ripoutmyinsides

[ripoutmyinsides]

the trouble with jimmy

pairing: clark kent x reader summary: when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend. tags: smallville!reader, photographer!reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, comedy of errors type miscommunication (nothing serious or overly frustrating i promise) warning(s): suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader word count: 9.2k note: did i get the inspiration to write this while rewatching smallville for the first time in years? why yes i did 😌

masterlist

You stepped out of the taxi, your new camera bag slung over your shoulder, nerves swirling in your stomach. The Daily Planet’s globe gleamed above you, obscenely big and just as intimidating. Standing by the entrance was Clark Kent, already waiting for you. 

An absurdly large grin was on his lips as he stood there, adjusting his glasses nervously. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was familiar, even under his office suit, but his face wasn’t quite how you remembered it. You knew that behind his black frames, a pair of startling blue eyes shone with excitement.

“Hey,” Clark greeted you when you closed the taxi door behind you. “You made it!”

You broke into a smile, jogging up to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. Clark laughed, catching you easily and hugging you so tightly your feet left the ground for a moment. “Of course I made it. I couldn’t miss my first day.”

When Clark released you, you took a step back to take him in properly. He held onto the strap of your camera bag like you might run back to Smallville if he didn’t physically keep you in Metropolis. 

Then, theatrically, you squinted up at him. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”

Clark rolled his eyes fondly. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

You chuckled. “Clark Kent doesn’t wear glasses. You don’t look like you.”

His mouth tilted into the shy smile you remembered. “I told you, they make my face look different so people don’t recognise me,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, but I’ve known your face my whole life,” you teased, leaning closer. “I’ve known it since your Ma gave you a botched haircut in first grade. I’d recognise you in a police line-up in two seconds flat. These,” you reached up to push his glasses up his nose, “Just make you look like a knock-off Clark Kent.”

“A knock-off? Really?” Clark said. The grin on his face made his mock-scolding expression unconvincing.

You nodded, expression solemn. “Discount Clark. Buy-one-get-one-free Clark.”

He ducked his head, but the tips of his ears went pink. You hadn’t seen that look in over a year, and it warmed you from the inside out. “I missed you,” Clark confessed quietly, with a smile. “A lot.”

You beamed. “I missed you too,” you promised. “Who knew having thousands of miles between us would make me finally decide to leave Kansas.” 

After graduating from high school, you and Clark went your separate ways. You stayed in Smallville to help your family, attending community college for photography. Clark went all the way to Delaware to study journalism at Metropolis University. You’d been long-distance best friends for years, and landing a job at The Daily Planet was the perfect excuse to move to the same city as him.

Little did you know, Clark had been in love with you back in high school. 

He would have told you, too, if you hadn’t chosen futures that scattered you across the country. At first he told himself the distance was a blessing. Maybe it would give his heart enough space to cool off, until whatever he felt for you dulled into nothing. But he’d been wrong. No matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was just a silly crush, he never stopped loving you.

Clark looked at you like he always did—steady, unwavering, as if you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on. 

Oblivious, you adjusted your bag and nodded to the doors. “So, are you gonna show me around? Or do I have to storm the newsroom on my own?

“Pretty sure storming the newsroom gets you fired on your first day,” Clark mused. 

“Then it’d be a record,” you joked. “Imagine the headline: ‘Shortest tenure ever held by a Daily Planet photographer.’”

“Writen by Clark Kent,” he added. 

“Rude,” you muttered, without any real bite. Clark led you inside, making sure to stay close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with every step. You glanced up at him, speaking in a sing-song tone, “You’re doing it again.”

He looked back, puzzled. “Doing what?”

“The thing where you hover like a worried dad every time I have something important going on,” you supplied. “Your Ma and I call you Helicopter Clark behind your back. She thinks you get it from your Pa.”

Clark laughed softly, a little sheepish. “Maybe I just like having you around.”

You nudged his arm. “Cute. You’ve always been sappy.”

He gave a small laugh, but his chest tightened. If only you knew how right you were. “Yeah, guess I am.”

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” you squealed as you entered the elevator. “This place is legendary. You’ve been walking into this building every morning like it’s normal, and now I get to join you. It’s crazy!”

Clark watched your excitement with something softer in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy.”

When the elevator doors slid open onto the bullpen floor, you let out a gasp. It was almost like a cathedral, ceilings impossibly high and crowned with coffered squares edged in gold. The building was a heavy marble and stone, making it feel historic, though it was filled with modern sounds—phones ringing, keyboards clattering.

After introducing you to the receptionist, who snapped your picture and handed over a still-warm badge, Clark guided you forward with a hand lightly pressed to your back. That same quiet protectiveness he’d always had in Smallville hadn’t dulled with distance.

You clutched your new badge, eyes darting around. “So,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin, “are you going to introduce me to your friends, or do I just start shaking hands like I’m running for office?”

Clark laughed, the sound soft but fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s start with Lois—”

“Standing right here,” came a crisp voice behind you.

You turned. A woman with sleek dark hair approached, folder tucked under one arm, coffee in the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over you, then softened with the faintest flicker of amusement. She looked like the kind of woman who could save your life and then write your obituary if you annoyed her.

Clark fumbled, already flustered. He knew exactly why she was giving you that look. If there was one thing everyone at the office teased him about, it was the fact that he spoke about you too much. Lois and Cat were convinced Clark was in love with you, and he was having a hard time trying to convince them otherwise. 

“Lois, this is—”

“The famous best friend from Kansas,” she cut in, sticking out her hand before he could finish.

Your brows shot up. “He’s been talking about me, huh?”

“All the time,” Lois said flatly. “Honestly, I thought you might be imaginary.”

That got a laugh out of you, nerves dissolving instantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time Clark invented a friend to make himself seem popular,” you joked, shaking Lois’s hand.

Clark gave you a look, half mock-offended, half helpless affection. Lois chuckled, sipping her coffee like she was watching a very entertaining sitcom.

“You’ll fit right in,” she said, and patted Clark’s arm before she swept off toward her desk.

The moment she was out of earshot, you turned to him. “She seems cool.”

Clark grinned, though his shoulders still carried tension. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll only use it against you later.”

You laughed and followed him deeper into the chaos. 

That’s when you saw him: boyish grin, camera strap slung across his shoulder like it belonged there. Jimmy Olsen. Average height, wiry, chestnut hair that refused to stay put, posture like he’d never once taken gym seriously but always got the last word. He had that indefinable something. Not movie-star handsome, not intimidating, just magnetic. Approachable. Like he could charm a parking ticket out of a meter maid.

Jimmy leaned against a filing cabinet mid-story, making a whole crowd laugh. Then he looked up, saw you, and lit up like you’d just walked in carrying a Pulitzer.

“No way!” he bounded over, hand outstretched, grin wide. “It’s so nice to finally meet Clark’s other best friend. I’m Jimmy.”

His energy was so warm you laughed before you even touched his hand. “‘Other best friend’? Try the original.”

“Clark talks about you all the time,” Jimmy said, deadly serious. “I figured you were either a childhood friend or his nemesis.”

“Both,” you said. “Depends on the day.”

​​Jimmy laughed warmly. The next thing you knew, you were giggling through his wild gestures as he explained how he’d almost been locked in the darkroom overnight. He was ridiculous, magnetic in that paradoxical way of being sweet but charming.

Clark stood a step back, watching. He shouldn’t have been surprised. You were both his best friends, after all. But the way you were already leaning into Jimmy’s orbit, laughing with your whole face, made something in his chest twist. 

You doubled over at the end of Jimmy’s story, tears threatening. “Clark totally undersold you, you’re hilarious!”

Jimmy raised his brows and eyed Clark. “Undersold me? Clark, how could you?”

You turned, expecting Clark to leap to his own defence, but instead of his usual grin, you caught a strained smile, his shoulders drawn tight. Before you could puzzle it out, Jimmy launched into a rundown on the other photographers, earning your rapt attention.

Lois strolled past, a smirk curling on her lips. She nudged Clark’s elbow. “Looks like Jimmy turned on the usual charm for your Smallville bestie,” she commented. “How does he do it?”

She’d said the words casually, but Clark froze, throat bobbing. 

You leaned toward Jimmy. “So,” you asked eagerly, “what’s your favourite lens? Do you stick with prime or—”

Jimmy lit up and dove into an enthusiastic explanation, hands flying as he talked about his 35mm. You nodded along, grinning like you’d just found a kindred spirit. Behind you, Clark’s smile faltered another fraction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach twisting. 

“Okay,” Clark broke in at last, voice just slightly brisk. “You’ve got orientation in five. Don’t wanna be late.”

You straightened, still grinning, and gave Jimmy a cheerful wave. “Catch you later!”

Jimmy shot back a two-fingered salute, grin dazzling. You turned happily to follow Clark, not noticing the tightness in his jaw as he guided you toward the conference room.

“I can see why you like him so much,” you said, breathless with laughter. “He seems great. I can’t wait to work with him.”

Clark said nothing. Because Lois’s voice still echoed through his head, over and over again, about how Jimmy had turned the charm on for you.

For dinner, Clark picked out a diner that looked unchanged since 1954: red vinyl booths, neon buzzing faintly above the counter, waitresses who called you “hon.” He swore up and down they had the best burger in Metropolis, and you believed him—because when had Clark Kent ever lied about food?

You sank into the booth across from him, shrugging off your jacket, cheeks still warm from the day. “Okay,” you said, stabbing the straw into your soda with a decisive jab. “Jimmy Olsen.”

Clark’s brows lifted. “What about him?”

You leaned forward, grinning. “He’s adorable. I totally get why you talk about him so much. He’s so funny, Clark, and he’s actually good. Like, really good. We were talking about lenses earlier and we have the same favourites, can you believe that? And he knows all my favourite photographers. And today, on my first day, Perry actually liked my pitch on the immigration photo essay! Guess who helped me polish it before the meeting?”

Clark’s smile stayed on his lips, but it dimmed a little in his eyes. “Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” you repeated with a laugh, holding up your glass in a mock toast. “My desk is right next to his, and I think we’re going to get along well. He’s got that… that thing, you know?” Clark knew exactly what you meant. Jimmy might as well have been the most charming man in Metropolis. “It’s magnetic.”

You didn’t notice the way Clark’s shoulders drooped, or how he fussed with the paper wrapper on his straw until it was shredded into tiny curls.

“Well,” he said after a beat, voice pitched a little too cheerful, “sounds like you’ve had a pretty swell first day.”

You beamed. “The best. Honestly, I was so nervous this morning. But between you, Lois, and Jimmy, I think I’ll be alright.”

Clark swallowed, nodded, smiled. All those things at once. It looked effortless if you didn’t know him. Unfortunately for him, you knew him better than anyone.

You tilted your head. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, gaze darting to the laminated menu. Clark had never been good at lying to you, but avoiding eye contact might give him a chance. “I’m just glad you’re settling in. Really glad.”

