the bed, but you push him back down with a disappointed look.

"Will you just sit down? I'll be right back. I mean it, Clark, stay here."

You rush out to find your medical bag and wash your hands, finding the door to your window open a sliver, a smudge of red on the handle. You can't look away for a little, the fat of your lip finding its way beneath your teeth as you take a deep breath and shut it fully closed.

Clark's laying down when you go back inside, eyes closed and dark hair like spilled ink over your pale comforter. He's turned a little to his side, muscles tense.

"I'm gonna start cleaning you up, okay?" You stand between his bent knees, reaching over to drag a thumb a few inches over his gash, watching as he freezes for a second before letting himself relax. "Better, superboy."

"I don't want to get blood on your sheets," he says.

"I don't care if you do," you say, pulling on gloves before you start drowning gauze in sterile water, pressing them to the area around his wound as gently as you can. "They're washable for a reason."

He stays silent then, only subtle contortions of his face indicating any discomfort, but they're few. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

"I don't mind. I get lots of naps." You throw pink-stained dressing into a little plastic bag next to you, dabbing until he's clean. You look up at him. "And I missed you. I'd rather see you in one piece, but Clark Kent remains lovely Clark Kent in multiple."

He smiles lightly at you. "I missed you, too." He watches you apply an anesthetic before getting started on his stitches. "What if I go have lunch with you tomorrow? Or today, I guess."

"What if?" you tease. "That a threat, Kent?"

Not really. Just something he'd really, really like. "Basically."

"I'll come to you," you say. "I haven't seen Lois or Jimmy in a while."

"What about your job?"

"I work at a practice, we're very snooty. I have three hospital days each week, and tomorrow's not one of them."

"I know, I just don't want to steal you away from someone who needs you."

"You aren't," you promise. Quite the opposite. "And stitches are all finished."

"Don't know how you do it, doc. Didn't even notice." He looks down at his side in admiration, raising his arms and wiggling his fingers. "Magic hands."

"Magic medicine," you correct, peeling off your gloves. You stretch to pull open your bottom drawer, tossing Clark an old sleep shirt he'd left behind on another 'emergency.' The man has a habit of tearing off his clothes to save the world and just leaving them on your floor.

"It definitely has something to do with you," he insists, muttering his gratitude as he pulls it on. You shake your head at him, standing to help when he pulls at his stitches.

"Lay down," you instruct, setting yourself down beside him. He follows orders pliantly, lowering his head onto your lap so you can get cleaning. You sigh softly; even with a puffy, splotchy face, he's still gorgeous. The audacity.

You squirt out sanitizer onto your hands and rub it in before putting on another set of gloves, craning over him to see the extent of his bruises. He clears his throat, attempting to avoid your eye and not doing a very good job of it.

You don't notice, focused on the weeping cut near his lip, and get to work in silence. He stares up at your ceiling in the meantime, tracing the stars he'd helped you pin up there. It reminds him of your room back at Smallville, of you doing this with less practiced hands on simpler wounds. He misses things a little less here.

"How was the date with Lois?" you ask once you've finished applying antiseptic to his lip with a cotton swab, feeling your insides twist with a longed-for ignorance that you won't allow yourself.

He goes to purse his lips but stops himself when you tap his jaw in disapproval. "Um. It was good, we went to that restaurant you told me about. I got the pasta, you were right, it was delicious."

You laugh softly, leaning a little closer and hoping his eyes are shut and can't see your taut smile. You like Lois, you really do—she's whip-smart and brave, and she'll love Clark where you can't. She never needs saving. It still aches. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. But how was the date?"

His cheek jumps. "Okay."

"Okay? You usually give me details," you say, feeling every single one he's ever told you scorch your skin. You'll take another, you'll take a hundred if he wants you to have them, but a goodnight kiss with Incredible Lois might make you keel over. The selfishness of it makes you angry with yourself. Clark's the greatest friend you have—the kindest person you've ever met, and you can't suck it up to be happy for him?

"You're right, uh, she looked really nice. This red dress. We talked about work. She's great, I'm just..." he trails off. "I don't think it's meant to be."

The relief is terrible, a sick, sad feeling replacing it soon after. "I'm sorry, Clark."

"Ah, don't be."

"I am, though," you say, having moved on to his eye. "You're... you're everything. You're all the good in the world in one package and you deserve to be happy." You mean it so much, your face sets resolutely, tamping down the nerves rolling in your stomach. "Like sticky, gross, annoying happy," you say, a lilt in your tone.

He shifts under your gaze, bright eyes set on yours. "Maybe the next date will be better," you say, as hopeful as you can muster. His eyebrows knot. You clear your throat and tap at an unmarred patch of skin under his eye. "No bleeding. That's a win, superboy."

"I tried," he says, quiet.

You reach over to your nightstand and grab a little white tube, smearing a cool gel on every sore part of his face—which is, well, most of it, but he doesn't mind, letting his eyes fall closed.

When you finish, he's asleep, face tilted toward the soft of your stomach and snoring lightly. You push everything you'd used into the trash bag and pull a silky blanket over his chest before you let yourself really look at him, a tentative hand reaching down to push hair away from his eyes. He makes a soft noise, sighing quietly as he turns into your touch.

It gets a little painful, then, chewing on your lip as you stare at your favorite boy under your fingers, always available a word away, but never in the way you want him. He loves you and you love him and you can feel it so earnestly, you could swear it was tangible. You know you can be happy having him like this, to have him at all, but you'll never feel satisfied, having him in your reach but just out of touch.

But moments like these, when he's beneath your sheets, in your silly Hello Kitty band-aids, snoring lightly on your lap, it's easy to pretend. You sit back against your headboard and close your eyes, fingers carding through his curls until you fall asleep.

He's gone when you wake up the next day, tucked into your bed with a blanket that smells like him gathered underneath your chin. There's a note next to your alarm with a scrawled THANK YOU, a little smiley face right beneath it. You laugh, noting the trash bag you'd dumped everything in last night is gone before you start getting ready.

On your way out, you see the blood has been cleaned off your window.

-

Clark is waiting for you when you arrive at the Daily Planet, brightening up the moment he spots you. He looks so nice, it almost makes you angry, with his curls dark and styled and his glasses halfway down his nose. He dons a dove grey suit and a mismatched tie you'd given him for his birthday.

"Hey, sugar," you greet, giving him the half hug you can afford when you're close enough. He smells nice and squeezes you back, eyes crinkled happily when you pull away to see them.

"You brought lunch?" he asks, taking the bags from your arms and peeking in.

"Only your favorite. Am I the best or what?"

"Or what. It was my turn to pay."

You roll your eyes and tut in offense. "You say that every single time we go out, Clark."

"I hate it when you lie," he says, annoyingly genuinely, a stupid little smile on his lips betraying his teasing. You shove at him.

"I hate it when you're annoying. Can we go have lunch please?"

He laughs, the blue of his eyes sparkling in the way you like so much as he walks you to the elevator. "We can eat at my desk. Lois was asking about you, I promised." The doors part and you enter, pressing the button to the right floor. Clark holds the door for a flustered man carrying a stack of disorganized papers. He ducks his chin at him before settling back next to you. "I'll pull out a chair. Linda's still not back."

"Still in Spain?"

"So they say."

"So they say?" you laugh. "Lois is starting to rub off on you."

"Those were her words," he admits, sheepish. You laugh, the elevator opening to let you out.

"You need to be more original," you tell him seriously. "That's always been your problem."

He pinches at your arm lightly. "You're very unkind lately."

Jimmy spots you first, rolling away from his desk as he says your name. You give him a delighted hello.

Lois looks up from her work and smiles, a salad next to her keyboard. "Haven't seen you in a while. Kent keeping you hostage?"

"More so work. But also him. He's immensely jealous of what we have."

Lois shrugs. "Who wouldn't be?"

Clark shakes his head from next to you, sweeping miscellaneous things off his desk to set the food down. He stretches over to tug a chair over from next to him, sitting down at the short end of his desk. He's bent awkwardly, too tall for his temporary chair. Cat waves at you excitedly, blowing you a kiss when you wave back.

"Everyone likes you so much more than me," he whispers from the side of his mouth, a little cube of speared beef on his fork. Your own plate is open in front of your seat.

"I have a certain charm."

"Yes, you do," he mutters, chewing.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says innocently, shoving more food into his mouth. You observe him suspiciously. "This is really good," he says once he swallows. "Ten out of ten."

"You're so weird recently."

"He's been weird," Lois pipes up, the tip of her fork between her teeth. Jimmy shakes his head like it's a secret between the two of you.

"Jimmy. You eat yet?"

"Hey, yeah, I have. Eve brought me lunch a few hours ago."

"Cute," you say, turning to see Clark scraping carrot slices onto a lid next to your plate. "She asked me for a recipe the other day, how'd it turn out?"

He makes a face halfway between thoughtful and pained. "Not great. But the effort was. I think she used sugar instead of salt. Interesting texture. But not bad," he responds. Someone calls his name angrily, and he cringes, ducking his chin at you before taking off. You sit in Clark's seat at the desk, popping open your takeout box to begin eating. Clark reaches over from in front of you to pick out the little pieces of bacon, popping the last one into his mouth.

"Thank you," you say, curling strands of pasta around your fork, kicking your feet. "How's work been?"

He hurries to swallow, expression bright when he reaches over to pull an article from a cabinet underneath his desk. "Good. Here, Dottie had this interview I thought was nice."

You wipe your fingers on a napkin and take the paper, grinning when you see a picture of a very old dog, a birthday hat strapped to his head. "Ohh my gosh," you lament preemptively, hand to your heart.

Clark laughs, taking another bite of his fancy beef bourguignon before tapping your wrist with his index. "That dog just turned twenty-one. He can legally drink."

"You're saying we have one of the oldest dogs in the world here in Metropolis?"

"We do."

You hold your head in your hands, paper trapped under your elbow. "I could cry."

"Now, don't cry," he says, eyebrows set deploringly.

"What's his name?" you ask, grabbing his hand desperately. "Please, Clark."

He snorts, tapping at the excerpt beneath the photograph. "It's right here, goofball. His name is Steven."

You put down your food and drop your head on the desk, Clark's quickly-placed hand taking the impact. He doesn't even flinch, shoveling another forkful into his mouth.

"Thought you'd enjoy that," he says, pleased with himself.

You gripe dramatically. "This is news, Clark. This is the important stuff. This is why I subscribe to the Daily Planet."

"Ah, gee, and here I thought it was for me." He sighs, faux-sad.

"Yeah, yeah, you too," you agree dismissively, still pressed to his desk.

He taps your forehead. "C'mon, your pasta's getting cold."

You lift your head up with great difficulty, laying it on a palm as you continue eating. "Can I keep it?"

"Yeah, f'course, that's why I printed out that copy. I'll let Dottie know of your praise." He frowns at you, rubbing at your cheek with a napkin.

"Oh, she'll know," you say surely, taking it from him. You look at it to discover pencil marks. "Do you guys get a lot of fan mail?"

"I do." He's smug when he gestures to the post-its pinned on the wall with a tack. Your own writing is on them, referring to articles he'd written. There's a newspaper clipping, one of his first, that has a giant red smile and excited black text, smudged but still readable.

"You put those up?" you ask, a little shocked you hadn't noticed his wall grow. "Pa Kent would be proud. Last time I visited, he still had every drawing you'd ever made. The best ones are still on the fridge, best being subjective, of course."

Clark makes a disgruntled noise around his food. "Subjective!" he scoffs after a heavy swallow. "Can I plead seven years old?"

"No. I'm pretty sure the most recent was only a few months old. Could barely tell, by the way."

"He kept that?" Clark rubs at his temple. "I was trying to show him how high up the tree this cat was. I showed you. It was impressive, you know that."

"That was a cat? I remember your story, that did not paint it well."

"Okay, Monet. Let's see you do better." He pushes a notepad over to you, a pen you quickly identify as yours next to it. You take another bite before drawing out a simple cat. Clark makes a scornful noise. "Okay fine, so that looks like a cat."

You giggle, delightedly biting into one of his carrots. Clark bites down a smile, furrowing his brow even harder.

"Wait, 'Pa Kent'... Clark's dad? You know Clark's dad?" Lois asks, edging a little closer. You look up at her and wipe your lips with a napkin.

"Yeah, we were neighbors."

"Back in Tiny Town?"

"Smallville, and yes. I thought you knew." You glance over at Clark, who shrugs as he scrapes at his plate. You spoon some of your pasta onto his own lid, trying to not read too much into the conversation.

"I thought you and Clark met here," Lois continues, scanning you up and down. "You don't really scream small town."

"Thank you?" you say unsurely, looking black at Clark, who does kind of scream small town, now that you look at him. "Yeah, we met when we were little. Same class in elementary, middle, and high school."

"We were neighbors," Clark pipes up.

"What was he like?" Lois asks, intrigued as you've seen her. Your heart smacks against your ribs and Clark groans.

"He's been the same since always. Sunshine in a bottle, just, the bottle has been getting bigger." You search for something more to say, trying to strike the balance between smooth wingwoman and throwing Clark at Lois naked, but she moves on before you can think further.

"And you two have always been friends?" she asks, looking between the both of you. "Just friends?"

You shift uncomfortably, avoiding Clark's eyes. "Yeah."

"Interesting," she murmurs, her pen tapping against her notepad. "Just, friends since elementary? It just seems unlikely."

"Lois," Clark sighs.

"I'm just asking," she says, looking straight at you. "We just had this thing in high school, but we patched it up. Not that there was much to patch up." Clark freezes next to you, swallowing hard.

"Meaning what?" Lois pushes.

You laugh nervously. "Why do I feel like I'm being interrogated?" Clark grumbles something like you are.

Lois smiles lightly. "Just making conversation. Getting to know a little more about our little Clark Kent."

"We just got a little distant," you explain. "Nothing juicy there, sorry."

Lois nods, finally backed off. You've never been on that end of her reporter side, and you're more grateful than ever.

You eat the last of your food and look at the time. "Aw, damn, I have to get going. I have a patient in fifteen."

Clark's diligent in cleaning off his desk, dumping everything into the trash can next to him. "I'll walk you."

"Uh, no you won't," Clark's editor says, pointing at him. "We need to talk." He looks at you and smiles lightly with a polite hello.

You offer him a little wave, giving Clark a goodbye and good luck before you leave, one hand dragging the chair he borrowed back to its rightful place and the other folding the article he'd given you into your bag. "I can at least walk her to the elevator, right?" you hear him say, steps following before Perry can respond. "I'll just be one minute."

"Clark," you say in disapproval when he appears next to you. "You're gonna get in trouble. I promise I can walk the ten steps to the elevator myself."

"Ah, but should you?" he chimes, pressing the button before you can. "Text me when you get there," he requests, adjusting the strap of your bag.

"I will," you promise, watching him stand with his hands in his pockets until the door closes. "Silly man," you murmur, pulling out the dog article. At the top edge, Clark has written your name in careful block letters, thought you'd LOVE!! right underneath. He's drawn little hearts around Steve's birthday hat. Your heart squeezes painfully.

-

Those three silly letters haunt you for days. You pin the article up next to your bed, but every time you look at it, you spend a second feeling mushy about Steven, the twenty-one year old dog, and then the rest of the day feeling unsettled about Clark.

Your favorite thing about him is how purely kind he is, thoughtful about every move he makes, yet it's exactly that driving you insane. You lay in your bed and think, wondering about how unfair it is to have someone so good love you like he does and have it not be enough, because you want it to be. You want to be satisfied with your best friend Clark with a period at the end, but every time you think about it, you're overcome with a unique sense of loneliness that infuriates you.

Why do you need to eat your cake and have it, too? You've never thought about yourself as selfish, but you feel the definition of it when you think about him.

A tinny little song drags you out of sulking, lifting your head from your pillow a tiresome affair. An old picture of Mrs. Kent lights your phone, and you jump to answer it.

Her voice is muffled, but just as sweet as it's always been when she says your name.

"Mrs. Kent," you say. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes, yes, everything is fine!" She's crackly, fluctuating in volume as she moves her phone around. "Goodness—I can't figure this fancy thing out. Usually someone helps me, but I was tryin' to call you yesterday and I ended up talkin' to this woman for half an hour. I ain't even realize it was Catherine 'til—you remember Catherine, right? She was your teacher, yours and Clark's, I think... maybe tenth grade. Or was it sixth, oh gosh..."

You laugh. "It's okay, you're calling me now. And I believe Miss Catherine was sixth. How's she doing?"

"Oh, she's great. She's a grandma now. She asked about you and Clark. Very nice woman still."

"How are you doing? How's Mr. Kent?"

She says your name again, this time lightly scolding. "He's outside. Now, please, you can call us Martha and Jonathan. Or Ma and Pa. You've known us long enough. All this Mister and Missus business... you're a doctor now! All grown up."

"Force of habit. I'll try, though."

"All I ask. Oh, I wanted to talk to you, but you're so busy. Clark told me you're replacin' another doctor or somethin'. Work for two."

"Never too busy to pick up," you promise, entirely honest. You'd drop everything for the Kents. Each and every one of them. "One of the doctors at the clinic is on vacation for a week, so I'm picking up her emergent patients. It's not too bad, you know how he likes to exaggerate."

"He's been tellin' me about you, like always. 'Told me you don't watch the news."

"Gosh, he is such a blabbermouth," you say, deeply displeased. Martha laughs. "He always has been, I love him more than life, but he can really only keep the one secret, huh?"

"You really should," she says your name in that motherly way that makes you feel young again, fifteen with a giant crush on the one person you shouldn't, crying into his mother's shoulder. "It's dangerous, I hear all these things happenin' over there, and I worry. About you, about Clark."

You soften immediately. "You don't have to. Lois and Jimmy send me updates. Clark does, too. I just, I can't watch. I can't read anything that mentions him. It's always him getting hurt.'Superman's close call,' new weaponry made specifically for him—I can't." Your voice thins out and abates. "I can't watch it happen to him. It's bad enough that it happens in the first place."

A soft sigh crackles through your phone's speaker. "I know, honey. I understand." There's something solemn in her voice. She understands what you mean ten times as much. "I'll talk to 'im."

"You don't have to do that, I'll figure out a way to explain it to him. It's just..." you drift off, unsure how to continue.

"He worries about you, too. Probably about the same I do." The phone crackles.

"Maybe more." Pa suddenly joins in, voice a little breathy. He shuffles in close and you can picture the both of them on the phone. "Hi sweetheart. Man, it's hot out."

You chuckle. "I bet. Hi Pa."

"He called the other day to tell me you've been actin' weird 'cuz you didn't respond right. 'M not sure what that means, but I was supposed to mention it to ya."

You bite the inside of your cheek and stare at the words again. "I'll fix it," you tell him.

"That's not why he wanted me to tell ya." He pauses. "You alright?"

"I will be," you say after a second, as honest as you can be.

"That's all we need to know," he tells you. Your face crumples, a palm coming up to wipe at your eyes.

"Thank you," you say. "I miss you guys."

"Aw, darlin', us too," Ma pipes in. "Pa's been out busy with the cows and I've been makin' that pie you like. When are you gonna come visit again? Clark said he'd bring you last time."

"I think he said he'd fly me out next week on my day off," you pause, recalling the basket of apples he'd left on your counter when he'd came back, eyes bright and smile animated. I think they miss you more than they do me. "I'll ask him. But soon, I swear."

"We'll hold you to that," Ma says, Pa's muffled voice crackling something in accord. "We'll let ya go now. Talk to you soon, baby."

"Love you."

"Love you too," they chime, the line disconnecting.

You sigh and splay out on your bed, grateful it's the weekend. You're on call and hoping for no emergencies, aching for something sweet and a night sulking on your couch. One dramatic evening before you pull on your big-girl pants and shove your feelings down far enough to be A Good Friend And That's It for the week.

You're pulling up the map for your favorite cupcake place when your window rattles, a quiet rap following soon after. When you peek out, Superman is standing on your balcony, cape flapping gently behind him, but the way he looks at you is all Clark Kent.

There's a trickle of red staining his forehead, but he offers you a small smile like it's an afterthought, waiting for you to open the door. You cock your head at him in confusion.

"Clark, my door is open. You can just come in, you know that," you chide as you help him inside.

"Why is your door open?" he asks, wanting to say something else. "What happened to safety?" he scolds back, a conflicted pull to his face as you pull him onto a chair. He sits down as you move to grab your first aid kit, but he's standing again when you turn to him.

"What are you doing? Sit down, you know I can't reach—"

He shakes his head, focused. "I have to tell you something."

"Let me fix you up first—"

"No." He glances up at you, wringing his hands. "No—I'm sorry, I have to tell you now. Or I'm gonna lose my nerve."

"Okay," you say slowly, sitting down and watching him pace around your apartment, taking a deep breath. He turns to you and hesitates, a distressed little crease between his brows that makes your stomach jump in nerves.

"I don't know how to do this," he mutters. "Lois made this sound so easy," he breathes.

Lois' name piques your attention, and you lean forward unconsciously. "Is this about her? Did something happen with Lois?"

Clark's jaw twitches. "No. Yes. And no, yes and no."

You feel hot hot hot as he struggles, an idea of what he might be talking about making you a little nauseous. "I'm gonna need a little more than that. Are you guys... did you fix it with her?"

"I... there wasn't anything to fix. She just, she told me things I needed to hear, things I need to say," he meets your eyes and finally stills, "to you."

"You're being really vague here, Clark," you say anxiously. "Good or bad?"

"I'm sorry. I really am, I'm just not sure yet."

"Okay." You chew on your lip and think, getting to your feet again. "I'm sure whatever it is, we can fix," you promise, as reassuring as you can be. Your hands itch to grasp his, but you stop yourself. "Or get through. Or—whatever, we'll do it. Just say it. It'll be fine."

He still looks a little lost before he sighs. "Do you know why it didn't work out with Lois?"

You're caught off guard by his question, "No," you say. "I really don't. She's spectacular and you're spectacular, I really thought it would have—hoped it would have."

A flash of hurt crosses his face. "Hoped?"

"Yes," you say like it's obvious. It should be, you think, and feel unreasonably awful that he has to ask. "Of course, Clark, you're both so... I thought you'd be good for one another. That you'd be happy. That's all I want for you."

There's sadness in the way he looks at you, perplexing you to no end. "And you think I'll be happy with Lois."

"Yes. She's so amazing, Clark, she's so smart and beautiful, and she's clever! And she'll challenge you in these ways that—" that I can't, "that are going to push you to be even better. She's the best woman I know, and you deserve the best. I mean—"

"Stop," he interrupts, voice rough. "Stop it, I don't want her. I don't want Lois, okay? Not like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I got to the date and we sat down and we did all the right date things and it should have been nice, I tried to make it nice, but I can't. And she could tell, you know everyone can tell?"

"Tell what?" you ask, baffled.

The minute the words leave your mouth, Clark's face falls, a devastated look you'd never seen on him. He says your name a little desperately, about to say more when an explosion from behind him knocks you off balance.

He's quick to steady you, mood entirely changed as he looks out the window. There's screaming that makes him tense, making him feel even taller than he is and pull you a little closer. His chin grazes your skin when he turns back to you, a desperate look in his eyes when they flicker down. "I—"

Your screaming pager cuts him off, making you flinch out of his hold. "Fuck," you mumble, searching for your bag. You wince when you see it. "I've got an emergency," you say, hurriedly putting things away.

He clears his throat, shaking himself out of whatever trance he was under. "Yeah. Yeah, me too."

He steps toward the balcony but pauses for a second to look at you. "I'll be back. To finish... this and—" he gestures toward his face. "I'll be here."

You nod hurriedly, heaving your bag over your shoulder. "Okay. I'll be back as soon as I can. Be safe."

"You too," he says, giving you one more glance before he takes off with a sharp breeze.

-

You're finally out a few hours later, emotionally and physically exhausted as you trudge out of the hospital. You have fifteen minutes to get your cupcake before the place closes, and you've gathered every ounce of strength that you've managed to cling to to race there when you hear your name.

Lois stands a few feet away, the sleeves of a dark fitted blazer pushed up to her elbows and an edge tucked into the waistband of fitted pressed pants. Her backpack is hooked on her elbow. "Hey." She looks you up and down, sharp features gathering.

"Hey," you say back, attempting a smile. "How are you doing?"

She doesn't answer, shifting her weight and stepping closer. She silent for a second. "Let's go get a coffee," she says, not asking. "You look like you need it."

"Oh. Okay. Mind if I choose?"

She shifts on her feet. "Not at all."

The Flour Furnace has three cupcakes left when you get there, and you're not choosy, you're starving and still a little sad, and you think the young boy at the counter—as embarrassing as it is—can tell, because he puts them all in your box after charging you for one. You hand Lois her coffee and set your box down in between the both of you on the little terrace outside of the shop.

"I know you said no cupcake, but they're there if you change your mind." You pop open the box. "There's vanilla, red velvet, and churro."

Lois looks at you for a second before thanking you.

You frizzle with nerves, closing the scalloped box. You're too nauseous now to eat one, pinching the thin curl of the napkin you'd brought over. "What's wrong?"

"I think I should ask you that."

You smile tightly. "I'm not sure what you mean. I've just had a long case."

Lois bites the edge of her lip, looking thoughtful. When she speaks, she's cautious. "I like to think I'm a good reporter because I notice things about people. I know how they might react and I know how to pull that from them. But most importantly, I know how to read them." Her finger drags along the side of her coffee cup, eyeing you heavily. "I'm getting that there is something wrong. And I'm guessing it has something to do with Clark moping around the office for the past few days."

Your cheek twitches, fingers ripping a stretch of napkin.

She leans a little closer, her face softening. "I'm your friend, too. I know I see Clark every day and we text every other week if it's not for some statewide alarm, but I care about you and I'm here to help if you want me." Her mouth curves into a light smile. "I've heard I'm pretty good at it."

You sigh softly, shrugging. "We had bit of an argument." You chuckle. "We don't really argue a whole lot. I guess we don't handle it all that well."

"I got that," she says, leaning back into her seat. "Is that why he's been frowning every time he looks at his phone?"

"No, no, the argument was only today," you say. "I've just been thinking." Your face screws up like you're in pain, and you meet her eye. "I know this is going to sound... insanely and disgustingly self-centered, but was it my fault you guys didn't have a second date?"

Lois looks surprised for a moment, but her voice is steady when she answers. "Yes."

Your face falls, a terrible ache of guilt gnawing at your edges. Your fingers tingle as they tear your napkin into little squares, cut in half and another half and another until you have to move on to a fresh piece. "I'm so sorry—"

"But not in the way you think," she continues, slow.

You scoff lightly. "What way am I thinking?"

"You're thinking it's because you're in love with him," she says, taking a sip of her coffee, as if she hasn't just said a devastating truth.

You still for a moment before slumping in surrender, a bitter edge as you say yeah. "That would probably create issues." You give a little sigh, biting the inside of your cheek. You look remarkably sorry when you speak again. "I didn't mean to," you say quietly. "I'm not going to act on it and he doesn't know."

"I know. Believe me, I know." Lois straightens, putting her coffee down. "But that's not why we didn't work out. I mean, it's part of it, but I think the fact that he's crazy about you is what convinced me."

You deflate. "What?"

Lois' eyes flicker all over your face. "Most people, with a little observation, can figure out how you feel about him." She watches your breath stall. "But everyone can see he feels the same way."

"Lois—" you start tiredly, but she stops you, eyes set.

"Come on. He doesn't stop talking about you—I think I know more about you from him than from you—he takes at least ten pictures a day to send to you, he's going on dates for you—he told me that, you know? That he's trying to get out there because you told him it'd be good for him. He—"

You shake your head, a building heat prickling your eyes. "You're misinterpreting things."

"I didn't think there was a way to misinterpret any of that until this conversation."

"Lois..."

"You don't think it means anything because it's been this way your whole life. Because he's been like this your whole life, but think about it for a moment."

"Why wouldn't he say anything?"

"Why haven't you?"

You fall silent then. Smiling tightly, tears clinging to your bottom lashes before you can help them. "I can't risk it. Not with him."

She reaches over to hold your hands, little dots of fuzzy napkin jumping around you. "Believe me when I say this is a sure thing. Please put us all out of our misery and get Superman to stop pouting."

Your eyebrows jump and she winks with a squeeze of your hands. "He really just tells everyone," you whisper in disbelief.

"Yeah, I'm not sure how he knows how to keep a secret."

You laugh, a tinkling sound that finally feels genuine, feeling lighter than you have in weeks. Your phone lights up with a text and you bristle at the time. "Oh, I've got to get going. Clark had that weird alien thing before we talked and he's probably waiting for me to clean him up."

Lois' face screws up in confusion. "You clean him up?"

"Well, I'm his only doctor friend and he can't heal unless someone else has started first aid."

Lois frowns. "What are you talking about? He has his own freaky castle with robots that do that for him."

Your face creases, confused. "He told me he couldn't go until I—wait, he told you about the fortress? For the love of—"

Lois' mouth sets with a warily knowing curve, tilting her chin in amusement. "I think Clark Kent has been lying to you."

"Yeah," you sputter out, "Since high school."

Lois tuts. "Turns out he can keep a secret after all."

Oh, you think, utterly confused. He's been putting off swift, more manageable healing for decades to come get uselessly stitched up and stuck with bright bandages by you. Oh.

You wonder if your realization is written across your face when Lois looks thrilled, standing from her seat as you shove your phone into your bag and begin cleaning up, hands unsteady.

Lois waits at your side, finishing off her coffee as she gestures at the mess of napkin you've brushed into a cupped palm, amusement lining her lips. "He did the same thing when I had this conversation with him, by the way. Left a huge mess at the restaurant." She smiles at you and bids you goodbye, leaving you a little stunned as you examine the past week with new lenses. You hurry to dump your trash, moving a step faster toward your apartment with everything that clicks silently.

Clark is seated on your couch when you push your door open, flushed and breathless. He's out of his supersuit and in the clothes he'd left behind, a strange combination of work slacks and one of his soft casual shirts as he talk quietly to himself. He looks adorable, dark curls messy as they fall on his forehead.

His head immediately snaps to you when you push open the door, shooting to his feet to take your bag.

"You got cupcakes," he notes, scanning you down. "And you're wearing scrubs."

"Yeah," you say simply, unable to stop staring at his nervous chattering as he peeks at the squished cupcakes and sets them inside your fridge. He's helping you out of your coat before you can fully shrug it off, laying it across your kitchen seat.