You hesitated, straw between your teeth, suddenly aware of how much you’d been talking. “I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?”

Clark chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”

You grinned sheepishly. “Well, for the record, my apartment’s great. A little bare still, but nice. And I get to walk to work now, which feels very grown-up and metropolitan.” You said the last word with mock grandeur, and Clark’s mouth curved at the edges.

“Didn’t you take a taxi today?” he teased.

“That was practicality,” you argued. “You try hauling a backpack and a camera bag full of photography gear on the subway.”

Clark smiled, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m glad you like your place. My first place in Metropolis was a dorm, so anything should be a step up from that.”

You laughed. “True. My neighbour seems really nice, too. I think we’ll be friends. But honestly?” You paused, softer now, because you wanted him to hear this part clearly. “The best part of today was getting to see you, and knowing I’ll see you every day now.”

You meant it. The way you said it, so plain and true, made something flicker across Clark’s face. Something you couldn’t name before it vanished behind another of his earnest smiles. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other across the booth, soda sweating between your hands, the neon light turning his glasses a soft red at the edges.

“This feels a little like home, doesn’t it?” you said finally, nodding at the jukebox in the corner “Like that diner where I had all my birthday parties growing up.”

Clark’s mouth curved, almost shy. “With the paper hats.”

You grinned. “And the strawberry milkshakes.”

“I remember.” He tipped his head, studying you like he was turning back the clock. “You always wished for the same thing every year.” Then he chuckled, “Three more wishes.”

“Yeah.” Your voice softened as you leaned back. “Last year, I wished for this. For sitting across from you again. Getting to see you every day.”

Clark’s smile faltered, just slightly, like your words pressed against something tender inside him.

You ducked your gaze, tracing the menu with your finger. “I can’t wait to hang out at yours or mine soon. So I can see your face properly again, without the hypno-glasses.” You said it with a little laugh, but the truth slipped out in the quiet. “I just… miss seeing you. Not Superman, not the glasses. You.”

His throat worked around a swallow, glasses slipping a little down his nose. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually reach across the table for your hand. Instead, Clark gave you one of those soft, heart-aching smiles that belonged only to you. “I’d like that.”

When you’d told him you were moving to Metropolis, Clark had been elated. You were the first person he’d ever trusted with the truth back in high school—his heritage, his powers, the fear, the whole mess of being different. Having you here felt like a gift, as if he could finally stop feeling so alone.

“Speaking of gifts,” you said suddenly, rummaging in your bag. “I almost forgot, your parents sent me with this.”

You pulled out a small pot with a leafy sprig of green, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Clark blinked at it, recognition dawning. “Is that—?”

“Native milkweed,” you declared proudly. “Your Ma said it’s good for butterflies. She wanted you to have a piece of home on your windowsill. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Tell Clark to water it, because Lord knows he won’t remember without supervision.’”

Clark chuckled fondly, the sound easing out of him in a breath. “That sounds like Ma.” He reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the plant, and you felt the warmth linger longer than it should have.

“She also packed me a pie for the trip,” you added slyly. “I already ate it.”

His mouth fell open in mock horror. “You ate a whole pie by yourself?”

“Don’t look so shocked, farm boy,” you scolded. “You’ve seen me at Thanksgiving. Besides, it was a four hour plane ride! I got hungry.”

That made Clark properly laugh, his head tipped back, clutching his stomach. The sight made your chest tighten unexpectedly. It was like catching the memory of summer sunlight on your skin.

The two of you fell easily into swapping stories after that. Your first terrifying photography professor, his late nights at the college paper, how you used to sneak into the Kent barn loft with a thermos of hot chocolate and talk about the future like you had any clue what it would look like.

“Do you remember,” you said between bites of fries, “when I told you I was going to be the next Annie Leibovitz and you said you’d write all my captions?”

Clark grinned, fork hovering in the air. “Still will, if you’ll let me.”

You rolled your eyes, though the fondness in your eyes was painfully obvious. “Such a nerd.”

His smile softened. If there was no red thread binding you together, he would grab a string and tie it himself. Clark Kent had been yours since the moment you’d leaned over the lunch table in middle school and whispered, Don’t worry, I think you’re normal even if you don’t.

You caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Clark said, though it came out tender, almost adoring.

And you thought, God, what a nerd. My best friend is such a nerd. You refrained from saying it with barely controlled affection, hiding the way your stomach had gone hot under his gaze.

You found your rhythm in Metropolis faster than you thought you would.

The first week at The Daily Planet had been an exercise in clinging to Clark’s elbow like a human lifeline, smiling a little too hard at every person who passed, and trying desperately to memorise names and desk locations before someone caught you looking lost. But by the second week, you’d figured out how to blend in with the controlled chaos of the bullpen.

You were still “the new kid.” The one who double-checked the coffee machine instructions before daring to press a button, the one who made Jimmy sign off on all your captions even though he kept insisting you were fine. But you were speaking up more in meetings. 

You’d made Cat laugh once, actually laugh, a sharp bark followed by an appraising look that made you feel like you’d just earned a medal. Lois was harder to crack, but there were moments when she’d pass you a file without comment or murmur a quick, “Good work,” and your stomach would flutter like you’d been given a blessing.

And then there was Jimmy. Going out on assignment with him was like being caught in a whirlwind. He walked too fast, talked too fast, gestured so wildly you half-expected him to topple into traffic. But he was brilliant with a camera. He’d see a shot before you’d even raised your lens, point it out with the kind of enthusiasm that made you laugh even when you were gasping to keep up. 

The first time Perry ran one of your photos on the front page, Jimmy dragged you into the middle of the bullpen and announced it like a town crier.

The second time was even better. You’d somehow managed to snap a clean, perfectly framed shot of Superman mid-flight, cape fluttering against the light, looking every bit the hero of Metropolis. Perry slapped the proof down on the table and growled, “Front page.” You nearly fell over.

That night, you showed Clark, holding up the paper like a trophy. He nearly spat out his tea.

“You’re kidding me!” He was laughing so hard he almost fell off your sofa. “You—you got the Superman shot? After all the times Jimmy’s tried—golly.”

“Golly?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “What are you, a cartoon dad?”

“Don’t care,” Clark said, still grinning. “You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”

If you thought about that too long, you got a little lightheaded, so you mostly didn’t.

Metropolis itself was trickier. You’d been before to visit Clar, but living here was different. You’d grown up in Smallville, where everyone knew your name, your parents, and exactly what your dreams and goals were. 

Here, you could be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel invisible. The noise was constant: horns, chatter, music being blasted at ungodly hours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d stood still without someone brushing past with an annoyed “watch it!” 

The small-town friendliness didn’t exist here. No one waved when you crossed the street. No one offered to help carry your shopping up the stairs. People were in a rush, and you were in their way. But it wasn’t all bad. 

It was exhilarating sometimes. You could wander two blocks and find ramen at midnight, or tacos from a cart parked beside a glittering theatre. You’d gone to a Metropolis Meteors baseball game with Cat and Lois last weekend, sat in the nosebleeds with a hot dog, and felt more alive than you had in months. 

And you weren’t entirely alone. Your neighbour, Poppy, a Metropolis local your age, had practically adopted you. She showed you the best bodega for late-night snacks, where to avoid taking the subway after dark, and which coffee shops didn’t overcharge for lattes. She was sharp and kind and exactly the sort of friend you needed in a new city.

You caught yourself smiling one evening as you told her, “I might have the perfect guy for you.” You hadn’t said Jimmy’s name yet. You wanted to do your homework first, find out if he was single, or at least willing to be set up. But the idea stuck. Poppy’s easygoing nature and Jimmy’s goofy brightness would balance each other out perfectly. 

Besides, wasn’t that what starting fresh was supposed to be about? Building connections, finding your place. Creating a home for yourself in the middle of all the noise. And maybe, just maybe, realising that the best part of your day was still the same as it had always been: sitting across from Clark, laughing until your sides hurt, wondering how you’d ever gone so long without seeing him every day.

It started casually.

You were leaning on Clark’s desk one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to panic about your deadline, when the words came out: “So… Is Jimmy seeing anyone?”

Clark almost gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide behind his frames, his mouth slightly agape like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. “Uh—what?” 

You tilted your head. “I just wondered. He’s cute. And funny. And I thought maybe—”

“He’s dating a model,” Clark blurted, too quickly. “Pretty sure. Yeah. Definitely dating a model.”

Across the bullpen, Lois didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend in months, Smallville.”

Clark blinked, red blooming in his cheeks, while you filed that information away with a pleased little hum.

A few days later, you sidled up to Lois at the coffee machine. “Does Jimmy like Italian food?” 

She gave you a sharp look. “Are you asking because you’re planning a date?” 

“No,” you said, too fast. “I’m just curious.” 

“Jimmy likes any food. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it.” Lois stirred copious amounts of sugar into her mug, smirking. “If it’s not edible, he’ll probably still eat it. Man has no culinary standards.” 

When you glanced at Clark’s desk, he was staring fixedly at his computer.

Later that week, you caught Clark in the elevator. “What’s Jimmy’s type?” you asked casually, as if you were inquiring about the weather. 

Clark’s glasses nearly slid off his nose. “What?” 

“Women,” you clarified. “What kind of women does he usually go for?” 

Clark fumbled. “Uh—uh—tall? Or maybe short. Definitely one of those. And, um, brunette? Or blonde. Or—” 

Lois, who’d slipped in just before the doors closed, rolled her eyes. “What isn’t his type?” she said dryly, and you laughed all the way up to the newsroom floor.

It became a running theme. 

“Do you think Jimmy likes jazz?” you asked Lois one morning. 

Clark dropped his coffee stirrer. 

“Does Jimmy prefer dogs or cats?” you asked Clark the next afternoon. 

He stammered something about fish before fleeing to refill his mug. 

“Would Jimmy ever date someone who wasn’t in journalism?” you asked Lois the following week. 

She sighed. “Kid, Jimmy would date someone who breathed near him too enthusiastically.” 

By then, Lois had decided you were developing a crush on Jimmy. She gave you amused little glances whenever you brought him up, while Clark looked like he was one misplaced question away from combusting. And you, completely oblivious, just kept making notes in your mental file.

Jimmy Olsen: Not currently seeing anyone. Likes all food. (Easy win.) Has no real type, possibly open to anything. Jazz: inconclusive. Dogs vs cats: also inconclusive.

Perfect. Operation: Matchmaker was right on track.

Meanwhile, Clark Kent was wilting in slow motion at his desk, trying very hard not to imagine you and Jimmy in a romantic-comedy-style date montage. The thought of the two of you sharing a milkshake with two straws made him nauseous.

Friday nights had always been for movies. Back in Smallville, the tradition had been sacred. Every week, no matter what farm chores Clark had been stuck with or how swamped you were with homework, you ended up curled together on the worn sofa at the Kent farmhouse. Bowls of popcorn, one light left on in the kitchen, a stack of DVDs you rotated through endlessly. 