"The explosion didn't turn out to be too bad. No one got hurt, it was a warning more than anything. It was just... messy. I just, I wanted to continue our conversation so I came straight here. I hope that's okay."

"That's okay," you say softly.

Now that he's closer, he smells like soap, curls glossy and near inky. You pause and realize he smells like you, floral and bright, with sweet undertones of your shampoo. Clark's still mumbling something about aliens, and you reach out to squeeze his wrist, wanting to hear his voice as you always are, but set on a particular goal tonight.

It works as it usually does, tenderly snapping his attention back to you. He looks at you intently, glimpsing down at where your skin meets and then back to you again. You start to feel silly with your foolishness when his eyes trace down your face, shoulders relaxing as he moves to hold and squeeze your hand in thanks. He can't help his smile, sweet dimples pronounced.

"Sorry," he says. "I wanted to tell you something. I think I have to."

He's anxious again, but it's kinder this time, a determined look in his eyes. You're finally ready to listen, unsure how you could have ever missed it when he sets his hands on your shoulders and his eyes meet yours, the same as they've always looked at you, but now with meaning you feel you've just found an interpreter for. You smile softly, as quietly encouraging as you can be.

"Go ahead," you tell him, aching to hear it. Lois' assumptions are one thing, but hearing it curved in his voice is something entirely different.

"I—" He pauses. You hold your breath, gaze dragging along the shrewd charcoal of his lashes, their cautious pinch. "Wait a second," he says, beginning to turn away.

"Oh my god, Clark," you huff, fisting your hands in his shirt and yanking him toward your mouth. He responds immediately, hands hesitant as they settle on your hips, grasping a little more confidently as you pull him closer. "I'm in love with you too," you say against him, immediately inspiring his hands to drop and lift you for better access.

"I couldn't wait anymore, I'm sorry," you apologize, not really meaning it when he sucks on your bottom lip. He shakes his head.

"I got... I got you flowers," he says, panting. His eyes are sparkly, lips red as he gestures vaguely behind him. There's a smattering of pale pink and white peeking out of his bag. He grasps your chin and drags a thumb over the seam of your mouth, a little dazed with the vibrations of your endeared coo. "Didn't want them to get squished," he continues distractedly, kissing you again, flowers forgotten. "I'll get you more."

He swallows your giddy laughter, humming into you as your fingers crawl higher to tangle in his hair.

He winces but chases your mouth when you withdraw in alarm.

"Clark," you manage between short, dizzying kisses. "What was that?"

He looks slightly annoyed as you lean back to search along his forehead, the little trail of blood he'd come to get fixed up coming back to you.

"A concussion, probably," he says, brushing his nose against yours. His grin is wide against you. "It's fine."

"It's not fine," you laugh, but nip at him anyway. He groans, retaliating with a squeeze of your hip. "Let me fix you up," you tell him, holding his face in your hands.

He puts you down like it's hard to do so, smoothing out your shirt and grazing a thin stripe of skin as he does so, leaving a tingling streak in its wake. You tug him into your room, sitting him down on the bed and gently pushing his hair back. He lays an arm across your waist when you step closer, marveling at the fact he can.

"I heard something interesting today," you say as you examine him.

"I did too," he says, so sweetly earnest it almost makes you feel bad for teasing him.

"I heard... that you don't actually need me to fix you up." Clark stills, looking guilty. "Apparently, the Fortress does all that for you."

He grimaces. "Who told you that?"

You stop your charade and pull back a little, bewildered. "Are you insane? You're in pain and instead of going straight to feel better, you make a pit stop here so I can poke at you?"

He lifts a hesitant edge of his lip. "You do it better than the robots?"

"Clark..."

"I wanted to see you," he admits. "Don't you remember that time you found me when we were fourteen? I was bleeding and I didn't want Ma or Pa to see and you just... nodded and helped me into your room. You made me feel better. You've been making me feel better. Makes up for an hour of sore ribs. I swear."

You don't look forward to the day he figures out you'd do anything he asks if he looks at you like that, pliant like butter in the sun when you soften.

"It's not too bad," you murmur, tilting his chin back to observe his eyes. "No concussion."

When the medical fog clears, you realize you're standing between his legs, his nose an inch from yours and his gaze stuck on you. He smiles like he's sick with it and presses a soft kiss to your lips, the kindest one you've shared. "You know, I didn't get to say it," he says.

You hum, a little dizzy.

"That I love you. I'm in love with you. Have been since... gosh, I can't even remember." His thumb drags achingly on your cheek. "I really wanted to say it out loud."

Your fingers crawl up to hold his jaw, thumbs pressing where you know his dimples will indent. "Me too."

An hour later, you're changed into softer clothes, laying on your bed with Clark's head on your stomach. You can't quite get over this, the dichotomy of touching him now, the same skin that's met for decades in the same way with the same amount of love, but this time, your fingers can dip down, can dig into the little cleft in his chin and pull him to your eager mouth and have him respond in kind. It's different. But it's nice. Kind of everything you've been missing.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

American Beauty/American Psycho (Part 2)

DESCRIPTION: You go to the hospital to find the family you saved

WORD COUNT: 1530

A/N: Don't worry - next part will have our favourite psychotic superhero in

From Beginning / Previous / Next / Master List

WARNINGS: swearing, talk of trauma, chapter is based in a hospital

DISCLAIMERS

-  This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

-  Not been proof read

"Holy fuck". You look up from your book. The echo of your boss ringing through the library as you sit behind the counter. He comes over. Hand around his phone and a donut. "holy fuck".

"You said that already". He places his phone down onto the desk. A pictre of you on screen.

"Not only have you made headlines" He reaches into his back pokcet. Taking out a roled up newspaper. Unraveling it the best he can with one hnd. Laying it flat on the counter top. The same picture visible. "Youe made front cover".

"Its really not that big a deal"

"I beg to fucking differ". You roll your eyes. Fosucing onto your book agin. "Evie?" You ignoe him He rolls the newspaper up. Hitting the counter top with it. You jump.

"Jesus chrust man".

"Do you know what this could do for our business?"

"I really dont care"

"You are the woman who saves lives. People are dying to meet you. To find out your name". You len forward.

"Those people need to get a life". You smile. You pull your book back out. Paying him half mind as you pretend to ead. Leaning backwards.

"I dont think you understand what this means"

"Yes I do". You place your bookmark onto the table before you. "Peoples lives get saved every day. War heroes. Superheroes. Nurses and doctors". You put your eyes onto your book. "Media just wants to make a buck out of a name that they think they can explout. They do not care about who is behind it. If they really cared about that factor then they would use their media power and create films about people that the public actually care about". He frowns slightly.

"they literally brought out a new movie about The Seven last week"

"You know what I mean". He gives an annoyed sigh. Picking his phone up.

"I think you're making a huge istake Evelyn"

"Oh we on full name basis now". You smile. Glancing to him. "I mustve annoyed you to get that reaction from you". He shakes his head. Taking a bite of his donought. You put your book down. Resting the open pages onto your chest. "Did you actually go to the bakery and get yourself a donut and not me?" He looks down. Thn back at you.

"I thought you were on a diet". He mumbles through dough.

"Absolute bullshit". You say. Grabbing your bookmark and placing it into the book. Shoving it into your bag as you lift it onto your shoulder.

"Where are you going?" You double check for your purse before looking at him.

"My lunch break". He looks at his phone. 12:07. "Youre three hours late to work. Im going for lunch". You go over to the door. The little dingle of the bell filling your ears as you start to walk to the small bakery in town.

CLOSED FOR LUNCH

You glare at the sign. You had food with you. But you wanted a donut. And the closest bakery that sell half decent donuts was another 20 minute walk. You look back at the direction youd just come from. A defeated sigh leaving your lips. Adjusting the bag onto your shoulder again as you start walking towards the next pastry shop.

You walk for around 10 minutes. Debating on how long you could justify your break to be. Normally you have half an hour but you reckon you could squeeze it to be 45 minutes. Allowing you time to eat your food before making your way back to work. You'll get Lucas a coffee too. Hes always more leniant on your work schedule when you bring him caffeine.

Your mind gets drawn to a van. Driving on the road next to you. One of those news vans. Watching as it turns right into the street. Curiosty peaking as you go to cross the street. Looking in you see the news van start to unload and set up their gear. In front of the hospital. You stop. Looking at it. The image of the woman from yesterday appearing in your mind. Her surrounded by medics. Her children scared.

You nervously clutch at your bag. Tilting your head as you start to make a bee line for the front door. The automatic doors opening before you. The smell of hospital hitting your nose as you enter the buildiing. You freeze. Shcok setting in at the setting. The door still open behind you. Unable to shut due to you blocking the sensors.

You hear a cough. Not a sickly cough. More one to get your attention. Eyes darting to the cause of the noise. A woman smiles at you from behind the desk. "everything alright ma'am?". You go over. Hands clutching your bag tightly.

"I was just wondering if someone was here?"

"Do you have a name?" You shake your head.

"There was an house fire last night. A woman and two children, boy and girl. I was wondering if they were here?"

"Are you a relative?"

"No"

"Im sorry Im unable to disclose any information about them to you". You swallow deeply. Blinking your eyes a few times.

"I umm I was the one who saved them. I just wanted to make sure they are ok?" She looks at you. Obviously trying to decide somethng.

"One second". She turns to her computer screen. Typing sometig in. You assume it to be some sort of medical thing shes looking up. The legality of telling a straner if someone is ok.

In reality she was googling the fire incicent last night. Getting a picture up of the unknown hero so she could compare the picture to you. Once shed done this she would determine where to go from there.

She glances back to you. Then her screen. It was you. Same hair colour. Skin tone. The image she was looking at was blurry but it was certainly you. She looks at you. "Unless you are a relative then I am unable to allow you access to any patients here. However I understand your circamstances. The two children are ok. The young girl has smoke inhalation but she will be fine. The mother of the children was put into a medically induced comma but doctors believe she will be fine. The son has barely a scratch on him and is currently staying with his dad".

You hear the doors open. Her eyes go behind you. "speaking of, the dad is here now". You turna round. Seeing a man around his thirties walk in with the young boy from yesterday. Followed shortly by news crew. The young boy sees you. Quicly dropping his fathers hand as he runs at you. WRapping his arms around your middle as he hugs you tightly. Your hands go up in an almost defensive tone.

"Joe!" His father yells his name. He moves away from you. Turnign to the older man.

"This is the woman who saved us last night". He comes over. The news crew shortly behind as they start to aim cameras at you. Before you can take in anything the father loks at you.

"You were the woman who saved my son?" You look at him. Giving a small nod. The man grows teary insantly. Grabbing you as he hugs you. Whsipering in sniffled voice. "You saved my world". You feel tears come to yur eyes. Bringing your hands up as you hug him back. Feeling the young boy hug around both of your legs once again. "Thank you so, so much". He whispers again. You hear a voie behind you.

"Didyou say this is the woman who saved your wife and children?" He moves away from you. Wiping at his eyes as he nods. You see the camera. The reporter.

"This si the woman". You hand grips at the boys back. His arms still wrapped around your legs. The reporter smiles. Focusing her attention on you.

"I have to say this is not what we expected today. The nameless hero. You are all over the media". Your eyes wide as you look at the reporter. "WE have so many questions but I feel like we should ask the most prominent one that everyone is wanting to know - what is your name?" You look at her. Gently shaking your head. She smiles. Tryng to be reassuring. "Go on. Dont be shy".

"Evelyn" your voice quiet. The reporter smiles more. Nodding.

"That is a beautiful name. Now I know you have a lot of fans who are dying to know more about you so I think we-" You start to shake your head.

"No. No Im sorry". She pauses. Looking at you. You turn your head to the man. The father. "I am so glad that you and your family are ok. Truly. I wish the best for you in your future. But I cant- I cant do this". You look back at the camera then the man again. "Im sorry I have to go". You tear yourself away from the boys grasp around your legs. Quickly pacing out the front door as you practicly run back to your work.

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TAGS

@weponxwrites @robertthehoover @gordorio @sagittarianwolf @reader-1290 @storm4433 @chocolate-floof @shinytalent @chaimshelii

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

American Beauty/American Psycho (Part 2)

DESCRIPTION: You go to the hospital to find the family you saved

WORD COUNT: 1530

A/N: Don't worry - next part will have our favourite psychotic superhero in

From Beginning / Previous / Next / Master List

WARNINGS: swearing, talk of trauma, chapter is based in a hospital

DISCLAIMERS

-  This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

-  Not been proof read

"Holy fuck". You look up from your book. The echo of your boss ringing through the library as you sit behind the counter. He comes over. Hand around his phone and a donut. "holy fuck".

"You said that already". He places his phone down onto the desk. A pictre of you on screen.

"Not only have you made headlines" He reaches into his back pokcet. Taking out a roled up newspaper. Unraveling it the best he can with one hnd. Laying it flat on the counter top. The same picture visible. "Youe made front cover".

"Its really not that big a deal"

"I beg to fucking differ". You roll your eyes. Fosucing onto your book agin. "Evie?" You ignoe him He rolls the newspaper up. Hitting the counter top with it. You jump.

"Jesus chrust man".

"Do you know what this could do for our business?"

"I really dont care"

"You are the woman who saves lives. People are dying to meet you. To find out your name". You len forward.

"Those people need to get a life". You smile. You pull your book back out. Paying him half mind as you pretend to ead. Leaning backwards.

"I dont think you understand what this means"

"Yes I do". You place your bookmark onto the table before you. "Peoples lives get saved every day. War heroes. Superheroes. Nurses and doctors". You put your eyes onto your book. "Media just wants to make a buck out of a name that they think they can explout. They do not care about who is behind it. If they really cared about that factor then they would use their media power and create films about people that the public actually care about". He frowns slightly.

"they literally brought out a new movie about The Seven last week"

"You know what I mean". He gives an annoyed sigh. Picking his phone up.

"I think you're making a huge istake Evelyn"

"Oh we on full name basis now". You smile. Glancing to him. "I mustve annoyed you to get that reaction from you". He shakes his head. Taking a bite of his donought. You put your book down. Resting the open pages onto your chest. "Did you actually go to the bakery and get yourself a donut and not me?" He looks down. Thn back at you.

"I thought you were on a diet". He mumbles through dough.

"Absolute bullshit". You say. Grabbing your bookmark and placing it into the book. Shoving it into your bag as you lift it onto your shoulder.

"Where are you going?" You double check for your purse before looking at him.

"My lunch break". He looks at his phone. 12:07. "Youre three hours late to work. Im going for lunch". You go over to the door. The little dingle of the bell filling your ears as you start to walk to the small bakery in town.

CLOSED FOR LUNCH

You glare at the sign. You had food with you. But you wanted a donut. And the closest bakery that sell half decent donuts was another 20 minute walk. You look back at the direction youd just come from. A defeated sigh leaving your lips. Adjusting the bag onto your shoulder again as you start walking towards the next pastry shop.

You walk for around 10 minutes. Debating on how long you could justify your break to be. Normally you have half an hour but you reckon you could squeeze it to be 45 minutes. Allowing you time to eat your food before making your way back to work. You'll get Lucas a coffee too. Hes always more leniant on your work schedule when you bring him caffeine.

Your mind gets drawn to a van. Driving on the road next to you. One of those news vans. Watching as it turns right into the street. Curiosty peaking as you go to cross the street. Looking in you see the news van start to unload and set up their gear. In front of the hospital. You stop. Looking at it. The image of the woman from yesterday appearing in your mind. Her surrounded by medics. Her children scared.