Now, in Metropolis, the ritual lived on. Your new apartment wasn’t much, a little nest of mismatched furniture and thrifted lamps. On your third Friday in the city, Clark showed up at your door with takeaway and a grin. The moment you pulled him inside and saw him plop the food onto your coffee table like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the old rhythm sliding right back into place.

Tonight, you’d chosen The Princess Bride. Nostalgia wrapped around you like a blanket as the familiar dialogue filled your little living room. You half-watched, half-stole glances at Clark, because it was different now. 

Clark looked domestic, comfortable in a way that made your chest ache. He’d taken his glasses off the second he walked in, setting them on your bookshelf like he always did when it was just you. His hair, usually in messy curls for the office, had softened through the day, a little wave falling into his forehead. He was in a simple white button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t in high school. 

Clark Kent was handsome. Stupidly, unfairly handsome.

You remembered girls whispering about the “Kent charm” back then, how his smile made them blush. You’d never noticed. He’d been Clark, your Clark, the boy who stayed up with you until dawn studying, who carried your tripod when it was too heavy, who showed up at your window when you were sad. He’d been so close that romance never even crossed your mind. 

Now you saw the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. The warmth in his cobalt eyes when he laughed at a joke you made. The gentleness of his hands when he handed you a napkin before you even realised you needed one.

You could picture him in a domestic life so clearly. Carrying groceries up your stairs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passed, leaving his slippers by your door. The thought startled you, but it didn’t leave.

And then there was Superman. You’d grown up knowing Clark was different, but you hadn’t realised what that difference meant until years later. Since moving to Metropolis, you’d seen it all up close: the rescues, the headlines, the world depending on him. He was extraordinary, and yet here he was on your sofa, eating dumplings out of a carton and laughing at Cary Elwes’ line delivery. 

You found yourself wanting to memorise him. The lines of his jaw softened by the lamplight. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The dimples in his cheeks when you reminded him of that one time he tripped chasing you through the cornfield when you were kids. 

He was beautiful, and he was yours; not in any official way, but in the way that mattered. He was your best friend.

Across the sofa, Clark was having his own crisis.

He’d thought, once, that sending you postcards from Delaware and calling you every Sunday would be enough. That maybe the distance would dull the sharp twinge of wanting you, that maybe one day he’d wake up and feel free of it. He’d been wrong. 

Now you were here, right next to him, laughing at the same movie you’d watched a hundred times, and he was so in love he thought it might undo him. He’d always admired you; your eye for photographs, your fire, the way you cared for people so fiercely. But seeing you here had floored him. 

And yet, every time you mentioned Jimmy, his chest tightened. Lois’s teasing echoed in his head. He wanted to tell you everything: that he’d been in love with you since high school, that nobody could ever measure up in college, so he’d stopped trying altogether. But then you’d smile and gush about how funny Jimmy was, and Clark felt his courage crumble.

Still, as you leaned closer to him now, curled up with your knees tucked under you, Clark thought there was no way he could ever love you more than he did in this moment. You were his first thought in the morning, his last thought at night. And watching you glow in the soft lamplight of your new apartment, he realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once.

He could spend his whole life like this. Just being near you.

“You’re not even watching,” Clark teased, voice low so as not to disturb the cadence of the movie.

You flicked your eyes back to the screen, caught Buttercup mid-swoon, and shrugged. “Sure I am. True love, sword fights, Rodents of Unusual Size.”

Clark chuckled, but when you glanced at him again, you caught him looking at you instead of the TV. Heat crept up your neck. You reached for the popcorn bowl as a distraction, only to find it empty.

“You ate all of it,” you accused.

His brows shot up. “Me? You were shovelling it like you hadn’t eaten in a week.”

You smirked. “Well, at least I don’t hide behind hypno-glasses to trick everyone into thinking I’m some ‘well-mannered farm boy.”

Clark groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You know that’s not why I wear them.” Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Are you saying you like me better without glasses?”

“Of course,” you said, not catching the way his chest tightened at your answer. “I missed your face.”

Something fond flickered across his expression. He reached for the remote, muting the TV, and you didn’t even notice until silence fell. You were too caught in the moment, too wrapped up in the ease of talking with him.

“You know,” you said, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “this kind of feels like we’re sixteen again. Friday night, bad lighting, too much sugar.”

Clark’s lips quirked. “Except you’re not falling asleep halfway through the film this time.”

You gasped. “That was one time.”

“Three times,” he corrected gently. “And you drooled on my shoulder once.”

You laughed, tossing a cushion at him. “Traitor. I trusted you to never bring that up again.”

Clark caught the cushion easily, hands big and sure, and hugged it to his chest with mock innocence. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’s part of my Kent charm,” he said, all faux swagger.

You snorted. “‘Kent charm.’ God, you really are a nerd.”

The words came out playfully, but there was something behind them you weren’t quite ready to name. Because, yes, he was a nerd, sitting here quoting his own reputation like it was a joke. But he was also, God help you, gorgeous. His hair falling into his eyes, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, every inch of him radiating warmth and steadiness.

Clark shifted closer on the sofa, the air between you charged with something softer than electricity. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.

“About what?”

He hesitated, then shook his head, offering another smile instead. “Nothing. Just how lucky I am you’re here. Metropolis feels more like home now.”

You reached for his hand before you could think better of it, letting your fingers brush his knuckles. “I get it. Living in a new city with you feels more like home than living in Smallville without you.”

Clark stilled. You didn’t notice, too busy tracing the shape of his hand absentmindedly, like you’d done a thousand times back in high school without thinking twice.

“You really mean that?” he asked, voice rough.

You looked up at him, startled by the weight in his tone. “Of course I do. You know I wished for this; that I’d get to live in the same city as you again.”

Clark’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to say that he’d wished too, every night, for years. Instead, he swallowed and squeezed your hand lightly.

“You’re—” He paused, trying again, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked at him. “Clark—”

“I mean it,” he said quickly, earnest eyes shining. “I’m really glad I get to do everything by your side from now on.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “Me too.”

“Good,” he murmured, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but a little heavy. You found yourself studying Clark, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell.

Before you could stop yourself, you whispered into the quiet, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”

Clark’s breath caught. He ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You smirked, leaning in just a little. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll go back to calling you a nerd tomorrow.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and thought, I could spend forever like this. And you, ignorant of the full weight of his gaze, thought, God, I think I’m in trouble.

Jimmy bounded into the bullpen like he’d just won the lottery, camera bag slung over his shoulder, grin wide enough to blind someone. 

“Guess what?” he announced, leaning on the edge of Lois’s desk, practically glowing. “I’ve got a date tonight.” Jimmy’s grin stretched ear to ear.

Clark looked up from his notepad, a smile already forming. “Oh, hey. That’s great, Jimmy! I’m happy for you.”

Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “With a human or another one of your cameras?”

Jimmy clutched his chest. “Wow, Lois. For your information, yes, with a human.”

Lois raised an eyebrow, dry as desert air. “Let me guess. Five-foot-ten, legs up to here, and absolutely no idea you existed until five minutes ago?”

Jimmy smirked, playfully kicking Lois’s desk chair. “Not giving away any spoilers. But let’s just say, I’m pretty excited.”

Then, he glanced across the room, caught your eye, and gave you a wink. It was playful, teasing, nothing more than the kind of exaggerated gesture Jimmy made a dozen times a day.

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, already used to his theatrics, but Clark froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly at his half-finished sentence. 

A wink. Jimmy had winked at you.

Clark’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it lodged there stubbornly. He bent closer to his computer, pretending to type, though the words blurred into nonsense.

Lois didn’t miss a thing. Her gaze slid from Jimmy to Clark, and then slowly, knowingly, to you. She sipped her coffee like she was watching her suspicions confirmed in real time. “Well, well,” she murmured.

Clark forced a smile. “What?”

Lois tilted her head. “Guess we were right about Jimmy having a thing for your other best friend.”

His pulse kicked in his ears. “Oh—uh, well. Good for them, right? They’d—they’d make a great couple.” It came out so flat it could have been mistaken for sarcasm. 

Lifting a brow and leaning back in her chair, Lois drawled, “Sure. If you say so, Smallville.”

Clark tried again, fumbling for enthusiasm. “I mean, Jimmy’s a good guy. You couldn’t ask for anyone more dependable.”

Lois hummed around the rim of her coffee cup, unimpressed but mercifully silent.

Clark turned back to his screen, jaw tight. The words on the page stubbornly refused to fuse together into sentences. Every time he glanced up, he saw Jimmy’s grin, your smile, and that wink. It was like a spark caught in his chest.

He should be happy for you. If that’s what you wanted, he should be supportive. He was supportive. But the thought of Jimmy leaning across a table tonight, making you laugh the way Clark always did, maybe walking you home—Clark pressed his palms against the desk until the wood creaked in protest.

Superman could stop trains, but Clark Kent couldn’t stop his own jealousy from eating him alive.

By the time Clark was back in his apartment that night, he’d tried his best to convince himself that you and Jimmy dating was a great idea.

Jimmy was kind, funny, and loyal. He’d never dream of hurting you. He was the type of guy Clark would trust with his life. But the thought of trusting him with you left something bitter and restless clawing in his chest.

He dropped his keys on the counter and sat heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees. 

If only he’d just told you how he felt in high school. That thought circled him like a hawk, again and again. He’d been eighteen, hopelessly in love, and terrified of what that love might do to the best friendship of his life. You were already looking toward photography programs, weighing colleges and scholarships, and he’d known even then that Metropolis was calling him. 

Different cities. Different dreams. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to ask you to tie yourself to him. So he’d swallowed the confession. He’d chosen friendship because it was safer, and because it meant never losing you. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t regret it. He’d repeated it until he believed it.

But tonight, sitting alone in his apartment while you were out with Jimmy, regret slipped its way in. What if Clark had said something back then? What if you’d smiled that radiant, disbelieving smile and told him you’d always felt the same? 

Maybe you would have tried the distance. Maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe you’d be here now, living together, ordering takeout on the couch, falling asleep during a movie. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here with an empty living room and a chest full of longing. 

The fantasy was so vivid it almost felt real. The brush of your knee against his, your laugh spilling through the room, the easy certainty of a life where he hadn’t hesitated.

And then, as quickly as it came, the other side of the coin flipped. Maybe if he’d confessed, you would’ve said no. Maybe you would’ve told him gently that you didn’t see him that way. Maybe it would’ve shattered everything, left him without a best friend and without you. The risk had been too high then. It was still too high now.

Clark pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will the images of a domestic life with you away. His heart was pounding too loudly, beating against the silence of his apartment.

Then, the faint metallic click of a key sliding into his lock sounded through his apartment. The knob turned. The door opened.

Clark’s head snapped up, throat dry.

You stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world, balancing two pizza boxes in your arms, hair a little windswept from the cold night air.

“Hope you’re hungry,” you called, nudging the door shut behind you with your hip. “They gave us extra cheesy bread.”

For one impossible second, Clark thought maybe he’d fallen asleep and the fantasy had followed him into a dream. But you were real. You were here.

Clark stayed frozen on the couch, still hunched forward, but his whole body was taut now, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You breezed in, the smell of garlic and melted cheese following you, chattering like you always did when you were excited.

“So, I placed a pickup order at Mario’s and somebody else must’ve grabbed it by mistake because when I got there, it was gone,” you explained, setting the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and hanging up your coat. “Totally vanished. But they felt bad, so they remade the whole order with extra cheesy bread.” You grinned, holding up the little box for emphasis. “Free cheesy bread, Clark! If that’s not divine intervention telling us it’s a Ratatouille night, I don’t know what is.”

You were grabbing plates from his cupboard when you finally glanced back, words slowing. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting like you just gambled away your life savings?”

Clark blinked. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he must look, folded in on himself, hands dangling between his knees.

His heart surged at the sight of you standing there in the doorway, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he wanted. “What about your date?”

You stopped in your tracks. “My what?” Then, your eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of dates! How do you think Jimmy’s is going?”

Clark frowned, confusion doubling back on him. “I mean… Not very well if you’re here instead of there?”

You tilted your head, blinking slowly, like he’d just started speaking in Kryptonian. “What?”

Clark’s brain stuttered. “Wait—what?”

You stared at each other across the room for a long, disbelieving beat, until your expression shifted from confusion to dawning realisation.

You set the plates down on the counter, hands braced on either side. “Hold on. Did you think Jimmy was going on a date with me tonight?”

Heat crept up Clark’s neck, and he could feel his ears burning. “Well—I—he winked at you in the bullpen, and then Lois said—”

“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, groaning. “No, no, no, Clark. No. Jimmy’s on a date with my neighbour, Poppy. I’ve been trying to set them up for weeks.”

Clark just stared. His brain scrambled for purchase, trying to rearrange the facts into this new, blessed reality. “Poppy,” he echoed, words coming out slow and low. “Your… neighbour.”

“Yes. Poppy,” you confirmed. “She just got out of a long-term relationship when I moved to Metropolis, so she was hesitant at first. But I kept talking him up, and I showed her a couple pictures he took, and finally she agreed. Tonight’s their blind date.”

Relief surged through Clark so quickly that it made him dizzy. His hands twitched uselessly on his knees. He wanted to do something, say something, but all he could think was Thank God. 

You didn’t notice the way his shoulders uncoiled, the way his chest expanded with a breath that felt like it reached his bones. You were still talking, animated now, explaining how you’d been stealthily gathering intel on Jimmy—his favourite food, his type, what kind of date he’d enjoy.

But Clark couldn’t hear half of it.

All he could hear was the rush of his own pulse. All he could feel was the giddy, impossible joy of knowing the future he’d been mourning just minutes ago wasn’t lost after all.

“Anyway, why—” You trailed off mid-sentence, really looking at him.

Clark wasn’t just listening. He was bracing, shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the world on them and only now set it down. His breath came out ragged, too loud for the quiet of his apartment, and his eyes were fixed on you like you’d just saved him.

“Clark,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You okay?”

He swallowed, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… relieved, I guess.”

“Relieved,” you repeated, folding your arms. You couldn’t stop your mouth from twitching into a grin. “What, did you really think I was sneaking around on a secret date with Jimmy Olsen? That I’d just, what, show up tomorrow morning and be like ‘oh hey Clark, by the way, I’m dating your best friend now, pass the sugar?’”

He gave a strangled little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You caught the flush spreading across his skin, the way his broad chest rose and fell too fast. Not embarrassment exactly, but something warmer.

Your grin softened. “You were panicking. Weren’t you?”

Clark shook his head, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “No, I just—I didn’t—”

“Uh-huh.” 

You leaned on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, studying him. He was sitting forward on the couch like he might spring out of it at any second, like if he relaxed, something dangerous would slip loose. His big hands were clenched on his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing as though he was holding something back.

And for the first time in your life, you realised maybe he was.

The thought made your pulse jump, heat curling in your stomach. Because now that you were looking, really looking, you saw how beautiful he was in that soft, undone way only you ever got to see.

“Clark,” you said again, softer now. “Why were you so panicked?”

He lifted his gaze then, finally meeting your eyes. And the look in them nearly knocked the breath out of you. Relief, yes, but threaded with something hotter, deeper.

You stayed by the counter, watching him. And then Clark stood—too fast, like he startled himself with the decision—and rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks.

“I—Golly, I don’t know how to…” His voice was low, rough. His eyes skittered away, then dragged back to yours like they couldn’t help it. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for years. I wanted to tell you when you first got here. But then Jimmy and—and then Lois, she joked, and I thought…”

“Thought what?” you asked, breath catching.

Clark hesitated, fists clenching like he was physically holding back words. Then, quieter: “That maybe I’d already lost you.”

You blinked. “Clark—”

“No, let me—just let me say this.” His hands came up helplessly, almost reaching for you before they fell back to his sides. “I’ve been in love with you since we started high school.” 

The words hit you like a struck match. Excitement coiled tight in your stomach, dizzying, almost unbearable. You wanted to laugh and cry and throw yourself into his arms all at once, but all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.

“I wanted to tell you before graduation,” Clark confessed. “But you were staying in Smallville, and I was moving across the country, and it felt like I’d ruin the best thing in my life by saying it out loud. I told myself distance would fix it. That maybe I’d get over you.” He laughed shyly, shaking his head. “But I never did.”

“Clark…” Your voice cracked, and you had to take a step forward.

He mirrored you without thinking, until there was barely a foot of air left between you. His chest was warm even at this distance, heat rolling off him like a furnace.

Clark took a shuddering breath. “You remember the milkweed my folks sent with you? The one Ma insisted you bring to the city?”

You managed a nod.

His mouth quirked, but his eyes were still raw, desperate. “She told me once, if you care for it right, the monarch butterflies will come. Doesn’t matter where you plant it—in Kansas, in Metropolis—it’ll bring them back. And I thought… that’s us. I thought, if I just kept caring for what we had, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I’d get to keep you in my life. And that would be enough.”

He swallowed hard, adding, “But it’s not, and I can’t pretend it is anymore.”

You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. Even that ghost of contact felt like a jolt of lightning. He froze, his breath stuttering, before his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to entwine them with yours.

“Clark,” you whispered, heart hammering. “In high school, I never… I never thought about you like that. Everyone used to talk about your dad’s ‘Kent charm’ like it was this thing you inherited, and maybe they saw it, but I didn’t. Not then. You were just Clark, my best friend.”

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, but gentled by the way he looked at you, as if he’d take even this.

You let out a shaky laugh. “But then you left. And you were still the one I called when I had a bad day, or when something amazing happened, or when I just wanted to hear a voice that reminded me I wasn’t alone. And then I came here, and I get to see you every day, and Clark,” your voice wavered, but you pushed through, “I’m falling in love with you. The reporter, the farm boy, the man who saves the world, the one who waters milkweed because he hopes butterflies will come home.”

Clark’s composure broke on a ragged breath. He surged closer, finally tangling his fingers with yours, gripping tight like he’d drown without it.

“You can’t just say that to me,” he rasped, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot on your lips. “You can’t say that and expect me not to—”

Your laugh hitched out on a sob. “You don’t need to hold back anymore.”

And he didn’t.

His mouth found yours with years of pent-up longing, searing, desperate, and impossibly sweet. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered you into his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission. Every brush of his hands over your back, every slide of his lips against yours, burned like fire meeting gasoline.

When you broke apart, breathless and clinging, he pressed his face into your hair and whispered, hoarse and unsteady, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at him. Some invisible red string between you snapped taut, pulling you forward before you’d even decided to move.

Clark’s hands came up, hovering like he was terrified of scaring you off, and that hesitation alone undid you. You closed the distance. It was years of unsaid things pouring out at once, your fingers clutching at the broad line of his shoulders, his hands finally claiming your waist like he’d been dying to all along. 

He kissed you like he already knew every contour of your mouth, and in a way, he did. He knew you, every laugh, every secret, every sharp retort and soft glance, and now he was learning you like this, too.

You tilted your head, and Clark followed, perfectly in step, as though you’d rehearsed this in another life. Heat flared where his palm slid up your side, leaving you breathless, but when he slowed—just enough to press the gentlest kiss to your bottom lip—you felt the tenderness layered inside the urgency.

When you finally tore back just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your skin.

His thumb traced your cheekbone, a shaky little caress that steadied itself as he whispered, “Been wanting to do that for half my life.”

Your laugh came out uneven, breaking against the swell of emotion in your throat. “Took you long enough.”

Clark smiled against your mouth, and then you were pulling him down to you again, hungry this time, eager.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer like you couldn’t get enough of him. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, but there was still that softness beneath the hunger.

His fingers trailed down your back, sliding under your shirt, and you shivered against him. Every brush of skin was electric, and you found yourself gasping and moaning into his mouth, both of you laughing breathlessly when the heat of it was too much to contain.

Clark’s hands roamed freely now, memorising the curves of your body as if he were trying to burn them into memory. Your own hands were relentless, exploring the strong lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he tilted his head. 

You were discovering each other in a way you’d never imagined; familiar yet entirely new, and it made every touch searing.

The sofa became your anchor. Clark guided you down, careful but insistent, until you were sprawled together, limbs tangled, breaths mingling in the small space.

Clark’s lips left yours only briefly, just enough to whisper against your temple, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”

You smiled and whispered back, “I’m always happy to be in the business of making your dreams come true.”

His hands were everywhere, sliding under your back, across your hips. When you shifted slightly, sliding against him, Clark groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers racing up your spine. 

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into him, biting gently at his lower lip, and he caught your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you with desperate hunger.

You both collapsed together fully, tangled and warm on the sofa, breathing hard, hearts hammering. Clark’s arm wrapped around you, holding you impossibly close, and your hand found his chest, fingers splayed against him, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt.

“Finally,” you whispered, breathless, against his collarbone.

Clark chuckled low, a deep, vibrating sound that made your stomach flutter. “Finally,” he agreed, resting his chin on top of your head.

[ripoutmyinsides]

The Danger of Silence

The Gotham rain was a constant, a gray, drumming rhythm against the window of your history class. Mr. Havelock’s droning voice was just another layer to the city’s white noise. Your head was pillowed on your folded arms, the pages of your textbook serving as an imperfect mattress. You were already asleep.

This was the routine. Sleep in class. Skip last period. Meet up with Chloe and Mark at the old arcade on 5th. They were fun. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t expect anything from you. When they suggested boosting a couple of sodas from the corner bodega, you laughed and did it. When Mark produced a flask of something that burned your throat, you took a sip, the warmth a temporary shield against the constant, hollow chill of being unnoticed.

It was easier this way. Easier than going back to the silent, cavernous manor where you were more of a ghost than any of the ones rumored to haunt its west wing.

.⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`¯⁠`⁠·⁠.

“Report,” Bruce’s voice echoed in the Batcave, a low rumble under the chirping of the computer systems.

One by one, they checked in.

“Robin. Patrol route Beta clear.” “Nightwing.All quiet on the Diamond District front.” “Red Hood.Nothing but the usual scum in the Bowery.” “Red Robin.Cyber-traffic normal. No chatter.”

It was a checklist. A mission debrief. You were never part of the checklist. You were upstairs, in your room, scrolling through blurry, loud videos Chloe had sent from a party you’d left early from, a dull headache forming behind your eyes.

You’d left a note on the grand dining table that morning. ‘School project at the library. Be back late.’ Alfred had cleared it away with a soft sigh, but no one else had seen it. No one else ever did.

Bruce was preoccupied with a new arms dealer. Dick was helping Babs with a case. Tim was neck-deep in Wayne Enterprises R&D. Jason was… being Jason. And Damian? Damian viewed you as an anomaly, a non-combatant who cluttered his father’s house and offered no strategic value.

You were just… there. The quiet one. The one who never caused trouble. The easy-going kid who was so low-maintenance they forgot you needed maintenance at all.

.⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`¯⁠`⁠·⁠.

The “fun” was escalating.

It was a Friday night. Chloe knew a guy who knew a guy with a loft near the docks. “It’ll be epic,” she’d said, her eyes gleaming with a excitement that felt dangerous. “Real freedom. No parents, no rules.”

You stood in your room, staring at the cute, pastel-colored sweaters in your closet. They felt like a costume from a different life. With a sigh, you pulled on a black hoodie you’d borrowed from Jason’s old room—a room that was now just a shrine to a ghost he used to be. He’d never even know it was gone.

You slipped out the side entrance, your footsteps swallowed by the manicured gravel. You didn’t see the faint glow of the Cave elevator, or Damian, in his Robin uniform, landing silently on the terrace after a solo patrol.

He paused, watching a figure in a familiar-looking black hoodie disappear into the edge of the property. His brow furrowed. It was too small to be Jason. A thief? He dropped down, following silently, a shadow tailing a shadow.

He expected you to head into the city. He did not expect you to meet up with two older teenagers who reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume. He didn’t expect the easy, hollow laugh you gave when the boy, Mark, slung an arm around your shoulders. He watched, hidden in the darkness of a fire escape, as you all entered a run-down building pulsing with bass.

This was a security breach. A vulnerability. It was his duty to report it.

Back in the Cave, he removed his mask. “Father. There is a situation.”

Bruce didn’t look up from the hologram. “What is it, Damian?”

“It’s… her.” Damian said the word like it was a foreign object in his mouth. “The girl. She has left the grounds and is currently at an unsanctioned gathering in the Docklands with known delinquents.

The typing stopped. The Cave went silent.

“What?” Bruce’s voice was dangerously low.

“I observed her departing. She was wearing what appeared to be Todd’s property. She met with two individuals. Their behavior was… questionable.”

Dick straightened up. “Wait, our Y/N? Little Y/N who sleeps through dinner?”

“She’s sixteen, Dick,” Tim said, pulling up the city’s traffic camera network. His fingers flew across the keyboard. “Docklands… loft building near the old canning factory. Lots of noise complaints. Minor drug bust there last month.”

“Drugs?” Bruce’s head snapped up, his full attention finally, finally, on you.

“She’s a kid,” Jason’s gruff voice came over the comms; he’d been listening. “A stupid, naive kid who’s probably trying to piss you off because you never look at her.”

The truth of it hung in the air, heavy and accusing.

Bruce felt a cold dread that had nothing to do with super-villains. He saw it now. The missed dinners. The silent car rides. The perfect report cards he never asked about because he assumed no news was good news. He’d filed her away as “safe” and had forgotten to check on her.

“Red Robin, get me eyes inside that party. Now. Nightwing, you’re with me. Red Hood, converge on the location. Non-lethal. We’re extracting her.” Batman’s voice was tight, a wire about to snap.

.⁠·⁠´⁠¯⁠`¯⁠`⁠·⁠.

Inside, the music was deafening. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. Someone shoved a red plastic cup into your hand. You took a sip, wincing at the taste. You felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and deeply, deeply lonely in the middle of the crowd.

Mark’s hand was on your waist, pulling you closer than you were comfortable with. “C’mon, don’t be shy,” he slurred. “Live a little.”

You tried to pull back, a nervous laugh catching in your throat. “Mark, stop, I don’t—”

The lights went out. Not just the party lights. Everything. The music died with a screech of feedback. The entire building was plunged into utter, silent blackness.

Screams erupted. Then, a new sound. The sound of shattering glass and gruff shouts of pain.

You stood frozen, heart hammering against your ribs. You felt a whoosh of air, and Mark’s grip on you was suddenly gone, replaced by a pained grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

A different presence was beside you. Larger. Solid. Terrifying.

“Not a word.” The voice was a low, electronically distorted growl, but you’d heard it on the news enough times. Batman.

A scream died in your throat. Strong, armored arms wrapped around you, lifting you effortlessly off your feet. You were carried through the chaos, a blur of movement in the dark. You caught a glimpse of Nightwing’s escrima sticks flashing, disarming a guy who pulled a knife. You heard the distinct sound of a taser and Red Hood’s voice snarling, “Stay down.”

In less than a minute, you were outside in the cold, rain-soaked air, being placed in the back of a sleek, black car you knew all too well. Batman slid into the driver’s seat, the canopy closing. The interior light came on.

He wasn’t Batman anymore. He was just Bruce. And he looked… shattered.

The drive to the manor was silent. You pulled the hoodie tighter around yourself, shaking, staring out at the weeping gargoyles of Gotham.

The Cave was silent when you entered. Everyone was there, in various states of undress. Dick, out of his mask, his face etched with worry. Tim, looking guilty, unable to meet your eyes. Jason, arms crossed, leaning against the Batcomputer, his expression unreadable. Damian stood stiffly to the side, observing.

Bruce turned to you, his cape pooling around him. “Y/N…” he began, his voice rough. “Those people… what you were doing… Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

The fear from the party curdled into something hot and bitter in your stomach. For the first time in years, you weren’t feeling ignored. You were feeling seen, and it was only because you’d finally done something wrong.

Tears welled up in your eyes, but your voice was steady. “Dangerous?” you whispered. Then it got louder. “You want to know what’s dangerous? Coming home every day to a house full of people who look right through you! That’s dangerous! Sitting at a table so big you can hear your own heartbeat because no one talks to you! That’s dangerous! Having no one care if you come home at all!”

Your voice broke. “They were the only ones who noticed I was there! They were dragging me down a bad path? Well, what path were you guys offering? The path to the lonely, quiet room at the end of the hall?”

The silence that followed was louder than any you’d ever endured. You saw the impact of your words hit each of them like a physical blow. Bruce flinched. Dick looked like he’d been stabbed. Jason’s jaw was clenched tight. Tim looked ill. Even Damian’s usual sneer had vanished, replaced by something like dawning, uncomfortable understanding.

You weren’t just the easy-going kid who loved to sleep. You were a kid screaming into a void, and you’d finally found a way to make the void hear you.

Bruce took a step forward, and for the first time, he didn’t look like a Gotham monument. He looked like a tired, failed father. “Y/N… I… We…”

He had no words. The Batman was speechless.

It was Dick who moved first. He crossed the space and pulled you into a hug, so tight it squeezed the air from your lungs. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice thick. “We’re so sorry, little star. We failed you.”

One by one, they came. A hesitant hand on your shoulder from Tim. A grunt from Jason that sounded suspiciously like, “Shoulda said somethin’, kid.” Even Damian gave a stiff, single nod of acknowledgement.

It wasn’t a magic fix. The neglect of years wouldn’t vanish in one night. The trust was broken. But for the first time, the Batfamily was truly, painfully, looking at you. And the long, difficult road to building a real family, not just sharing a name, had finally begun.

What hurt me wasn’t the darkness outside or the wrong people I found. What truly hurt was being invisible inside my own home. While you were out protecting the city, I was left fighting my loneliness every night. You call what I did dangerous, but the real danger is a child being utterly alone in the middle of their own family. Yes, I made a mistake—but all I ever wanted was to be seen, to be heard, to be felt. Because silence cuts deeper than any blade.

[ripoutmyinsides]

"clark kent wouldn't find a fat person attractive + he's straight" get out of my blog you fucking fed

[ripoutmyinsides]

things my chronically offline bf does — Clark Kent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lois and Clark both ignored him. 

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

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

“That was quick,” Lois noticed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You grabbed his hand and dragged him away. 

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

Clark squeezed your smaller hand in his. 

“What did they think?” you asked curiously. 

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

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

Clark nodded. “Exactly. Perfect for me.”

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

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

“You’re sleeping over tonight, right?” 

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

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

“Deal.”

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

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

“Okay.”

“Great.”

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

“What time?”

“Six am.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” you grumbled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yay! Thanks, Clark!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

“I think you mean plate, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘God I see the things you do for others’

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

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

Which then pushed your videos to more people.

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

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

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

“Excuse my friend. He’s a dumbass.”

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

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

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

“We were childhood friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

And the rest was history. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pinched his bruised nose and stood back up.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay, baby. Anything you want.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so—” you shook your head.

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

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

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

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

“Let’s do it.”

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

“Serve.”

“Tennis.”

“Eat.”

“Food.”

“Slay.”

“Dragons.”

“Flop.”

“Flip flop.”

“Tik Tok.”

“Clock.” 

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

“Do you know what rizz means?”

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

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

“Thank… you?” 

“You’re welcome, babe.”

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

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

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

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

“I am,” he called back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then let’s go home.”

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

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

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

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

“Should have taken a taxi.”

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

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

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

“Shut up,” you grumbled. 

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

It happened when there were only five stops left.

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

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

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

“Again?! You do realize it’s been—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perfect idea, my smart girl.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Things my chronically offline bsf does

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

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

“What’s bee-ess-eff?”

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

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

“Take notes on an actual notepad.”

“That’s normal, why would they care?”

“You use physical maps.”

“They’re fabricated for a reason!”

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

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

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

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

You snorted. “I love you, Clark.”

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

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

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

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

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

“The video blew up.”

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

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

“It went where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh… is it bad?”

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

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

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

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

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

“How did they know?”

“It’s a figure of speech, honey.”

“Oh. Okay, next one.”

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

“Could you reply to them?”

“Yeah. What do you want to say?”

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

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

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

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

“Weird. Next.”

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

“Who’s rainbolt?”

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

“Oh.”

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

“What is this one?”

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

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

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

“Uh oh. Lay it on me.”

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

“I’m fine? As in, nice to look at?”

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

“Oh. How many of them?”

“That comment alone got fifty thousand likes.”

“Gosh. The Internet is a scary place.”

You kept reading comments, giggling to yourself. 