You nervously clutch at your bag. Tilting your head as you start to make a bee line for the front door. The automatic doors opening before you. The smell of hospital hitting your nose as you enter the buildiing. You freeze. Shcok setting in at the setting. The door still open behind you. Unable to shut due to you blocking the sensors.

You hear a cough. Not a sickly cough. More one to get your attention. Eyes darting to the cause of the noise. A woman smiles at you from behind the desk. "everything alright ma'am?". You go over. Hands clutching your bag tightly.

"I was just wondering if someone was here?"

"Do you have a name?" You shake your head.

"There was an house fire last night. A woman and two children, boy and girl. I was wondering if they were here?"

"Are you a relative?"

"No"

"Im sorry Im unable to disclose any information about them to you". You swallow deeply. Blinking your eyes a few times.

"I umm I was the one who saved them. I just wanted to make sure they are ok?" She looks at you. Obviously trying to decide somethng.

"One second". She turns to her computer screen. Typing sometig in. You assume it to be some sort of medical thing shes looking up. The legality of telling a straner if someone is ok.

In reality she was googling the fire incicent last night. Getting a picture up of the unknown hero so she could compare the picture to you. Once shed done this she would determine where to go from there.

She glances back to you. Then her screen. It was you. Same hair colour. Skin tone. The image she was looking at was blurry but it was certainly you. She looks at you. "Unless you are a relative then I am unable to allow you access to any patients here. However I understand your circamstances. The two children are ok. The young girl has smoke inhalation but she will be fine. The mother of the children was put into a medically induced comma but doctors believe she will be fine. The son has barely a scratch on him and is currently staying with his dad".

You hear the doors open. Her eyes go behind you. "speaking of, the dad is here now". You turna round. Seeing a man around his thirties walk in with the young boy from yesterday. Followed shortly by news crew. The young boy sees you. Quicly dropping his fathers hand as he runs at you. WRapping his arms around your middle as he hugs you tightly. Your hands go up in an almost defensive tone.

"Joe!" His father yells his name. He moves away from you. Turnign to the older man.

"This is the woman who saved us last night". He comes over. The news crew shortly behind as they start to aim cameras at you. Before you can take in anything the father loks at you.

"You were the woman who saved my son?" You look at him. Giving a small nod. The man grows teary insantly. Grabbing you as he hugs you. Whsipering in sniffled voice. "You saved my world". You feel tears come to yur eyes. Bringing your hands up as you hug him back. Feeling the young boy hug around both of your legs once again. "Thank you so, so much". He whispers again. You hear a voie behind you.

"Didyou say this is the woman who saved your wife and children?" He moves away from you. Wiping at his eyes as he nods. You see the camera. The reporter.

"This si the woman". You hand grips at the boys back. His arms still wrapped around your legs. The reporter smiles. Focusing her attention on you.

"I have to say this is not what we expected today. The nameless hero. You are all over the media". Your eyes wide as you look at the reporter. "WE have so many questions but I feel like we should ask the most prominent one that everyone is wanting to know - what is your name?" You look at her. Gently shaking your head. She smiles. Tryng to be reassuring. "Go on. Dont be shy".

"Evelyn" your voice quiet. The reporter smiles more. Nodding.

"That is a beautiful name. Now I know you have a lot of fans who are dying to know more about you so I think we-" You start to shake your head.

"No. No Im sorry". She pauses. Looking at you. You turn your head to the man. The father. "I am so glad that you and your family are ok. Truly. I wish the best for you in your future. But I cant- I cant do this". You look back at the camera then the man again. "Im sorry I have to go". You tear yourself away from the boys grasp around your legs. Quickly pacing out the front door as you practicly run back to your work.

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TAGS

@weponxwrites @robertthehoover @gordorio @sagittarianwolf @reader-1290 @storm4433 @chocolate-floof @shinytalent @chaimshelii

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

American Beauty/American Psycho (Part 1)

DESCRIPTION: You are an introverted woman. Working at a local book shop, keeping to yourself, not really on any social media. However, one small act of kindness makes you appear on the radar of a very specific superhero.

A/N: I didn't know what title to call this story, I had 'devil' and 'angel' playing on my mind. But then I was listening to Fall Out Boy and 'American Beauty/American Psycho' came on and I thought it was perfect for this story. So it is very, very loosely based off of that song

WORD COUNT: 2292

Next / Master List

WARNINGS: swearing, fire, burning house

DISCLAIMERS

-  This is fiction. Please always talk to your partner before doing anything and make sure they are ok with what you are doing beforehand

You run a finger through your hair. Letting out a sigh as you look at the pile of books before you. The small library you work in had closed for the night. You had the job of putting back all the forgotten books into their rightful place. Taking out all the different genres, placing them into their corresponding piles. Going to each shelf and placing them alphabetically in their correct places. You take a step back. Nodding at your work as you move onto the next section. Doing this for each of the small piles you'd managed to accumulate.

Once you had done this you make your way down the isles. Making sure there aren't any late night readers or sleeping students inside before you lock up. Thankfully there were none. So you head outside. Pulling the door too before locking it. Jiggling the handle to check it was locked. Placing the keys into your jeans pocket as you make your way through the chilled night air. Wrapping your arms around yourself. It was early autumn so you hadn't quite gotten used to the warm days yet chilled nights. Not having dressed appropriately for it. Only a thin hoodie keeping you warm.

Your nose catches scent of something. Causing you to stop in your tracks. You look around. Listening. Trying to see anything. Then you spot it. A blazing building. "Fuck". You mutter. Running over as you watch the building going up. Before you can think about anything else you hear a piercing scream through the night. Running over as you see someone by a downstairs window. A young boy, his fingers scrambling at the frame. Retracting his hands at the heat. You motion at him. Yelling through the night. "Stand back". Going into your pocket and taking out a pen. He stands back a little way. You wrap your fist around the item. Smashing it into the glass. Shattering. Reaching inside you pull him out. Holding him as he coughs. Moving him a safe distance away.

"My mum. Shes in the house. Plus my sister". You look back. A loud crack. You turn back to the boy.

"Do you know what floor they are on?"

"Top floor. I think the top floor". You nod. Hands on his shoulders as you keep his gaze.

"Stay here". You run back over. "Fuck". You mutter. Going in through the open window. "Hello!" you call out. No answer. You go to the door to the rest of the house. Pulling your hoodie sleeve up over your hand as you open the door handle. Feeling the heat grow intensely around you as you enter what looks like a living room. A body lies on the floor. Going over to it. You crouch down. Checking for a pulse. Nodding to yourself as you feel the slight beat of her heart. You grab her arm. Pulling her up as you sling her over your shoulder. Going back to through the house to the open window.

You aren't sure how but you manage to get the woman out of the window you entered through. Contorting yourself with her still over your shoulder. Going over to the boy as he watches. Tears staining his cheeks. "Mum!" he sobs. You lie her on the floor. You place your head near her chest. Hearing a soft yet distinct heart beat. The boy kneels down. Taking her hand in his.

"Stay here with your mum". You stand up. Rushing back over to the building. Climbing through the window as you are met with a monstrous fire. The room you were just in now fully engulfed in flames. Lapping at the sofas in the living room. You spot the stairs. Making a bee line for them as you dart up them. Hearing the sound of them slowly burning away as you go up. Three closed doors.

You stay silent. Hearing the crack of the fire below you. The distant sound of a toddler crying. You dart to the door the noise is behind. Opening it you see a very young child crying. Hands on the edge of her crib as she looks at you. You go over to the bed. "Shh" you try to soothe her. Picking her up and holding her close to you. "Its ok. You're ok". You go to the door again. Going to walk down the hallway. Seeing the fire now licking up the stairs. Destroying your only exit. You cradle her close to you as you go back into the bedroom. Shutting the door behind you. Grabbing a blanket form the side and placing it under the door. Trying to prevent the smoke from coming through.

The child still cries as you hold her close to you. Trying to soothe her as you turn around. Just as you hear a loud cracking noise. The middle of the floor starts to cave into the fire below it. Not daring to move, scared the floor will give out completely. You stay close to the wall. Pressing yourself a flat against it as you can. Among the crackle of the flames you hear voices. Firemen must've arrived. You call out. Your voice dull against the noise of the fire, and the slowly falling floor.

"Help. Please help". You call out. A soft sob coming through your voice. The door opens. You look. Expecting to see men in yellow enter. Instead, seeing a blue suit. Being met with his equally blue eyes. You'd seen him on billboards and newspapers. Homelander. He goes to walk into the room. "No!" you almost yell. Hand going outwards. Motioning at the floor.

He stills. Looking at you. Then the floor. Analyzing the situation before his gaze going back up to you. He outstretches one of his hands. You go to move towards him. The all to familiar sound of the fire making you still in your movements. You shake your head. Causing him to take a step closer to you. You move the child. Handing her to him.

"Get her out please". He looks at you. Going to say something but you move the girl closer. "Take the damn child!" you say. Fear in your voice as it fills the room. He takes her from your hands. Holding her close as he looks behind him. Then at the floor in front of him. Obviously assessing his best way out where the girl is unharmed. You watch as he looks at the ceiling. His eyes lasering a hole into it. He flies the girl out. You let out a breath. Glad the young child is safe.

The floor jolts slightly. The suddenness making you take it a sharp breath. Shutting your eyes as you press further into the wall. Your heartbeat echoing in your ears. Making you unable to hear anything else around you. The crack happens beneath you again. You fight back the tears. Pushing your lips together.

You jump as you feel something touch your arm. Eyes flying open as you meet Homelanders gaze. His hand on your upper arm. "Wrap your arms around me". You try to move. Lifting your arm up just as another creak fills the room. Your arms going firmly back to the wall. Shaking your head as you look at him

"I-I cant" you whisper. The floor cracks again.

"Yes you can". You shake your head. Shutting your eyes again. Feeling the floor start to shift under your feet. A soft whimper escaping your lips. "I'll catch you". You look at him. Wide eyed. The terror evident in your features. "Trust me". You watch his eyes. His still. Calming against yours. Slowly lifting your arms up. Trying to ignore the fire slowly eating its way through the floor. He puts an arm around your waist. You gently put your arms around his neck. Just as the floor falls out from under you. Your soft grip on him changes as you cling to him. Hiding your face into his shoulder as the comforting feeling of floor gets whisked away from under your feet. He remains hovering. The warmth of fire licking at your feet as he flies up. Away from the heat.

Your mind to overwhelmed by everything, plus hiding into his shoulder. You don't take in the fact he's taking you out of the previously made hole in the ceiling. Flying both of you out safely. Your legs nearly give out from under you as they hit the soft ground. Your arms still clinging to him as you tilt your head slightly. Looking at the paramedics tending to the unconscious girl on the ground. He gently rubs the lower of your back. "I'm going to need my neck back". He whispers into your ear.

"Shit. Sorry" you unwrap your arms. Going to move away from him. Wobbling slightly on your feet. Your arms coming out to balance yourself. He brings his hand out. Stabilising you by holding your arm. He tilts his head down. Looking at you through his lashes. Swaying slightly as you regain your composure. You look over at the woman on the floor. Her son sat next to her as their young daughter gets checked over by a paramedic. "Is she ok? Will she be ok?". You look at the blue eyed hero. Eyes tiredly scanning his face.

"They are doing everything they can do make sure she lives". You look back at the woman. Thats when you notice the small group of people. Neighbours all wrapped in coats and dressing gowns as they watch the scene before them. Some with their phones out. Recording the situation. Recording the fire. Recording Homelander. Recording you.

A paramedic comes over to you. You watch as his lips move. Obviously speaking to you but your overwhelmed senses don't take in what he says. You shake your head at his words. "I need to go home" you whisper. Looking at the crowd of people.

"Miss we need to make sure that you're ok".

"I'm ok". You smile at the paramedic. Homelander watching you as he keeps his grip on your elbow. "I promise I'm ok".

"Why don't we get you checked out, hmm?" Homelander says. You look at him. A smile on his face. You shake your head.

"I don't want to be a hassle. You've got the woman and her children to prioritise over me".

"You are just as much my concern as they are. Please miss" the paramedic says. Smiling at you as he takes the arm that was being supported. Taking you over to an ambulance. Checking you over. Once hes confirmed that everything is ok with you, he gives you the all clear to go home. Saying that they can organise transport but you insist on walking. You turn to try and find Homelander. Wanting to thank him for saving your life. But you see him talking to a news reporter. You press your lips together. Turning on your heels as you make your way back to your home.

You open the front door. Having a quick shower, changing into your pyjamas, then getting into your bed. Trying to fight the pesky nightmares. It isn't much after 8am when you hear your bedroom door burst open. Your curtains being forced back. You let out an annoyed groan. Bringing the covers up and over your head. Your roommate comes over to you. Grabbing the covers and pulling them down.

"Your famous!" she says. You sit up. Blinking your eyes awake as you look at her. She hands you her phone. A video pops up. The reporter from yesterday on the screen.

"A mother and her two children were saved last night from a house fire believed to have started from a cigarette butt. Thankfully no one was hurt, and we can put it down to this anonymous hero who risked her own life to save these three souls. A neighbour recorded the incident - describing it as a miracle and heroic act"

The video cuts to you. Helping the boy out before going inside the building. A few minutes passing, worried voices filling the background before you appear. Carrying the mother out the window. It cuts back to the reporter.

"Although Homelander himself managed to make it to the scene, firefighters and paramedics have both said that if this woman hadn't stepped in when she had then the family of three would have likely all been killed. Just goes to show the world that you don't need powers to be a true hero". You turn the screen off. Looking at your roommate.

"Fuck". You say. You pull the covers off of your legs. Going out into the kitchen. She follows behind as you grab out the orange juice. Filling a glass.

"Did you actually get to meet Homelander?". You place the orange juice back into fridge. Nodding.

"He saved my life".

"Thats so awesome". You scoff. Drinking your juice.

"I wouldn't describe nearly dying as awesome, but I understand what you mean". Placing the cup into the sink. You run a hand through your hair. Lightly massaging your scalp before bringing them down. "I'm going to head to work"

"You nearly died last night". You go over to the bathroom. Picking out your toothbrush. Applying some toothpaste.

"I am aware". You start brushing your teeth.

"And you're going to work?". You nod. Spitting and rinsing out your mouth with some water before looking at her. Drying your hands on a towel.

"Bills aren't going to pay themselves". Lightly tapping her nose. "I'll pick up a Chinese on the way home". You smile at her. Hand motion for her to leave the bathroom. She takes a step out. She goes to say something as you shut the door on her.

Next

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Purely self indulgent ask— how would Clark Kent react/take care of the reader during her really bad periods? I feel like he would be so comforting and be a huge cuddly teddy bear 🥹🤣

ugh yes omg this beautiful space heater

-

You don’t mean to wake him.

You’d been lying still for over an hour, curled up on your side in the center of his bed, the sheets twisted around your legs like ivy. The heating pad you brought rests low against your stomach—faint, useless, its warmth long since faded.

And your cramps haven’t let up. They’ve only gotten worse.

It feels like someone’s wrenching your insides apart with slow, steady hands. Your back aches. Your thighs are heavy. And your stomach—tight, hot, and clenching—throbs in waves so sharp they knock the breath from your lungs. You swallow a quiet sound and press your palm harder into your abdomen.

You don’t realize he’s awake until the bed shifts behind you. His hand finds your hip in the dark.