He can write me a letter any time. 

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

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

“Unlucky for them, you’re all mine.”

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

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

You posted another one: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lois slurped loudly on her Oreo milkshake. 

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

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

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

Lois shrugged. “I lied.”

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

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

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

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

“Possessive much, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? But we’re not a couple.”

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

“Well…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was this really necessary?”

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

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

“You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately for me.”

“What was that?”

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

“Yummy. Extra delicious.”

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

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

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

He already felt so guilty, but also very excited. 

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

“Clark!” 

Your first scream was one of fear.

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

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

“Clark!”

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

“Oh Clark, I hate you.” 

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

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

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

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

He flushed.

“You blush down there too. Interesting.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is my song!” you squealed excitedly. 

You were so drunk.

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

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

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

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

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

“And you’re staying with me, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you said, sniffing. A second later, he felt you wipe your snotty nose against the really nice shirt you got him earlier. He suppressed a small laugh. “I love you too. Even if you’re mean sometimes.” A pause. “Okay, you’re never mean. But still.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

He kissed the crown of your head and you didn’t move for so long he thought you’d fallen asleep, but your heartbeat was still strong and rapid. 

“Let’s get ready for bed, okay?”

“Okay.” But you still didn’t move.

No matter, Clark thought. He had superstrength for a reason. He easily lifted you with one arm, and his heart swelled inside his chest at your giggle. You were such a strange girl. 

“Open up,” he said with a tap of his finger on your chin after he placed you on top of the bathroom counter, standing between your open legs, and pouring toothpaste on your toothbrush.

“Aaaah.”

“Good girl,” he praised, and started brushing your front teeth in gentle circular motions. 

You had your right index finger hooked inside his pants. You always needed to feel him around, even when he was literally brushing your teeth. 

Your mascara had run across your cheeks — unable to support a drunken night of dancing and singing and crying; your eyes were slightly red and your undereyes were swollen, and yet you were still the prettiest sight he’d ever laid eyes upon. Your lipstick was smeared across your lips, and Clark wanted to run his thumb across so badly, just to smear it even more.

You were patient while he meticulously brushed your teeth because you’d gotten used to him brushing them for two minutes exactly as prescribed by dentists. He was thorough in his cleaning, making sure you were properly clean before he makes you gargle and then spit in the sink. He didn’t give you water to rinse it off because he’d seen that you shouldn’t do that. 

Then, with movements honed with years of practice, he grabbed your cotton pads and miscellar water from your skin care product self.

“Can you close your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

The effect was instant. You pouted. “But I wanna see you.”

“I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Okay.” 

You closed your eyes and he started with them, gently wiping your makeup with the cotton pad. “Almost done,” he whispered. Your fingers tugged at his pants. 

Then, it was your lips’ turn, and Clark imagined it was his thumb wiping them.

“Yucky. Doesn’t taste so good,” you mumbled.

He laughed. “Oh baby, you shouldn’t taste it.”

You pouted again. 

He used a fourth pad for your entire face, just to remove dirt and threw everything in the bin. 

You grinned at him, all sleepy and mellowed out and looking like the angel you were. You were still in your outside clothes — Clark hadn’t gotten to that — and the juxtaposition of your sweet and innocent smile and your clothing was endearing. You could do both so well, and he loved them both a lot, but he always preferred the side of you that felt more like his, the one with no pretenses, no walls put up. Just you and your unfiltered love. 

“All cleaned up, baby. Now we just need to get you into some comfortable clothes and we can go to sleep.”

You looked proud of yourself, even if all you’d done was lean sleepily against his chest and made his job a lot harder than it should. 

Neither of you blushed when he helped you take off your clothes. You were drunk and sleepy, and Clark would never take advantage of you in this state. His eyes didn’t look anywhere he wasn’t supposed to, and his movements were clinical. His hands didn’t linger, didn’t stray.

He loved you and that meant he would never hurt you. 

Then, finally, when you were both dressed and in bed, he gathered you in his arms and listened to your heartbeat until it slowed down. It never took too long, when he held you and you were drunk. You were always out like a light when he cuddled you close to his chest. 

Clark got the idea the next day, when you were under the showers and he saw your phone light up with a notification while he was still in bed. It was a notification from TikTok — he recognized that logo. 

He grabbed his own phone and downloaded the app himself, and struggled for close to thirty minutes just to create an account. Most of that time was spent figuring out a username (in the end he kept the default one TikTok gave every user). 

Then you came out of the shower and Clark forgot about it.

“Wanna go grab brunch?” you asked him, still dripping on the floor, towel around you.

“Sure. Bubby’s?”

“God yes.”

Bubby’s was your go-to restaurant whenever you were hangover — or just particularly hungry.

Clark didn’t waste a second and stood up from his bed, his phone completely forgotten. 

It was only a month later, when he received a notification from the app (that confused him for a good ten seconds until he remembered how he’d downloaded the app) inviting him to join a random person’s LIVE, that he remembered the really stupid idea he had.

He spent one hour learning how to use TikTok and another one trying to make a video. He kept accidentally deleting everything with his stupidly big thumbs and he tried five times before he finally finished.

It was nothing big — it wasn’t even a video. Just a static picture and some text, but he did it himself. He even managed to change the color of the words and add a gif (because he thought that was really cute and like something you would love).

He felt silly for how proud of himself he felt. He just hoped he didn’t do anything wrong, and then pressed on the post button. 

He wasn’t quite sure what hashtags were or even if they were needed, but he added one just in case — the first one that popped up. 

And then he deleted the app, promptly forgetting about it and going back to his usual life. It was either the stupidest idea he’d ever had, or the greatest one. In any case, he was already onto the next thing. Namely, taking you out to dinner in a near future. 

  ───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

You woke up to your phone absolutely blowing up. Clark was at work and had been for a few hours already.

It was strange, you thought as you looked at the hundreds of notifications showing up on your lockscreen. You hadn’t posted anything on there in so long, and definitely nothing about Clark (apparently your videos about him always did crazy well). 

Oh no, you thought to yourself. Were you getting cancelled?

Half of your notifications were mentions to a random video from an account with no name and no picture, and only one post.

IS THIS THE BSF?!?!

I KNEW IT!!!!

omg i ship them so bad

Is this @pinkbubbles’s bsf?!?! The girl in the picture looks so much like her

@pinkbubbles GIRL LOOK

LMAO i literally just saw the other pov of this, tiktok knows what its doing 

You clicked on the video. It was silent. It was just a picture, one that you recognized. It was you. A few years ago, when you’d traveled to the beach with Clark and he invited you to diner that night. He’d taken a picture of you, and he wanted to be subtle so your entire face didn’t show. Just your smile and your arms. 

The caption read: she doesn’t know i am so in love with her. 

This had to be Clark. The username and picture matched, and only him had access to that picture.

You burst out laughing when your read the caption and it was just ‘i hope she loves me back #charlidamelio’. But your heart was still hammering inside your ribcage like a crazed horse who wanted to break free.

Clark was in love with you. And he confessed through TikTok. Of all the places. It was so him and so unlike him at the same time, that you didn’t know whether you should laugh or cry or burst inside his office. 

Honestly, the crazier thing was that you had posted something exactly like it a few months ago. It was just a video of Clark, not showing his face, and the caption ‘he doesn’t know i am in love with him’. The only difference was that you’d used an actual song, and you didn’t use any hashtags. It wasn’t meant to go viral. It was just… a letter inside a bottle thrown to the sea. A way not to explode while holding onto what felt like your biggest secret. 

And Clark had the same idea, it seemed. A few months later, but still. You wondered when was it—what had pushed him to publish something like that. More importantly, how he’d even been able to do this, when Instagram as a concept itself broke him.

Oh God. He was in love with you, and his confession had gone viral. It was such a strange thing to say. Clark, going viral. Clark who only had an iPhone so that he could use iMessage with you and match lockscreens and sim card holders. Clark who thought TikTok was a song and not an app.

You think you’re going crazy. Clark Kent was going to be the death of you. 

He was acting like nothing was wrong when you met up with him after work. He had that dopey smile on his face, the one that meant that nothing was wrong and that the world was a beautiful and perfect place to be. He usually had a terrible poker face — just that one time he bought a fake cockroach to scare you and the guilt was written all over his face like face paint for children. One look at him and you realized that the monstrosity you woke up next to was fake, and none other than Clark’s latest childish stunt. 

Now 

So how did the man who couldn’t even keep a surprise secret without blubbering and stuttering over his words look so serene? As if he didn’t just break the Internet and turn upside down your heart in the same night. 

“Hey, baby,” he said, head tilted to the side like a confused little puppy who doesn’t understand why his owner wasn’t acting like normal? “How was your day?”

“Uh… um… it was okay. Thanks! How are yours?” 

He raised an eyebrow with a teasing tilt of his lips. “How are mine? Mine what?”

You’d meant to ask how his day was, but at the same time how he was, and your tongue twisted. Oh God. He was usually the awkward one out of the two of you. Not you. Never you. You didn’t even feel that awkward when you’d hugged him once and he felt your stupidly perk and hard nipples. Admittedly, that was because Clark had done something worse just the day before and by comparison nothing you could ever do could ever be worse. 

“I hate you,” you grumbled, slamming a weak fist against his chest. 

Why did it have to be you who found out? What even were you supposed to be doing with information like this? Kiss him? Offer him a ring?

Clark didn’t look particularly offended by that. His hand merely found its place on top of yours and squeezed. “Come on, let’s go. Where are you taking me tonight?”

Your mind blanked. “Uh. Home?”

“Then let’s go,” he replied, his hand finding its natural position at the back of your neck, warm and present and guiding without being oppressive. He’d done that particular gesture a thousand times and you’d never particularly reacted. But tonight, it was different. Tonight, you were being held by the neck with the knowledge that he loved you. That he was in love with you as well, and that maybe had always been. 

Well, if you were being honest with yourself, you would realize that this wasn’t supposed to be surprising. Clark was Clark and you were you, and the pair of you had always been like this — and your weird heteroerotic friendship had always been this way probably because you were both desperately and pathetically in love with each other. 

But panicking about required love was more dramatic.

“Clark.”

“That’s my name, yes.”

“Smartass.”

He smiled in reply. 

He was being so weirdly normal. As if he hadn’t posted his confession for possibly millions to see last night. 

What if that wasn’t even him? What if someone hacked his phone and got his pictures of her? Poor Clark was definitely the kind of person who would fall for a phishing scam. There was a 33% chance of him actually being hacked. This was serious. You had to talk to him about it. 

But… not now. 

Now, you were going home with your best friend of almost thirty years and you were going to make him make dinner and you’re going to light candles and then you’re going to make him take pictures of you. 

It was a regular night for the two of you. Except for the glaringly obvious and impossibly unavoidable fact that made every moment, every look, every touch a thousand times more… charged. More intimate. More… 

You were running out of adjectives. 

“This pasta is wonderful,” you told him and appreciated the way his ears still turned pink every time you praised his cooking. 

“Ah, well, thank you, sweetheart. I wanted to make them from scratch but I didn’t have time.”

“Another time,” you replied. His homemade pasta was to die for, and he always made the best shapes ever. (One time you stole dough from him and made a penis shaped pasta. He couldn’t look you in the eyes without bursting into laughter for the rest of the evening.)

“Another time,” he confirmed. 

Silence fell. The flames were still flickering, unbothered and swaying to the dancing of the air. It cast a particularly romantic light to the whole scene. Which was fitting, considering the two of you were apparently in love with each other, and probably have been for the past two decades.

Oh no. Have you guys wasted two decades for nothing when you could have been happily dating and in love? Perhaps you’d have even been married by now. Yeah, definitely married by now. 

“Clark.”

His fork stilled mid-twirl and looked up to you, his entire attention riveted on you. 

“Could you pass me the salt?”

His sauce was perfectly seasoned but it wasn’t your fault you chickened out right at the last minute. 

“Sure thing,” he replied, standing without a complaint and getting it from the kitchen. 

You were going to talk about the marriage thing another date. Well, you figured you should talk about the confession thing first. 

You can do this. 

You should also do something about those really nosy followers of yours who demanded an update quite literally every hour. 

You really missed life back when you only had one follower — Clark’s account before he forgot the password and gave up on having an online presence. 

You couldn’t post a single story of a cute cat you saw without getting swarmed with messages and comments, and not one of them was about the cute feline. 

“Hey Clark, look at this cute cat I saw earlier.” 

When in doubt (read: lacking attention), always turn to Clark. 

“Oh look at that little fella,” he replied, genuinely excited to see him. You could always trust him to say the right thing. “Was he on your way to work?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied. “He was sooo cute. Almost adopted him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah. He was perfect. 

“Well we hadn’t talked beforehand about bringing a child into this life so I didn’t want to presume.”

“Next time, then.”

“Next time,” you confirmed. 

As easy as that. He’d agreed to adopt a child, so the marriage talk would be easier than anticipated. 

Naturally, you found yourselves at a rescue center, trying to find the perfect fit for them. Clark wanted a dog, you wanted a cat, so you compromised and got a really old cat who’d been waiting for a forever home for fifteen years. 

Her name was Bean (you let Clark pick) and she was both the loveliest and saddest creature you both had ever seen. Her favorite spot to sleep was between the two of you, and she got sad whenever Clark wasn’t staying over the night, so Clark officially moved in. For Bean, of course. 

Clark was, much to your dismay, her favorite, but you understood her. Clark was your favorite as well. 

“You know,” Clark said one day while Bean was busy purring up a storm on top of his large chest (oh how you were jealous), “she really reminds me of you. She always meows outside the bathroom door whenever I take a shower, and she recently learnt how to open the door. Just to stare at me.”

You snorted. “That does sound like something I would do.”

Clark scratched behind Bean’s ears subconsciously. “It’s not just that. It’s… well, she’s quite clingy.”

“I am not clingy,” you refuted automatically, but it was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. 

Bean meowed in displeasure too. 

“Sweetheart, you’re currently using my arm as a body pillow.”

“Doesn’t mean anything.” Bean meowed. “See? She agrees. We aren’t clingy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He scratched the top of your head, and you think he meant to scratch Bean’s head, not yours, but you found that you absolutely didn’t mind. 

“Meow,” you said, just to really sell it in case he suspected something. 

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Clark was pleasantly surprised when Lois told him that she wanted to see you again. Jimmy, of course, heard it and was promptly standing guard at Clark’s desk. 

“I want to see her too,” he said. As always, he was expertly (read: awkwardly) avoiding the looks a coworker had been giving him for the past three days. 

“Uh…” he pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure. She would love that. And I would love that too.”

“It’s weird, we thought you would be more ecstatic than this,” Jimmy said. 

“You guys talk about me behind my back?”

“Duh,” Lois replied. “What else are we supposed to do when you randomly and suspiciously disappear at random intervals during a work day?”

He blushed. “Fair enough. But why did you think I would be happier than this?”

Lois and Jimmy shared a look. “How can he be so big yet so dense?” Lois asked. 

“Hey!”

“Honestly, I just want to know what went through his brain at that moment,” Jimmy said, like he was discussing the weather. “Was he held at gun point? Did his phone become conscious on its own? How did he even know how to use the app?”

“I couldn’t have asked better questions myself,” Lois said, nodding wisely as she took a sip from her monstrous drink. “Clark, would you be up for an interview later?”

Clark frowned. “What… what is going on?”

They shared a look. 

“I don’t think he knows that we know.” 

“Or that the entire Internet knows,” Lois added. 

“Or that she knows,” Jimmy appended. 

“He thinks he’s sleek with it,” Lois commented. 

“Stop talking like creepy twins!” he shrieked. His dignity was never left intact around those two. “What is going on? No, I don’t wanna know. I need to take a break.”

“Should we tell him?”

“Yes. I mean, they adopted a cat together. I don’t think he knows the implications of it.”

“What does Bean have anything to do with any of this?”

“Bean is your child. You’re the father, your best friend is the mother. You guys have moved in together, you co-parent a child, and you’re both in love.”

He finally blushed. “No we’re not.”

“Yes, you are. You confessed to her and she confessed to you.”

“Wait… when did she confess?”

“Oh great heavens.”

Taking an impromptu coffee break, they dragged Clark to the break room where they sat him down (he was going to need it) and showed him his video on Jimmy’s phone and her video on Lois’ phone. 

“Who are you and what have you done with our Clark Kent?” 

“The Clark I know would have never confessed like this. Granted, it’s cute, but it’s not something Clark would do.”

“He can barely use the selfie mode on his phone!”

Clark Kent really felt like a hostage being interrogated, with the two of them looming over him like menacing journalists who wanted to get to the bottom of this. The only thing missing was the table and a threatening lamp projected right in his face, blinding him. He could very well see Lois with a foot up on her chair, elbow on her knee as she stared him down so menacingly he had half a mind to confess to things he didn’t even do, just to make her stop. 

 His face was impossibly red, and the only thing he was thinking about wasn’t about how millions of people saw his video, but that you must have seen it, because everyone was tagging you in the comments, and this was definitely not the way he expected to confess to you. 

Beneath it all though, his chest was rumbling with pleasure at the confirmation — finally — that you felt the same. Knowing it was different from being clearly told. 

“Stop grinning like an idiot, this is making me wanna puke.”

“Gross. Maybe we shouldn’t have shown him this. His face is making a very disturbing and off putting expression.”

“I’m just happy and mortified! Can’t I be happy and mortified in peace?” Clark whined. 

“No,” came their reply in unison. 

“Guys, something came up. I have to go. Tell Perry I’ll work from home.”

He doesn’t wait a second for their answer. Quite frankly, he didn’t care much at the moment. He had a girl waiting for him at home to kiss her senseless.  

masterlist ᯓ★ directory ᯓ★ come say hi

[ripoutmyinsides]

Pairing: Clark Kent x Camgirl!Reader

Summary: In which Clark Kent has a dirty secret. And it just so happens to be you.

W/c: 3.5k

Tags: Smut, Clark edges himself, sub!Clark i think, exhibitionist!reader, clark is a yearner (naturally), not edited

A/n: I have finals next week but I cannot stop thinking about Clark Kent. I need that man. Under me. Now.

Also i wrote like half before tumblr decided to fuck me over so don't mind the kinda lazy ending (screaming on the inside)

The job scene was almost as barren as your love life, you think. It’d been two months now. Two months without a job. Two months of endless interviews and questions and scrutiny. You were sick of it. Tired. You’d resign to stripping soon, but you reckon you don’t even have the core strength for that either.

You’d begun to wonder if you’d ever be able to put your journalistic education to use.

But then, a beacon. A light in the sea of darkness. Right there on your 7 year old MacBook Air. A flashing sign: MAKE UP TO 6000 DOLLARS A MONTH FROM HOME!

You scoffed at the idea of it, but something in the back of your head told you to just click on the link. And so after praying that you wouldn’t install a million viruses onto your beloved ancient device, you did.

- - -

Clark Kent was noble. He was humble. He picked up litter he didn't throw on the way to work. He ordered coffee for everyone on the floor, even when he was late. When in his red and blue suit, he rescued kittens for little children and put out burning buildings. He was good. In the very sense of the word, he was good.

But Clark Kent had a dirty secret.

A filthy indulgence. One no one else knew about.

He'd stumbled onto the site accidentally whilst formulating a dating profile that Lois and Jimmy had coerced him into. Much too sheltered, they'd called him. Need a good fuck, they'd said.

As he was filling in hobbies and interesting things about him and whatnot (superman identity excluded), he'd accidentally clicked on an advertisement for some sketchy site. In the midst of fumbling with his laptop trying to shut the off the sudden cacophony of moans and whimpers, he'd scrolled down onto your page.

And there you were. Like an angel among devils, soft thighs plush in some work tights as you greeted the camera, supple voice tingling in his ears as you worked your way out of your work clothes.

They were nothing special. Just some black tights, a midi skirt and a white shirt. Classic. Something he'd seen hundreds of women in Metropolis don. But there was something about the way your hands grabbed at the cloth.

They way you peeled them off. Fingers in no rush to unbutton your top. Clark was entranced. Now his Ma had taught him to never objectify women, and his Pa had showed him how to be a true gentleman. So why couldn't he click off?

Mesmerising wasn't even the way to describe it. It was like he was in a trance. Sucked into the black hole that was your stream. Your pull too gravitational to allow him to blink, nevermind move his fingers to click off.

So he watched. Like a dog watches a bone. He didn't move, didn't unzip his pants, didn't reach to stroke himself. He just watched as you did your thing. As you moved your hands. He memorized the way you touched yourself. The way your breath hitched and your back arched.

Your face covered meticulously by a masquerade mask, plush lips held into a pout as you blinked at the camera.

“Had three interviews today, and not one call back.” You sigh, shifting back into your bed. You lean against the pillows, head falling back as you trace your body with your fingers.

You pause. Just for a beat. Then, you sit back up and crawl towards the camera. “I don’t know. Do you think I deserve to cum today?” And Clark feels like you're talking just to him, but the rapid influx of comments are proof that you’re not.

Jonny6inch: of course you do, sexy

Needsasubby: yes, cum for us

Anonymous69: please, need to see it

You hum, happy with the collective decision. Clark feels his pants tighten. He’s sweating, and his heart is beating abnormally fast compared to his usual alien physiology.

You’ve still got those stupid tights on, and Clark is torn between wanting them ripped off and licking you right through them. Your legs are parted as you rub slow circles on your clit, and it’s both not enough and too much for him at the same time.

When the live stream ends, Clark feels like he's walking on air as he clicks the big red SUBSCRIBE button. He grins at the username he chooses for himself, partly because it’s so stupidly obvious, and partly because no one one would ever suspect it was actually him.