“You hurting, sweetheart?” His voice is low, sleepy—warm like the rest of him. You blink into the pillow.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” you whisper, teeth clenched through another sharp cramp.

“You didn’t.” His thumb rubs a soft circle over the fabric of your sleep shirt. “You’ve been tensing every few minutes for the past hour.”

You don’t need to say anything. You feel the way he leans closer, his chest brushing your spine, the heat of his breath feathering over the back of your neck.

“Back too?”

“Mhm.” You nod into the pillow, ashamed of the tears stinging behind your eyes. “And my stomach. I—I already tried the pad, but it’s…” You don’t finish the sentence.

He moves before you can. Slow and careful, like he’s handling something breakable, Clark shifts behind you—big and steady and shirtless, all sleep-warm skin and muscle and the scent of that cedar soap he always uses. You feel the mattress dip as he wedges his knees behind yours, one long arm sliding beneath your head, the other winding across your waist. And then his chest presses flush to your back.

You inhale—and go still because he’s so warm. Not like body heat. Not normal. Not human. His skin radiates a low, constant heat—deep and steady—like curling up against a sun-warmed stone. Like slipping into bathwater.

“I run hot, remember?” he murmurs near your ear, voice almost shy. “Might help.”

“Okay.” You exhale shakily. Nod.

His palm flattens over your belly, just beneath your navel. Broad. Gentle. You’re so aware of the weight of it—how careful he is, how present. His thumb strokes idle circles into your lower abdomen while the rest of his hand stays perfectly still, as though trying to anchor you through the worst of it.

The heat seeps into your skin. Warms your insides from the outside in. Your body shudders once and then melts.

“Better?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “A little.”

He hums low in his chest. You feel the rumble in your ribs, in your spine, everywhere he touches. His knee slots more firmly behind yours, nudging your legs into a softer curl. His breath skims your neck—slow and even now, no longer sleepy, just present. And his arm, that big, strong arm draped over your middle, never once strays. He just… holds you.

His fingertips trace light patterns against your stomach—circles, then gentle swipes, then a little back-and-forth like he’s drawing lazy lines where it hurts most. Every once in a while, he presses a kiss into your hairline.

“I hate that you’re hurting,” he murmurs. “If I could take it, I would.”

You turn your head slightly toward his chest. “You already are.”

His grip tightens just the slightest bit. Protective. Reassuring. Neither of you speaks for a while.

The world shrinks to the heat of his body wrapped around yours. The way his thumb never stops moving. The smell of clean cotton, warm skin, a trace of coffee still lingering in his hair. His breath at your ear. The sound of your own heartbeat slowing against his.

Eventually, the worst of the cramps ease. You’re still sore, still bloated and bone-tired and fragile, but your muscles have stopped seizing. The nausea fades. The headache dulls. His warmth holds you like a balm.

You whisper, “Don’t go.”

“Not a chance,” he says. “You’ll have to pry me off with a crowbar.”

You snort against his arm. He grins. You feel it in the way his chest curves against your spine. He presses another kiss to your shoulder. And then, lower—his voice barely audible now, he whispers, “I love taking care of you.”

You don’t answer aloud. You just lace your fingers with his over your stomach, breathe in the safety of his body, and let yourself sleep.

-

You wake up to warmth. Not just beneath the blanket, or in the soft sheets tangled around your legs. Not even just the fuzzy heat in your lower belly that reminds you of last night’s pain dulling into something more bearable.

No, it’s him. It’s Clark. Stretched out behind you, long and solid, body molded perfectly to yours like he was built to hold you.

His arm is still around your waist. That big, sun-warmed palm resting heavy on your stomach, exactly where it had been all night. You feel the steady rise and fall of his chest at your back, the soft brush of his nose tucked into your hair. He’s not asleep. His breath is too even, too deliberate.

You shift slightly, and his hand immediately flexes against your belly.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft from sleep. “Too warm?”

“No,” you hum, nuzzling backward. “Perfect.”

He kisses your shoulder—barely more than a brush. “Still hurting?”

“A little,” you admit. “But not as bad.”

“Good.” Clark exhales like he’s been holding that breath all night. He stays like that for a moment. Just breathing you in. Stroking light circles into the fabric of your sleep shirt with his thumb. You could stay there all day. You want to. But he has other plans.

“Don’t move,” he says softly. “I got you.”

You blink. “Clark, you really don’t have to.”

He lifts the blanket and kisses your temple. “Nope. Not allowed to argue. I have a whole agenda.”

You laugh, tired and fond. “You have an agenda?”

“I do.” He’s already sliding out of bed, boxers hanging low on his hips, hair sleep-ruffled, chest golden in the early morning light. He stretches once—shoulders flexing—and then points gently at you. “Stay.”

“I’m not Krypto,” you grumble.

He grins. “You are when you’re this grumpy.”

You throw a pillow. He catches it. Still smiling.

Ten minutes later, you hear it: the sound of eggs sizzling, kettle whistling, and Clark humming so off-key that you can’t help but smile. When he returns, it’s with a tray.

You blink. “You made breakfast in bed?”

“No.” He sets it down with great ceremony. “I made a deluxe recovery spread.”

And he did. Scrambled eggs with just the right amount of cheese. Toast cut diagonally the way you like. Sliced strawberries. A mug of tea (the mint one you always forget you like), a bottle of water, and a little dish of chocolate chips.

You look up at him. Speechless.

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “I figured sugar wouldn’t hurt.”

You grab a chip and pop it into your mouth, eyes misting. He sets the tray on your lap, then sits beside you on the edge of the bed, watching with that gentle, earnest expression he only gets when he’s trying not to be too soft.

You chew, then grin up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer incredible,” he says, stealing one of your strawberries and popping it into his mouth with a wink.

You roll your eyes, but your heart feels too full for your chest.

After breakfast, he doesn’t let you do anything. Not even clean up. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other behind your back—and you yelp, clinging to his neck.

“Clark!”

“You’re fragile,” he says solemnly, lips twitching. “Delicate. Precious cargo of heating pads and hormones.”

You smack his shoulder. He grins. He deposits you on the couch with a mound of blankets, your favorite sweatshirt, the remote, and another heating pad he personally re-warmed with his hands.

Then, as the finishing touch?

He lifts your feet into his lap, wraps both hands around your calves, and says, “So. Want to watch me cry at The Princess Bride again?”

You nod. Muffled. “Please.”

And as the movie plays and his thumbs rub lazy circles into your ankles, you think: God. I didn’t know someone could love me like this.

So simply. So completely.

And when the next cramp rolls through your body and you make a quiet sound—he’s already shifting closer, pulling you into his lap, his whole body curling around yours like armor, like safety, like home.

“Got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

SAY HELLO TO KITTY! - CLARK KENT

summary: you got a cat and didn't tell Clark until he got home

warnings: one swear word, all fluff and no lemons, fat orange cat, no spoilers

author's note: saw superman movie, immediately started writing. hope you enjoy~

word count: 1.2k

To be honest, you didn’t think this would happen. I mean– Sure, you loved animals but sometimes you doubted your own pet caring abilities.

Maybe it’s because the only pet you’ve taken care of wasn’t really yours. It was Clarks. He said something about the dog being his cousins and he was just taking care of it for her while she was out? If you remembered correctly her name was Kara. The dog, Krypto, at first glance was a sweetheart. That is until you left to grab a package at your building's lobby and returned to find half of your furniture destroyed. You found out at that moment the dog also had powers like Clark.

Clark being the sweetest boyfriend that he is helped to replace your furniture. And he may have helped you ‘break’ it in as well. But that day was the first and last day you had a pet in your house.

Until today.

You swore to yourself up and down that you didn’t mean for it to happen. That you didn’t intentionally find this adorable chunky cat rolling around the alleyway next to the coffee shop you always go to. Like you said, it just happened. The fat little thing just waddled its way towards you, flashed its cute eyes and you were hooked.

You couldn’t resist how cute the cat was. The fluffy orange fur and fat belly made you fall in love with it even more. The moment you saw that it didn’t have a collar or an owner, your body moved on its own. And that’s how you ended up with a now clean male orange cat in your lap.

In hindsight, you probably should’ve told Clark about the cat (that you have proudly named dumpling). He did call you earlier in the day to check in on you. You weren’t sure if Kryptonians had any allergies or not. Did cats even exist in Krypton? Well, if a dog could exist there it wouldn’t be too far of an assumption to assume that a cat did too.

You didn’t think much of the conversation that was waiting for you when Clark got back home. He should be home soon. Unless he got caught up with his Superman stuff—

“Is that cat on your lap?” Oh that was fast. Your train of thought was halted when you saw the familiar figure of Clark or *Superman* floating inside your shared home. He was wearing his usual getup. Blue and red spandex paired with his iconic cape. Not only that, he was carrying some grocery bags. He must’ve stopped by the store before coming here.

Clark had a perplexed expression on his face. He wasn’t sure what to make of the feline currently sitting on the spot where he usually laid his head on your lap.

“Wow, your observation skills are still as sharp as ever, hun’. You should consider being a journalist with those questions of yours.” Your teasing made him roll his eyes. He still had that stupid, goofy smile on his face so that was a good sign. “But yes, this is a cat.” You confirmed. Your fingers ran through dumpling's soft fur. The cat purring at your loving touch.

“Hm, that explains the second heartbeat I heard when I passed by earlier…” Clark grumbled as he set aside the groceries on the kitchen island. He stumbled his way towards you, making sure to kick his boots off to the side. You’ve lectured him enough about wearing shoes inside the house that it’s basically memorized in his head.

Clark sat down on the carpet, his body leaning against the couch you were sitting on. From here, you could see the way he was staring at dumpling with a hint of jealousy. He wasn’t exactly a fan of his daily head scratches from you was getting interrupted by a cat of all things. “Jealous, much?” You chuckled, twirling your fingers around the loose pieces of hair that partially covered his forehead.

All you heard from Clark was a round of grumbling. His arm wrapped itself around your waist while he buried his face into your side. “No…?” Clark mumbled. You couldn’t help but giggle at the adorable sight before you. “Aww, poor Clarkie. Somebody's pouty because he can’t get head scratches.” Clark huffed again at your teasing. The words didn’t bother him but it still made his cheeks burn a little red. It was embarrassing but true.

“You always give me head scratches around this time.” He groaned, lifting his head to look up at you. His pretty blue eyes staring right into yours. They felt almost hypnotizing. Especially with the way his eyes had nothing but love and adoration in them. You slowly reached out to him, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw. And he leaned into your touch willingly. His hand holding yours to bring your hand to his lips.

Fuck, you nearly forgot how hot he looked with that pleading gaze of his. “I have two hands y’know. I can pet both you and the cat.” You murmured. All you got from Clark was him pulling you closer to him, bringing you to the very edge of the couch. He didn’t move from this position nor did he say a single word after that. Your dear, beloved, adorable, boyfriend being upset about a cat getting to sit on your lap. He really is a golden retriever in a human body.

“I named him dumpling cause he’s fat like one.”

“Fatshaming the cat? That’s a new low for you.”

“I’m not fatshaming the cat! It’s just… he’s so round. Like a dumpling.” Hearing that, dumpling instantly chirped happily at you. Earning itself another round of pets from you. “See? Even he agrees with me.” You had a smug grin on your face. If Clark wasn’t careful enough, he might just pinch your cheeks until they were bruised because of how cute you looked from his point of view.

The setting sun highlighted your features while the wind coming in from the open balcony blowing through your hair. It was a sight Clark could watch forever. He wanted it to be the last thing he sees before he falls asleep and the first thing he sees when he wakes up in the comfort of your arms. Judging by how tired he felt right now, Clark might actually fall asleep soon.

Sure, was it the best position to sleep in? Probably not but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not when he’s resting next to the warmth of your body. He wanted more of it. So when he moved his head to shift closer to your lap, he was met with a quiet smack on the head. Not by you but by the orange cat sitting on your lap. It’s paw raised to hit him again. Clearly dumpling didn’t like sharing you.

Silence filled the room before your laughter broke it. You had to cover your face to muffle your own rounds of giggling. That was the last thing you expected to happen.

“Oh my god–” You snorted. “I can’t– Oh, we are so keeping this cat.” Clark instantly shot you a look. One that easily said ‘are you serious?’ and you were being dead serious about your decision. “He just hit me!” The man whined, shooting daggers at the cat in front of him. Dumpling remained unbothered by the staring, licking his paw happily.

“It’s a light hit!”

“I still got hit though! You're a terrible pet owner.”

“Says the man that let Krypto destroy Mr. Terrifics bots.”

“Krypto is Kara's dog! Not mine.”

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

OH THE SUPERMAN I KNOW AND LOVE IS SO BACK!!! HE IS SUCH A SWEETHEART!!! I absolutely love the incredible authors that have come out and written for superman since the new movie and I especially love the amazing understanding of his character that it takes for these authors to write him so well!! THIS IS WHAT COMMUNITY FEELS LIKE YALL 🥹🥹🫶🫶

the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot

I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)

Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!

Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

WC: 4.7k!

You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you. 

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman. 

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all. 

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes. 

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that’ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?” 

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--” 

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch. 

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

cute superman fics about biting him?????????????

oh we are so back bitches🫶🫶

DIMPLES GALORE! - CLARK KENT

summary: in your defense, Clark's dimples are too adorable for you to not bite.

warning: biting? fluffy goodness cause we need more of that

authors note: I did not expect for my last fic to blow up. thank you guys so much for the support! my writers block suddenly disappears whenever I see superman content so expect to see more fics about him from me!

word count: 1.1k

The first thing you were greeted with when you opened your eyes was the light from the rising sun. Its light casting a soft orange glow in the room as it shines through the tall windows of the room. The sheer white curtains did nothing to soften its glow.

It's truly a beautiful sight. But what you saw next is better.

A sleeping giant cuddled up next to you. Clark has both arms loosely wrapped around your body. His leg tossed over yours to pull you closer. Its almost impossible to get out of his hold. At this point you're basically a bolster for him to hold and cuddle anytime he wanted.

One of the plus sides of sleeping with Clark– besides the fact that you actually get to sleep next to him – is how unbelievably warm he is. He runs hot without fail. It's heaven sent during the winter but an absolute nightmare during summer. You've had to lock yourself in the guest room so you didn't end up melting because of how hot his body is.

Thankfully, the weather is in between summer and winter. A perfect balance of the two.

Your eyes glaze over every single feature of his face. He has sharp yet soft features. It's difficult for you to describe it. He looks like a Greek god in your eyes. Curly black hair, deep blue eyes and your most favorite part, his dimples.

My god are his dimples adorable. You can't count the amount of times you've wanted to poke them. Whenever he smiles or frowns or makes any sort of expression, his dimples become more obvious. If you could, you'd spent hours admiring them.

Even when he's sleeping like this you can see his dimples. He looks so relaxed. Definitely a rare sight. There wasn't any villain or monster trying to destroy Metropolis for the hundredth time. No work deadlines that he has to finish as soon as possible. It's just you and him here.

With a little squirming, you managed to maneuver your hand over to his face. Your fingers gently tracing his face. You never press down too hard, scared as if he might break at the gentlest touch even though you knew that not even bullets could break through his skin. Maybe it's because you don't want to wake him up. Not when he looks this comfortable.

Your fingers stop at his dimples. You have to stop and stare at it for a few seconds. You knew you shouldn't. But they were just right there! You never understood why some girls liked to bite their boyfriends but now you definitely understood why. That urge to just bite down on his dimples was getting stronger the longer you let it fester in your heart.

He'd find you weird. Maybe? Maybe not? He's seen you do weirder things. It's not like you haven't bit him before. You've playfully bit his biceps and neck before. He didn't mind it. You made sure to ask by asking him over and over. You got the same answer every single time.

“I don't mind if you bite me. Its kinda cute as well.”

Those words echoed loudly in your head. As well as the words ‘do it!’. A tiny little bite won't hurt him. Shifting closer to him, you lifted yourself up so you were right where you needed to be. Your hand on his shoulder to support your body. This was one of the rare chances you were presented with. It's not everyday that you wake up before Clark.

You stared down at him with a determined expression. Darn his cute dimples for making you act this way.

“Here goes nothing…” With one swift movement, you leaned down and finally chomped down onto Clark's cheek. You weren't biting too hard, just a light one. Your teeth were barely digging into his skin. Though you were tempted to sink down a little more.

You can't believe that you were doing this but you can't help yourself anymore. He's just so cute with his dimples and everything. It didn't help that his cheeks were soft like marshmallows. Chewy like them too.

“Out of all the ways you could wake me up, this is a new one…” You stiffened up when you heard Clark's morning voice. The deep and rough one that had you melting under him instantly. When you met his gaze, Clark was staring at you with an unimpressed look. You still had your teeth on his cheek, still biting down on his dimples.

Neither of you spoke a single word but the silence already spoke a thousand words. He had this lazy smile on his face as he admired you. His hand that was on your waist moving to your lower back, rubbing small circles with his thumb.

You sneakily tried to bite down a bit harder just to mess with him, only to be met with some resistance. “Ah! Ah! Ah! Bad sunshine…” His hand shifted towards the nape of your neck and carefully pulled you back. It was like grabbing a cat by the nape of their neck. All the while you just stared at him with a pout on your lips. You looked as if you did no wrong. Completely innocent and not trying to sink your teeth into your boyfriend's dimples.

“Morning, hun’.” You innocently spoke with a grin on your face. “Did you sleep well?”

Clark rolled his eyes at you playfully. “Well I was but then a certain somebody decided to bite my cheek.” His hand loosening its hold on you and he instead brought you closer to him. You instantly buried your face into his chest. Melting at the warmth and comfort you felt under his touch.

“I was aiming for your dimples.” You murmured, your fingers poking at the dimple again. “Couldn't resist biting you.” Clark merely raised an eyebrow at your words. He wasn't surprised by this at all. He's seen the way you look at his dimples when you think he isn't looking.

“Oh really? I hope you're glad to know you were right on target.” Soft giggles slipped past your lips as Clark leaned closer. His lips peppering soft kisses all over your face. Each and every single kiss is filled with love for you. “C-Clark! I'm ticklish~” Clark didn't stop a second despite your words. He liked hearing you laugh.

“Hi ticklish, I'm Clark.” That stupid dad joke of his was met by an annoyed groan by you. “I walked right into that, didn't I?” You huffed. You should've expected this. Happy Clark also tended to be jokester Clark.

Clark simply smiled at your huffing. Cheeks puffing out like balloons. Cute, he thought. “You like my dimples that much?” He asked. “Yeah, I do. It makes you look so squishy and pretty.” You continued to stare at the dimples with a longing look. You wanted to bite him again.

“I'm not letting you bite me again.”

“I wasn't going to!”

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Well Fuck Me -CK

Synposis: You gave Clark Kent one boundary. One. And he broke it. Don’t fucking respond to Lois Lane. The betrayal sends you into a whirlwind of rage and heartbreak, storming out and cutting contact for 24 hours. But space means nothing when your boyfriend is Superman, and when he comes to find you, he’s determined to make it up to you the only way he knows how—by dragging you back into his arms and proving, over and over again, that you’re his. Even if he has to fuck the rage out of you to do it.

cw: Intense emotional argument. Profanity. Depictions of anger & yelling. Mild physical violence (kicking, hitting—non-injurious). Power dynamics (Superman vs. human strength). Sex while still angry (consensual). Dom/sub undertones, rough sex, choking (light, consensual), creampie, oral (f receiving). Angst with eventual comfort. Heavy on the angry sex.

You couldn’t remember ever feeling this angry in your life.

There wasn’t even a word for it—this wasn’t “mad” or “pissed” or even “livid.” This was a seething, boiling rage that had you shaking as you stormed out of the apartment last night, keys clenched so tight in your fist they left little crescent-shaped cuts in your palm. And it was his fault. Clark fucking Kent.

You’d set one—one—clear boundary: “If Lois texts you, you don’t answer. Not under any fucking circumstance.” It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t unreasonable. And what did you catch him doing? Texting her. Behind your back.

You’d looked over his shoulder while he stood at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, and saw her name lighting up the screen like a warning shot. You’d watched his thumbs fly over the keyboard, casual as anything, and in that moment, it felt like the floor dropped out from under you.

You’d snatched the phone right out of his hands before he even knew you were there. And sure enough. There it was. A whole thread of messages.

Lois: You’ll always pick up when I need you, right, Smallville?

Clark: You know I’ll never ignore you. What’s going on?

That one had been enough to make your blood go cold. “You fucking coward,” you hissed, the words trembling from your lips as you threw his phone back at his chest. It hit him square in the middle of his broad torso with a dull thunk. “You couldn’t even tell her to leave you alone. You just had to respond, didn’t you?”

“Listen to me—”

“No!” Your hands curled into fists. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to make excuses. You crossed the one boundary I asked for. The one.”

His jaw tightened. “It wasn’t like that. She needed—”

“I don’t care what she needed!” you screamed. “What about what I needed? Huh? Did you even fucking consider that for a second before your goddamn Boy Scout complex kicked in?”

The argument only got worse from there. Shouting. Tears. Him standing there with that impossible calm, letting you burn yourself out because he knew if he pushed too hard, you’d explode.

And you did. You stormed out. You didn’t go home. Didn’t answer his texts. You stopped sleeping at the apartment. You didn’t even show up at the Planet because you knew he’d be there

It had been 24 hours.

You’d avoided him as best you could, which was laughable really, because if he really wanted to find you, he could. There wasn’t a place on the face of the earth Clark Kent couldn’t track you to.

Which made it worse. He was giving you space.

That thought alone pissed you off all over again as you stormed down a narrow Metropolis alleyway, boots clicking on the wet pavement.

You didn’t want his space. You didn’t want his pity.

You wanted him to suffer.

So when you heard the faint rustle of air behind you, felt the slight shift in pressure, your jaw tightened.

“Go the fuck away, Kent.”

There was silence. And then a low chuckle. “I gave you your space. A whole day, sweetheart,” he said softly, like he wasn’t five seconds away from getting your nails down his face. “Now it’s my turn.”

You spun on your heel. “Fuck you.”

“You’ve been doing that in your head since last night.”

“Don’t you dare—”

“—but I’d rather you do it in my bed.”

“CLARK!” you shrieked. You lunged at him, fists swinging. He caught your wrists like they were nothing, pulling you close, his arms like iron bands around you.

“Let go of me! I said I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear your excuses—I don’t want—”

“I wasn’t texting her back because I wanted to,” he interrupted, voice firm now. The softness was gone. The Superman steel crept in. “I did it because she said it was about work. A source.”

“I don’t care—”

“You do care,” he murmured, pulling you tight enough to feel every hard inch of him against your body. “You care so much it’s killing you. I shouldn’t have answered. I know. I’m sorry.”

“Stop talking to me!” But your voice cracked. You kneed him in the crotch and ran out of his grip.

One second you were angrily running down cracked concrete, and the next you were weightless. A hard arm cinched tight around your waist. The wind howled in your ears as you shot up into the sky, the alley shrinking to a thin line below.

“Clark Kent!”

“You’re mad at me.” His voice was calm. Maddeningly calm. His lips brushed your ear over the roar of the wind. “And you’ve been avoiding me. You’re not safe walking around alone this late.”

“Put me down! Put me the fuck down!”

“No.”

You started hitting him. Your fists smacked against his chest—uselessly. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

“I hate you!” you screamed, struggling in his arms.

“No, you don’t.” His voice was quiet now, but there was steel underneath it. “You’re angry. And you have every right to be. But I’m not letting you walk away from this.”

“Stay away from me! I don’t want to fucking hear it!”

“You’re going to hear it.”

“Or what?” you spat. “You’ll lock me in your Fortress of Solitude until I calm down?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured.

He didn’t take you to the Fortress, though. He took you home.

Your apartment was different. The lights were dim. Candles flickered on every surface. There were roses scattered across the table—red, pink, and white. A home-cooked dinner waited, steam curling up from covered plates.

You gawked. “I made dinner,” he said softly, setting you on your feet. “You haven’t eaten. And I…” He exhaled slowly, tugging his glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I know I broke your trust. I’m sorry. I’ll spend every day earning it back if you let me.”

“Clark…”

“Let me take care of you. Please.”

Your shoulders slumped. You were still pissed. You were still vibrating with anger. But God, you were tired too. And you missed him.

The bath was ridiculous. He’d drawn it for you—hot water, bubbles, rose petals, candles. The whole nine yards.

“I’m still mad at you,” you warned as he helped you undress.

“I know.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “You can be mad at me and still let me make it up to you.”

You sank into the tub with a sigh, the heat pulling the fight out of your body inch by inch. Clark crouched behind you, his big hands working the knots from your shoulders.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered.

His mouth curved against your skin. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He dragged his lips down the column of your throat, his hand sliding lower as he began to massage your breasts. “Clark—fuck—”

“Do you forgive me?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.

“No,” you hissed, but your hips betrayed you, rocking back against his cock, already hard beneath the water.

Clark’s low laugh ghosted across your ear. “I don’t believe you.” His fingers pinched at your nipple gently, pulling until you gasped, water sloshing around your hips. “Your mouth says no, but your body…” He let his hand drag down your stomach, teasing the skin just above your core. “Your body’s begging me to fuck you.”

“You’re—” Your words broke on a sharp inhale when his fingers found your clit, rubbing slow, tight circles that made your toes curl against the side of the tub. “You’re still an asshole.”

You bit down on your lip hard, trying to hold in the moan threatening to tear out of your throat. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction—not yet.

“You don’t get to—”

“I don’t get to what?” He nipped at the sensitive skin under your jaw, then sucked hard enough to make you whimper. “I don’t get to touch you like this? I don’t get to remind you that no one else knows how to make you come like I do?”

His fingers slid lower, dipping into you with an obscene wet sound. Your head fell back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Still mad?” he whispered, curling two thick fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made your vision white out.

“Yes,” you gasped, your nails digging crescents into his forearm. “Fuck you, Clark—”

“You’ve been saying that for two days now,” he growled, rutting his hips up so the heavy weight of his cock pressed against your ass. “You keep screaming how much you hate me. But sweetheart…” He bit your earlobe sharply, his voice rough. “This pussy’s soaked for me.”

“Shut up.” Your voice was thin, high.

“Make me.”

Your hands flew back, fingers threading into his dark hair as you yanked his mouth to yours. The kiss was violent with all the anger you hadn’t been able to scream out at him yesterday.

“You drive me insane,” you panted when he pulled back, lips shiny and pink from your mouth.

“Good.” He smirked against your skin, hooking an arm under your knees. “Because you’ve been driving me insane too. I can’t sleep knowing you’re mad at me. I can’t eat. I can barely fucking breathe when you’re not in my arms.”

Before you could respond, the world tilted. He lifted you out of the water like you weighed nothing—water cascading off both your bodies and splashing onto the floor—and carried you to the bed.

You didn’t even bother to complain about the mess. You were still dripping wet when he dropped you onto the mattress.

“Clark—”

“Shh.” He knelt between your thighs, his huge palms curling around your knees to spread you open wide. His gaze burned as it dragged over your slick folds. “You’re trembling for me. And you want me to believe you don’t forgive me?”

“Because I don’t—”

That’s when his mouth landed on your pussy.

Your protest turned into a sharp cry, your back arching as his tongue flattened against your clit. He sucked hard, growling low in his throat when your thighs clamped around his head.

“Fuck, Clark, I—”

“You’ll forgive me.” His voice vibrated against you as he licked into your soaked heat, his thumbs digging into your hips to hold you still. “Even if I have to keep you in this bed for days. I’ll fuck the anger out of you.”

“You’re so—” Your words dissolved into a helpless moan when two fingers pushed back inside you, curling in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

By the time he pulled back, your legs were shaking so hard you couldn’t close them.

Clark loomed over you, water droplets still clinging to his hair and chest. His cock was flushed and hard, leaking against his stomach.

“You ready to stop being mad?” he murmured, dragging the tip through your folds.

“Not even close,” you hissed, tilting your hips up in defiance.

“Then I’ll have to try harder.” He pushed into you in one slow, agonizing stroke.

Your body jerked as he angled his hips, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You bit down on his shoulder hard, half to stifle the sound that ripped out of you, half because you wanted to hurt him.

“Ah—fuck—harder,” you spat, dragging your nails down his back. “If you’re going to fuck me, then fuck me like you mean it, Kent.”

He slammed into you so hard the headboard rattled against the wall. The force knocked the air from your lungs, and you grabbed onto him like a lifeline, legs wrapping tight around his hips.

“This what you want, baby?” he gritted out, pistoning his hips into you with punishing force. “Yes,” you choked, voice cracking as your nails dug crescent moons into his skin. “Yes—fuck—don’t stop—”

“You’re not allowed to hate me,” he growled against your ear, one big hand curling around your throat as his thrusts grew faster, rougher. “Not when you feel like this inside. Not when you keep clenching around me like you need me.”

Your back arched sharply as he squeezed just enough to make your head swim, your orgasm tearing through you without warning.

“Clark—oh my God—”

“That’s it,” he growled, pounding into you harder as you shattered around him, thighs trembling violently. “So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

“Yours,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m yours—fuck—I hate you so much—”

“You don’t hate me,” he groaned, his rhythm faltering. “You’re gonna let me fill this sweet pussy up, aren’t you? Gonna let me come inside you until you can’t think of anything but how good I feel?”

“Yes—yes, please—”

Clark buried himself to the hilt and came, hips jerking as his warmth spilled deep inside you. He stayed there, locked tight to your body, kissing your neck and murmuring soft apologies between ragged breaths. “You drive me insane,” he whispered.

“Good,” you shot back weakly, though the bite was gone from your voice now.

He grinned against your skin, pressing soft kisses to the angry red marks he’d left. “Still mad?”

“...A little.”

“Then I’ll run the bath again,” he murmured, rolling you onto your side and tucking you against his chest. “We can splash around some more while I keep making it up to you.”

Later, wrapped in a fluffy towel and tucked into his arms, you scowled up at him halfheartedly.

“This doesn’t mean you’re off the hook.”

“I know,” he said softly, kissing your hair. “But it’s a start.”

You sighed.

“God, I hate how much I love you.”

His lips curved into that Smallville smile that always melted you.

“Lucky for me,” he murmured, “I love you more.”

a/n: someone with the username wellfuckme liked a fic of mine and inspired this title so thank u babe ily

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

This is so good bestie

you are in love. ( clark kent )

one night, he wakes strange look on his face. pauses, then says "you're my best friend", and you knew what it was- he is in love. (taylor swift!) all the chances clark has to confess his feelings for you never feels like the right time; that's until you're gone out of town for a work trip and he can't deny how his soul yearns for yours in a way he can no longer hold it together, even if it means declaring it in a sea of people at baggage claims.

pairing: clark kent x reader

themes: fluff! best friends to lovers, two idiots pining and in denial, love confession (DUH)

clark kent is sure he's loved you all his life; he says that with great earnest and sincerity. it's coming up to the five year mark of your friendship and clark would say that his life never really started until he met you- like you set off something inside of him; thus, he's loved you for every moment he's truly felt like his life was worth living.

the moment he realised he was in love with you was when he felt his heartbeat come to a complete standstill. one second the two of you were lying on his bedroom floor, your legs raised up against the wall as he tangled his with yours as you rested your head on his outstretched arm. the feeling of having you rest all your weight on him, so relaxed and unguarded- clark can not think of a better use for his muscle mass. he ignored the little pangs of soreness creeping in from lying on wooden floor for hours because it's only the beginning of what he would endure to spend lifetimes with you.

he looks over, your eyes trained onto the ceiling and you feel yourself drifting off to sleep, eyes closing gently. the safety net of clark's bedroom and the body milimetres from yours that promises no harm will come to makes you feel featherlike; floating off the ground where nothing can touch you.

"what?" you mumble, a small smile growing on your lips as you feel the warm stare heat at your skin.

"nothing," he returns immediately, suddenly bashful though he doesn't take his eyes away from you at any point. longing burns in his body to reach out and hold you closer, let his hands dip lower than a friendly hug and kiss you- not on the cheek to say goodbye but right smack centre on your lips, on your neck, anywhere you'll let him have you.

one of your eyes open in a wink and you take a peek at him, "clark, i can feel you burning holes into my head," and you close it again, focusing on the slight tense of his arm beneath you and you use him as a pillow.

comfort and ease fills clark and he decides that he's never really loved anyone like the way he has with you before. i mean sure he loves lois, his mother, his dog, sometimes jimmy, but he doesn't see himself sharing a home with them- locking up and sleeping on the side facing the bedroom door, coming home from work and cooking their favourite meals to see them smile, dragging his body after a long day of saving the damn world just to see his own. clark kent would burn the world for you, set it alight and probably himself on fire too if you'd ask him to just so you wouldn't get your hands dirty with it. he doesn't look at his friends and think how their hands would feel in his, how they would feel up against a wall with him, how when they're apart he feels as though the whole universe is off tilt and he can't even breathe.

you're burning holes into my heart, he thinks.

and when the silence skips a beat and feels too long, the words are the tip of his tongue, but instead he reaches out and kicks your foot gently before you attack in a vicious game of footsies.

you soften as you meet his gaze once more and he nudges closer to you so you're less than an inch away from him before he whispers in the air,

"you're my best friend."

...

over the coming months, he's tried to tell you how he feels.

his invitations of going out on a date are always undermined by you thinking its just two friends hanging out.

he wakes up an extra half hour early to join your commute and you think its because he loves the fresh coffee you make from your fancy machine for him when you spot him- you are terrible at making coffee- it tastes like pure gasoline, so much that he knows theyre bad for the environment but clark tries to think of ways of letting you down gently, recommending you just use the pods instead of grinding down the beans yourself.

he carried around the mistletoe at christmas, hoping to catch you under the right doorframe- hang it over your head and lay his heart bare on yours. except you're allergic, sneeze profusely right in the direction of his face and almost die in embarrassment. you hide for the rest of the day and clark has to bribe you with ice cream and endless reassurement to let you know it's all okay.

he tries to get lois to set you up on a blind date (and just like in the movies, he'll turn up) but all you could do was blink in confusion- "i have clark, i don't need to date," and he fucking loved the words leaving your mouth, like the sentiment is truly there but you're just not completely aware. he did however have to pull an emergency stop in the elevator, regulate his breathing and stop his heartbeat from bursting in his ears- because you had him. and the acknowledgement set his soul alight.

he even switched tactics- desperate times called for desperate measures. he wore your favourite coloured shirt, one that fit just a little too right. leaned up to grab your favourite coffee mug, flexing his bicep as he lowered it and pretended to inspect the design on it, knowing damn well he's the poor lovesick fool who bought you it. he rolled his sleeves, baring his forearms as he towered over your chair, leaning in extra close to point at some correction on your computer screen that displayed your latest article. it was rewarding- he got stares, stutters and a rosy blush that melted his brain to jelly as he tried hard to photograph that memory and hang it in the walls of his mind- a room built just for thoughts of you. and soon, if not already, you would have taken over the space completely, all unknowingly.

the words are on the tip of his tongue every single day; rotating between an "i love you more than i can understand how to," "i want forever with you" and "am i really about to blow up this friendship?"

the last always gets him, always.

even when lois places a firm touch in support to his shoulder- "they're crazy about you clark, you just don't see it because you're wrapped up in your own feelings." and all he can focus on is how your touch doesn't feel anything like lois' and it sends him into another spiralling frenzy. how could you make him feel this way and not have a single idea?

his resolve almost breaks when you're sitting across him.

"catch you for dinner when you get off?" he calls out as he passes your desk on his way to where the printers are. its quicker if he just walks in a straight line but he loves to make a detour to catch sight of you- but when lois asks with a knowing grin he's getting in his extra steps and all that.

"would love too but, can't," you raise your voice, eyes scanning the screen and clark can see the glare reflecting in your glasses. its blinding. but its your voice that stops him so suddenly in his tracks and he turns around stealthy, almost knocking poor jimmy trying to navigate alongside him.

"why not?" he asks incredulous- it's the first time in history you've ever blown him off.

"have to pack," you shrug, fingers aggressively smashing the keyboard and clark starts to walk his way back over to you. leaning obnoxiously over the computer head to get in your line of view. you try and swat him away offhandedly but he grabs your wrist, caught in air motion and the skin to skin connection rumbles across your veins.

"okay?" he drags out, ignoring how his stomach flutters in his body, knocking into all his internal organs to let them in on whats happening to clark kent right now. "packing for what?" he quizzes.

"interview out of state, celebrity clientele so i have to accomadate for their schedule," you slowly take back your arm from his hold and clark immediately misses the heat radiating from your body as you leave him to ice out under the cold once more.

"when are you leaving?"

"two,"

"pm?" and you shake your head,

"am," you correct.

"but that's in like ten hours."

"wow clark, i didn't know you could count," you quizz your brows sarcastically, "whats up with the interrogation, kent?"

"well i am a journalist," he defends, "and for safety reasons i'll need travel details, hotels, anything."

"or," you look up to him, neck craning at the distance which he stands so tall at, "i will see you on thursday when i get back." thursday is four days away. his heart cries and lurches at the thought of not being in your vicinity but he swallows like the grown and very brave man he is.

"thursday," he repeats slowly, "thursday." if he repeats it enough like a mantra and engrave it into his soul or say it like a prayer, maybe thursday would come a lot quicker and he wouldn't have to pretend like he isn't bursting at the seams.

"hey," you pause, "you okay?" your voice lowering an octave, he recognises it as the soft one you reserve just for him and momentarily it calms the stormy waters keeping them at bay.

"yeah," he breaths, hoping it doesnt sound as high pitched and reeking of lies as it did in his head when he rehearsed it fifty thousand times, "yeah."

...

he doesn't get to see you off, a vigilante attack steals his attention that he misses you leaving your apartment and before he knows it you've disappeared into the tedious timings of the airport.

he settles for the facetime calls where he gets a sliver of your face, a ramble of your voice and the smile that makes him believe that this will all be over soon and he can get back to living his purpose in life: being with you.

the space is good, he thinks. the space is nice- it's healthy. it's made him even more sure of the feelings he feels and he knows that this building between you is more than friendship; its real life fucking love and pure romance from the novels. its in the mundane moments that you make feel so special- in the highs and adrenalines of life where he only ever sees you.

its in the way he suddenly feels complete when he sees your body standing at baggage claim. it's only been four days but it feels like a lifetime without you- the constant force in his life that before he knows it, his legs are picking up at lightning speed crossing the distance within seconds.

"hey!" he calls out, tossing and tackling between busy bodies in the crowd and you turn around slowly at the sound of your best friend towering over everyone. a smile grows on your face, spreading pure sunshine all over and you abandon your case- start sprinting to meet him in the middle. the pace is off, his strides are quicker than yours that he's sent barrelling into you as he pulls you in to a stop. you're airborne suddenly, lifting you off the ground as he feels your laughter in his neck.

"i missed you too, clark," your voice rumbles, the vibrations tickling your spine as he lowers you into the ground with a bone crushing hug.

the emotions are flying everywhere for him and there's a look in his eyes you can't pinpoint. theres soft clark, ambitious clark, clark who mysteriously disappears and is on edge, clark who's the smartest guy in the damn room, clark who drinks your coffee even though you know its horrible as shit- you just keep making it to see how long he'll keep up the act, when he decides to just give in. clark who looks at you like you've hung the stars in his sky, who carried around mistletoe all christmas but you stupidly thought it was for lois lane. you've seen all the versions of clark and loved them all the same; but this wild look in his eyes- this feels new and unfamiliar.

but it's the clark that's about to create a whole new balance and orbital shift in your universe.

"i'm in love with you," the words spill out quickly like he's drowning in his thoughts- the cage is locked and its overflowing and his body feels just too heavy to swim up to the surface and out, "and i thought i could bury it down, hide it if thats what it would mean for us to always stay best friends and keep what we have but i just can't do it anymore. those four days? they felt like a lifetime of hell. i don't know who i am without you like i'm me but i just like who i am a hell of a lot better when you're with me. i love you and i've been dying to say it- hoping you'll feel the same way and i get it if you don't i mean who could be worthy of your love? you're fucking incredible-"

"clark-"

"and i'm sorry for laying this all on you right now, i would wait thousands of years in silence- pure burning yearning silence just to be with you and it would be a fucking nightmare-"

"clark-" you try again, with more urgency

"but i'd do it a million times over because existing without you seems a far worse feat and i-"

you crash your lips into his and damn sparks fly- clark's pretty sure a solar system has just burst itself, possibly his as his lips mould against yours like a perfect slot. its everything he's imagined it to be and he never wants to separate himself from you. just how long does he think he can go without air? maybe, today he should put it to the test. you don't know when he slips off the glasses, angling his face to yours to make this more comfortable for you until a throat clears and you jump back slightly. a mother stands with her child, shooting the two of you disapproving glances but you're too preoccupied with your best friend to even find the smallest fuck to give.

"oh just shut up, you giant idiot," you mumble against his lips and break apart, clark moves to rest his forehead on yours still stealing a glance into your softened eyes, though theres a glint of giddiness that undeniably shines through.

"yes, ma'am," he mumbles in his flushed daze.

"i'm in love with you too," you breathe. "have been for a while but the moment's never just felt-"

"right," he finishes, voice synchronising with yours as yiur heart beats start to dance to your own tune. "is this okay?" he murmurs, as you rest your head on his chest and he rocks you in his embrace.

it feels like that night in his bedroom those months back, though he doesn't need to be in his apartment- he has you in his arms and you're all he's ever known to be his home.

"it's perfect," your voice is muffled into his knitted sweater.

yeah, you are, he thinks. you're his best friend and he's fucking in love with you and whats even better is- you're also head over heels in love with him too.

note: ok i'm a little obsessed w this one- i love me a pining clark! i think next on my list will have be a little superman saving the world but clark kent coming back to you at the end of it idk yet- still deciding i need a good song to get me going- if anyone has any good recs LET ME KNOW ‼️‼️‼️

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

to whom it may concern  

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

-

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

-

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐭

You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms. 

You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him. 

For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short. 

Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining. 

You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach. 

You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.” 

You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out. 

Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant. 

“Here, sweetheart,” he says. 

You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.” 

“Can I make it for you?” he asks. 

Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.” 

Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building. 

You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Are you sharing?”  

“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers. 

“Thank you.”

Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.” 

“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.

He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.” 

“That explains why it’s still warm.” 

He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute. 

“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips. 

You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”

“Do you have big dinner plans?” 

“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.” 

“Why not?” 

You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.” 

“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says. 

“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.” 

He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says. 

It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it. 

“I’ll bring you some if it does.” 

“I’d like that.” 

You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning. 

“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?” 

“I can be punctual,” he promises. 

“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”

“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”

You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force. 

“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you). 

Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?” 

Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet. 

Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days. 

When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes. 

They’re cuter than denim shorts, though. Velveteen paisley overlaying plain panties. 

It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else. 

And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath. 

You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed. 

—

The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer. 

“That smells amazing.” 

You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?” 

“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.” 

His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised. 

The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks. 

“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask. 

“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.” 

“I haven’t done anything?” you ask. 

He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.” 

If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell. 

His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks. 

You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath. 

Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place. 

“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says. 

You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say. 

“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.” 

You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile. 

“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave. 

You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision. 

“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly. 

There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment. 

“It’s a little brave,” you say. 

“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.” 

You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you. 

—

Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control. 

You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure. 

“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says. 

“I’m not worried about the sun.” 

“What are you worried about?” 

“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon. 

He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.” 

You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm. 

So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that. 

“Do you worry about that a lot?” 

“Hm?” 

“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?” 

“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask. 

He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”

You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”

Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or nothing. Just knock it off.” 

He makes everything sound so satiny. 

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds. 

“Promise?” 

Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.” 

You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart. 

A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him. 

It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism. 

Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.” 

“And?” 

“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says. 

He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth. 

“What’s amazing?” 

You remember where you are urgently. 

“I made macarons,” Jimmy says. 

Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?” 

You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee. 

“Morning,” Clark says. 

“Hi. Good morning.” 

“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?” 

You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.” 

“You look good.” 

Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.” 

“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite. 

Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose. 

“You do look good,” he says again. 

You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.” 

You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice. 

“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.

“What?” 

His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself. 

“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”

“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.” 

His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue. 

Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.  

“Don’t.” 

“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”

“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?” 

“Take me somewhere else.” 

His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator. 

He hits the button for the basement as you step in. 

“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”

No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop. 

“Clark!” you say. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth. 

You raise your hand to wipe it away. 

“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly. 

Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be. 

Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back. 

“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung. 

“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.” 

“Really?” 

“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?” 

“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh. 

His eyebrows pinch. “What?” 

“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.” 

“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.” 

His neck goes all shades of rose. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. 

He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?” 

You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble. 

He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit. 

“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.” 

The elevator chugs back to life. 

—

You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar. 

“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?” 

You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out. 

“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.” 

You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily. 

“You’re okay,” Superman assures you. 

His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion. 

“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.” 

“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.” 

You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs. 

Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”

“Everyone’s safe.” 

You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak. 

“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.” 

Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly. 

You shake your head, not without fondness.

All boys are the same. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

"Order For Superman"!

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⋆·˚ ༘ .⋆𖥔 ݁ ˖۶ৎ superman/clark kent x waitress!reader

content warning!!: fluff | a little surprise at work <3

author's note: I love u david corenswet + pt.4 of sweet face, sour taste tmrw, half of it is done and in my drafts 🤞 | first of MANY superman fics...coming soon...

🏷️: @chuuchuutrainn @angel06babysworld @rafeysvenicebitch @pinkitty97

masterlist!────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

"No, I just-I gotta call you back there's a rush right now and–Clark–Shit, holdon."

You balanced another plate in your hands as you walked out the kitchen, simultaneously holding your phone between your shoulder and ear, attempting to multi-task serving plates of food and talk to your boyfriend.

His voice was clear as day even through the chatter of the customers around you blabbing about sports and things you really couldn't care less about in the moment as you walked through the aisles, eyes looking out for your table.

"If you're busy I can always call back, I was just flying over–"

"No!"

Your voice came out a little louder than expected, the table of 4 you were standing by staring at you a little too hard before you began walking through the crowds of people once again.

"No, please don't show up. I don't–you know I'd never say no to an opportunity to see you but–," you lowered your voice, whispering into your phone, "Superman wouldn't be very helpful–to the packed restaurant. I've had two parties walk in, no reservations–"

"Baby?"

"Yeah?" You sighed, the burning sensation from the bottom of the plate of hot food finally hitting you as you stopped walking once again.

"I'll call you later alright?"

"No flying?"

You heard him laugh from behin the screen.

"No flying."

You let out another sigh, finally placing the plates in your hands down onto your table, mouthing the group a little "sorry" before grabbing your phone.

"I'll see you soon, okay?" He smiled–even though you couldn't see.

"Bye, sunshine."

"Bye, Superman." You replied, your own lips curling into a smile as you slid your phone into the apron around your waist, trying to compose yourself as much as you could as your table began to...stare.

"Superman?" One of the ladies spoke up, her lips pressed together as if she was trying to hold in her laughter.

"Just a little joke between me and my boyfriend." You giggled, brushing her off as if you weren't feeling your cheeks grow warm at the innocent question.

"To be young and in love." The woman replied before taking a small sip from her glass.

Your smile grew wider at her words, completely forgetting you were at work. At your job, before you heard a fork hit the floor–a baby's babbling hitting your ears like a reality check.

"Could I get you guys anything else?"

"Just another water, sweetie."

"On it."

By the end of the day you were done. Figuratively and literally. You were sitting in a corner booth, lazily spooning at an ice cream sundae you may or may not have put in just for you...until the chime of the door distracted you.

You got out of your seat, walking towards the front to warn whoever just came in that you guys were closed until–

"Cl–Superman?"

He broke out into a grin as soon as he saw you, going in to hug you as if he wasn't still dressed up in his red and blue attire.

"What are you doing here?" You whispered aggressively, looking back towards the kitchen doors–as if one of the cooks could pop out any second.

"Just wanted to have some pasta." He teased, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

And so there you were, walking back into the kitchen, a guilty look on your face as you pranced over to your favorite cook–well, the only one that let you get away with mysteriously ordered icecream sundaes...

"Celia!"

She turned over to face you, right in the middle of cleaning everything up, her usual chipper attitude completely dead as she was in her close-up zone.

"I have a little request–'

"I'm not making you anymore food."

Well, shit.

"Actually there's a customer outside–'

"And you don't tell them we were closed? Such a people please I swear.."

"Could I get a sentence out?" You muttered under your breath, earning you a side-eye from the girl beside you before she finally paused to give you a chance to speak.

"Supermanwantstooorder." You mumbled, your words barely audible as you rushed them out your mouth.

She paused for another second before rolling her eyes, her knuckles visibly whitening as she held onto the cloth in her hand.

"What?"

"Supermanwantstooorder, Celia–"

"What?"

"Superman wants to order!"

The kitchen suddenly grew quiet, her facial expression remaining skeptical until she saw your own–serious as ever. And a little nervous. She was scary..

"Are you serious?'

"Why would I lie about that? It's like...9PM."

She slowly walked over to the kitchen window,–just to see your boyfriend in all of his red and blue glory, sitting there like the patient man he was–tapping his fingers against the table.

"Holy shit, Superman's here." She squealed, her mood switching faster than the speed of light.

"I just said that–"

"Oh my god, well you should've sooner! What does he want? I'll get it right now, oh my god.."

"Well, pasta–"

She didn't let you finish. Not before she was flying around the kitchen, already scouring through pots and pans.

"You never let me finish.." You muttered under your breath, letting out a small sigh before leaving the kitchen through its double doors, walking back over to your too happy boyfriend–a humanized golden retriever.

"Does this classify as a date?" He smiled, his skin denting dimples immediately catching your eye.

"Are you paying?" You teased, rubbing gently under your eyes as if that could get rid of the dark circles beneath them, your body completely limp as you fought sleep.

He noticed. Immediately. He always did. And his expression dropped a little.

"I just wanted to surprise you, was this a bad idea?"

Oh, c'mon. The kicked puppy look?

You shook you're head slowly, a sleepy smile replacing your slight frown.

"No..no, I'm glad you're here. I'm always happy you're around, you know that ..just..I'm just tired." You admitted, pressing your cheek into your palm as you leaned against the table.

"I'm sorry–'

"Clark, don't start." You whispered, already aware of his rambling–his apologies that never stopped. They were sweet. He was sweet. But ...God.

"Clark?" He chuckled, pearly white teeth smiling at you like diamonds–and maybe you were just sleepy. Or hallucinating–but did one just sparkle at you?

"Let me go check on your pasta, Superman." You chuckled, sliding out your seat before walking back into the kitchen, a certain sway to your step.

Celia was just finishing up the plate, sprinkling some parmesan cheese before handing it to you in just a couple of seconds.

"Tell me if he likes it–you think he'll stay to give me an autograph?"

You take the pasta from her, eyes barely open as you reply with a,"Celia, I have no clue," before leaving through the kitchen doors.

You walk back to your boyfriend, hot plate in hand as you call out to him,

"Order for Superman?"

He let out a small laugh, watching as you placed the food down in front of him, just about to walk back to your own seat before he grabbed you by the waist.

"I really am sorry you had to go through all the trouble.." he whispered, voice suddenly softer than before.

"I know you are." You replied, shifting closer so you were just by his side, baby blue eyes staring into your own.

"Are you really okay?"

"Clark."

"Baby."

You laugh in response, plopping down onto the seat next to him.

"Eat your food, okay?"

"Just because you told me to." He mumbled, pressing a small kiss to your forehead before digging in.

You let him have his peace. For a good few minutes before you spoke up again.

"I'll 100% forgive you if you do me this one thing."

"Name it. Anything."

"Sign an autograph for my friend, Celia?"

line dividers: @/hyuneskkami

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Simon with a weird ass wife. Like think about it. You’re always doing or saying something strange as hell and Si is right there beside you, giving the stink eye to anyone who dares look at you like you’re weird because you’re not (you totally are).

Someone is judging you because you said that you can’t get rid of a dead cactus that’s been sitting in the window for six years because that would hurt it’s feelings? Fuck them for judging you because it absolutely would hurt it’s feelings and he’s on his way to smack some sense into them right now.

Oh, you absolutely stared down a high ranking officer when you came to bring Simon his lunch? No one better say anything. You were just distracted by his offensively chartreuse shirt and had to say something. He should have worn a better color because it is in fact horrendous. That’s not your fault.

[punksnotdeadbutiam]

Field Trip Savior

Your field trip gets rudely interrupted by another inter-dimensional monster. Superman saves the day and steals your heart

Tags: fluff, meet cute

WC: 1.7K

Superman x Teacher!Reader | A/N: this is inspired by an old Spider-Man fic I read years ago but I have no clue who wrote it so idea credit is all theirs. I speed wrote this in 4 hours, bear with me.

It was supposed to be a simple field trip. You had finally convinced the school to let you take your class of rambunctious 3rd graders to the Metropolis Museum of Art. Months of begging and sternly worded letters to the district superintendent finally paid off.

You couldn’t blame them really. Field trips in a place with daily visits from monsters and super villains wasn’t exactly the best idea. But your kids were great… well they were good… decent if you were being honest with yourself. They deserved a fun day at the museum. They deserved to look at all the cool sculptures and convince you into stopping for ice cream on the way back. Which of course you would pay for… with your own money.

But of course nothing in Metropolis could be simple. Halfway through the guided tour, some 150ft monster, probably from some dimension you’ve never heard of and wouldn’t have believed was real rampaged through half the city and was headed straight for the museum.

“Maria stop biting Kasper and get in the closet!” You say firmly, pulling your student Maria away from her self proclaimed arch nemesis, Kasper.

“But Ms Teacher he’s being a big butthead," she shrieks and stomps her glitter sketchers.

You pause, pushing down the exasperation. “Okay first off my name isn’t Ms Teacher, we talked about this and we don’t call our friends buttheads”

“But he is one!”

“I know," you mutter under your breath as you turn away from her. She was right, but you can't let her know she's right. No one would live that down.

You quickly usher the 20 kids towards one of the janitors closet. The exit had been blocked off, trapping you in the sculpture wing of the museum.

The sound of cracking and a deafening roar stops you in your tracks. The stone structure above you shakes and cracks, splitting open and crumbling. In a flash you usher the children down the hall as fast as possible, trying desperately to avoid the falling debris.

“Bring them here!” A museum worker shouts, flailing her arms to get your attention. “There is a basement. It is safe. The children can hide there.”

“You heard her, get to the basement.”

As you watch to make sure each kid successfully makes it down the stairs you realize one horrible, terrible thing. You’re one kid short. You counted 19 not 20.

Kasper.

Why is it always Kasper?

"I'm missing a kid. Shit! Watch them. I- I'll be back."

Before the woman can argue with you, you take off running. Kasper may be the most difficult child you have ever worked with but he can't have gone far.

You push through the rushing crowd, doing what you can you push debris out of the way, calling out for Kasper in a panic. Sure, he's is a butthead, but you have no intention of leaving him to be a snack for whatever the fuck this gigantic thing is.

"Kasper! Kasper! Come on out, you need to follow me! There's a safe place to hide!"

You get no response. Just more screaming and the sounds of the loudspeakers urging people to evacuate, the words cracked and distorted now from the sheer level of destruction.

The creature is nearly on top of you now, crashing through the museum like a bulldozer with a vendetta. Just as a chunk of the ceiling is sent hurling towards you, you feel something wrap around you. Something warm and strong. You don't even have time to scream, let alone ask questions before you're swept away.

Your eyes wide and nearly bulging from surprise flick up to see what or rather who grabbed you. If your eyes could leave your skull they would. Superman. 6'4, dark curls, strong armed Superman has you wrapped up in his arms. And he's smiling at you. Smiling at you.

This can't be happening.

This isn't real. There's no way. It's got to be a dream.

A dream you have had many... many times. An embarrassing amount of times, really. How could you not? How could anyone not?

"You alright ma'am?" he asks, voice smooth and deep.

"I- yeah... yeah great. Awesome actually. So good. Mhm." You blink. Possibly twice as the words crawl their way out of your stunned brain.

"You looking for someone?" His smile lingers. His eyes, impossibly kind, scan the chaos behind you.

"My student. Kasper. He's 8. Little bit evil."

His brow lifts just slightly, amused. "Well evil is my specialty. You take care of those kids. I'll find him. No need to worry, ma'am."

Ma'am? As if you could swoon any harder. Handsome and polite? He's even more handsome in person than in the youtube clips. His smile is enough to make the strongest person faint.

As soon as he arrived, he's off again. As much as you could stand there watching him you rush yourself into the basement with the other 19 of your students. The minutes pass like hours, the worry eating away at you despite the more than pleasant surprise of being swept up by the Superman. Kasper had a habit of running off. He was one of those kids who just couldn't be contained. It was only a matter of time before he got lost. Of course it had to happen today of all days. He couldn't wait until the gigantic, possibly people eating monster was gone.

"Ms Teacher? Is Kasper going t be okay?" said Lila, wide eyed and whispering like the question itself might make things worse. She was always the classroom's nervous nelly. But now? Now you couldn't blame her,

You crouched beside her, forcing a reassuring smile. "Of course he is. Superman is out there right now looking for him."

A gasp came from another kid behind a crate of emergency water bottles that looked at least 30 years old. "Superman? Really? You talked to Superman?"

"Uhhh yeah I did."

You were suddenly surrounded. Questions flying at you from every single direction.

"Oh my god! Are you and Superman friends? Is he nice? Is his costume as cool as on TV?"

Before they can attack you with any more questions, the door swings open. You swear he radiates light as it glows behind him. The past 15 minutes have made him even more beautiful. He stands there, tall as ever with Kasper in his arms who could not be happier, grinning ear to ear.

"MS TEACHER! LOOK! IT'S SUPERMAN!"

---

The monster was finally taken care of. Sent back to wherever it came from. All 20 kids were accounted for and back on the bus, not so patiently waiting to go back to school and be reunited with their families. You however weren't so anxious to go back. Superman had dropped Kasper off with you and flown off again to finally get that creature off the street. You wanted to see him again. Anyone would want to see that face again, of course.

As if the universe could hear your innermost thoughts, the wind rustles behind you and that deep, warm voice calls out to you.

"Ma'am?"

You whip around, heart pounding so hard you swear you can feel it in your toes. Your throat tightens, mildly strangling you.

"H-hi, Superman." Your voice wavers, betraying the storm of nerves fluttering in your chest.

"Glad to see you're alright." he says, touching down lightly, his boots barely making a sound.

"Thanks to you." You offer a sheepish smile, the adrenaline of the moment still making your hands tremble slightly.

"Ah well, it's nothing." He shrugs modestly, but there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. How could he be this humble after saving lives everyday? It's captivating.

"You saved my life. Kasper's life too." You glance back at the students who are now pressed against the glass windows, staring at you as you stand there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with yourself.

"I'm always here to help."

"Right. Always doing the right thing, huh?" You tilt your head, teasing just a little, watching how his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"As much as I can, yes ma'am." He's really got to stop calling you that. If he says it again you're sure your heart will really give out.

"You don't have to call me ma'am, you know?" You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow, trying not to grin.

"What should I call you then? Ms Teacher?" He's smirking now, bright eyes shining as he looks down at you. God, he's so tall.

"I've told them a million times not to-"

"It's cute." He cuts you off, still smiling "They obviously adore you. You must be a pretty great teacher." He moves a bit closer, arms dropping to his sides.

You blink at him, caught off guard by the sincerity. "I try. I'm no superhero or anything."

"Of course you are. All teachers are." His gaze lingers, unwavering and as sincere as ever.

"You flatter me, Superman."

"I try." That smile again. That sparkling, handsome smile. It's the type of smile you've only read about in shitty romance novels that you got off your mothers bookshelf when you were far too young to be reading them.

You face warms at least 1000 degrees. Your eyes dart away, unable to look him in the eye a second longer.

"I should let you get back. They look eager to go." He laughs, gesturing to your nosy students.

"Oh right. They're just excited. They're big fans. Everyone is."

"Not everyone." He says it quietly, as if he’s not used to the spotlight, even after all this time

"Well I am." You finally look back up, catching the flicker of surprise in his eyes.

"Are you now?" That teasing edge returns to his smile, and it curls something mischievous inside you.

"Oh yeah. And safe to say I was a fan even before you saved me from being crushed to death."

"Saving you certainly helps I'm sure."

"Just a little." You bite your bottom lip, trying to contain the grin threatening to break free.

He straightens slightly, as if something has settled in his mind. "Well..." He starts leaning a bit closer, "Ms Teacher, perhaps I could save you again? This Saturday maybe? At 7?"

"Oh yeah! I- I mean yes." You stumble, flustered and horrified with your own eagerness. "That would be nice."

"See you at 7 then."

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