After all, what would Boy Scout Superman be doing on a site like this?

---

After that, it becomes a ritual.

Slow and steady. After long days at the Planet, he's kicking off his shoes and clicking on your latest stream, cock neglected and rock hard in his pants as he watches you with careful intent. Like he's studying you.

One weekend, you stream wearing nothing but a baby tee with the superman logo and soft blue cotton panties. He almost comes untouched.

Truth is, Clark aches to touch himself. He's been so hard recently it's becoming difficult to hide. He thinks of you in especially inappropriate circumstances, having to hunch over himself in the newsroom meetings when his mind wanders to the way you hiss when your fingers finally come in contact with your cunt. He glares at his bulge in the bathroom whenever he remembers the small whimpers that leave your mouth when you're close.

He aches to pull them out of you.

You're becoming so distracting that Clark doesn't even realise when he runs head first into the new hire, almost knocking her down with his comically gigantic frame.

"Oh, I'm awfully sorry," He's murmuring, voice surprisingly soft for someone so large.

You smile up at him, shaking your head dismissively. "Ah no worries, I’m very easy to bump into.”

He laughs at that. Loud and deep chested. Like he means it. It makes something inside of you twinge.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Clark Kent." You shake his hand, watching the way it engulfs yours.

Clark is unsurprisingly sweet. To everyone. He includes you in his morning coffee runs, somehow having memorised your order despite having mentioned it once. He reads your drafts, singing your praises whenever one of your articles hits front page. He makes you feel. Things that you don't know how to describe. Almost homely. Like you've always known Clark. Like he's someone you'd go home to. Cook a dinner with. Sleep next to and smile at the sound of his snores.

It was a scary feeling to have. Firstly, because you have no idea if he'd ever feel the same way, and secondly, because you swore off relationships after a particularly nasty one that had you questioning much about both yourself and the state of the world.

And Clark was such a gentleman. What would he think of your...side job? It was truly less of a job and more of a hobby at that point. You'd been paid more than enough to sustain a living by the Planet, but you found a secretive sort of enjoyment in being watched.

In knowing how you made people feel. And oh did they let you know. You'd keep the chat box on during your streams just to let the comments flood in.

woman_lovr469: just like that ma

jacksss112: fuck, you're so hot

deeznutzzz: the things I would do to you

You skim through them, eyes glittering at the thought of all these different people behind the screen, drooling at the sight of you undressing. The power you held hummed underneath your skin.

But then there's one comment. One that stands out among the others. It's less desperate. More raw. Like there was actual intent behind those words. Actual meaning.

superman112: You look gorgeous like that.

You pause. Blinking at the screen. You don't know what to make of it.

"Superman, huh?" You giggle to yourself, imagining the real man with the captial S on his chest making time to watch and comment on your little streams.

"I'd let Superman take me," You muse, mostly to yourself. Clark sits up at that, pants painfully tight as he leans in. But the comments don't seem to like what they're hearing.

jacksss112: he sucks. i could fuck you better than he ever could.

anonymous6969: superman is the worst. he wouldn't know how to handle you.

11incher: i bet his dick is small. that's why he wears his undies on top of the suit.

Clark would protest all of the comments if he wasn't watching you giggle. The sound was like water to the fire he didn't know you'd set his heart on. He'd take any joke at his expense just to hear you laugh again.

He feels bold. A bit funny. Completely unlike himself.

superman112: Would you like to find out?

When he hears you chuckle, he smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

---

"Hi Clark!" You're smiling at him, that cute smile that makes his heart ache in a way that he didn't know was possible. He's smiling back, stumbling over himself and almost dropping his coffee.

"Hi," he says sheepishly. You laugh softly. Nothing loud, almost like you hadn't meant for anyone to hear, but Clark had. Of course he had. And he could feel the hairs on his arms rise at the sound of it.

It couldn't be...

Your laugh sounded so familiar. Like silk. Or maybe honey. Like warmth wrapped around him. Images of his masked seductress pop up into the back of his head. There's no way, he dismisses. You were just so different in the office. All bubbly, voice high and jittery, like you'd had one too many coffees. Not like her. All sultry and confident, like she knew exactly what she did to everyone.

Clark felt like a pervert, comparing you to the lady in black. He felt disgusting. He knew it was wrong, but still he couldn’t stop staring at the pout of your lips as you squinted at the screen like it owed you something.

Then he brushes it off. Shakes his head and goes back to writing his article. Because that would be crazy. A huge, crazy, dirty, filthy coincidence.

---

Clark has a once-in-a-blue-moon day off, and he decides to use it to the fullest. He sleeps in for once in his life (wakes up at 9AM), stretches and actually gets to make his own coffee at home. The city is quiet, so his friend in blue and red doesn't even have to make an appearance.

It's peaceful. The day waxes and wanes as he soaks in the feeling of having absolutely nothing to do. But then again... he might as well get some drafts polished up. He was just on his way to do so when a notification popped up on his laptop.

You were online.

Drafts and articles abandoned, Clark carries the laptop with him to bed, setting on top of his thighs as he relaxes and waits for you to begin.

You show up in the frame, one heel off as you trip out the other. You greet the camera, sounding more tired than usual. Suddenly, Clark starts to feel the shame of it all. Of watching you, even though you seem to enjoy being watched. He doesn't want to be confined to just watching. He wants to rub your feet after a long day. He wants to be the one undressing you. He wants to feed you warm food and tuck you in bed and crawl right beneath the sheets next to you.

But that would never happen.

So he remains resigned to watching you from the sidelines. Wishing he'd get to know you. Knowing that it would never happen.

---

It's extremely early in the office when Clark gets in. The sun is yet to rise, and there's no sign of life in the office other than your keyboard clacking away at your cubicle.

You're yawning when he sets a coffee down next to you. You smile up at him, hands reaching towards the warm mug,

"Late night?" He asks.

You blush like you don't know how to answer him. You open your mouth to respond, then close it, deciding to opt for a nod.

He nods back in understanding, heading back to his desk to get an early start on the day. You seem to be murmuring to yourself, eyes locked onto your phone. It rings, and you pick up immediately, whispering your friend's name.

"I'm at work." Clark knows it’s wrong but tune's his hearing onto your conversation anyway.

"Mmm, yeah." You respond.

He strains, but he can't hear what your friend is saying on the other line.

But then:

"Think superman might be following me." You say suggestively, giggling.

He blinks once. Then he blinks again. Because it all comes crashing down at once. The way you draw out the syllables of his alias. Your voice, of course, the sweet syrupy voice he drank up almost every night. How didn't he notice?

Clark Kent has to rush to the bathroom to collect himself. Okay. It was real. This was real. You were real. Not just his coworker. Not just the girl who smiles at him real wide when he brings her a cup of coffee, appreciation never dwindling. Not only the friend who he'd share laughs with over lunch. You were her. The woman who could take him apart without even touching him.

Straight away, Clark knows that he's not going to get much work done today, no matter how early he came in. He spends the rest of the day in the clouds (metaphorically), wondering how he ended up so lucky as to have both his crushes be one person. And also plotting how to get you in his sheets. What?!? He had his… needs.

Now Clark had an even dirtier secret. He got his rocks off to the sight of his coworker touching herself. And she doesn't even know.

Early morning turns to late night at the planet. It's quiet, though there's a certain hum to the building that never quite dies down. The lights are dimmed, and the last of the stragglers are packing their things up to head home. The only two cubicles with their overhead lights on are yours and Clarks.

You had no doubt he was working hard on another front page article. And your source, always unreliable, had just gotten you the evidence you needed to nail a LuthorCorp ally for corruption. You'd imagined that you'd be here all night. Your regulars would be waiting for you to start your stream right about now, and you can't say you wouldn't miss unwinding in front of the camera tonight, but you had more important things at hand.

An impulsive thought crosses your mind. You decide to head down real quick and grab a bite for yourself and Clark. Y'know, to repay him for all his kindness.

You rush to the restaurant across from the Planet, ordering your usual and the same order that Clark gets whenever you two come down here. Grabbing the bags and uttering a quick thanks, you head back up to the newsroom.

Clark's still typing away when you make a beeline for his desk, setting the food in front of him and smiling cheekily. His eyes light up at the sight, and you think for a second you see him check you out. You wave it off, crediting the dim lights and the fact that you had gotten 4 hours of sleep last night.

You turn around for a second, reaching back to where you dropped some napkins, bending down to grab them.

Clark gets the final confirmation he needs.

Those tights. The pink panties underneath. He'd recognise those anywhere. The image you stripping them off yourself was burned into his eyelids.

"Let's eat at mine." He blurts out. You whirl round, shocked by the sudden suggestion. By the urgency behind it as Clark packs up his desk.

"You sure?" You ask.

"Yeah, it's not too far from here. And the couch is more comfortable than this stiff chairs." You nod in agreement, walking back to your desk to collect your items.

You're not quite sure what to make of his eyes trailing you. It certainly didn't feel bad, and it had been a while since you'd gotten off with something other than your hands, and Clark Kent was built like a tank, and you were getting ahead of yourself.

---

Clark's apartment looks exactly like how you'd expect. It was neat. It was homely. It was comfy and not clinical like most apartments in metropolis. He had a few photos hung up, and a couple of lamps to give the room some nice lighting.

You head further into the living room, shrugging your shoes off and heading towards the couch. Clark was right, you did need a nice comfy seat.

Then you hear a thud. You turn around, shocked at the sight of Clark in front of you.

He'd dropped to his knees. It's entirely desperate, and you gasp at the sight of your dorky coworker with his eyes blown out. You almost crumble into him when his arms wrap around your waist, face tucking into your stomach.

"You're her." Is all he offers as explanation.

You gulp. Hands at your sides. You try, only for a second, to think of the logistics of the situation. Clark was your coworker. You see each other every day. Think. Be smart. Don't be- ahhh fuck it.

Clark was sniffing you. You don't know whether to call him a pervert or pull his hair. You decide to do both.

He moans into your touch. Still, while appreciative, you wonder what could have triggered this sudden onset of lust.

"Clark," you inquire. "What's this all about?"

He's got a hungry look in his eyes. "Watched you for months," he begins, voice hoarse and lashes wet. "Watched you for months, and didn't touch myself once. Just watched. Fuck, you're so beautiful."

And then you understand. You know who he is. Without even asking, you know who he is.

"Oh, so you're my superman." You scoff slightly, tugging his hair to urge him upwards. He obeys easily.

“Poor baby.” You sigh, hands pushing him backwards onto his couch.

“When’s the last time you’ve been touched, hmm?” He groans, skin wet with a sheen that you can only describe as need. It shocks you. The way it radiates off him. Like he's unashamed, or maybe like he's already felt all the shame there is to feel.

You straddle him, skirt tight around your thighs. You drag your nails down his chest, unbuttoning his shirt slowly. He's got his eyes shut tight, and his hands and clasped tightly into fists at his sides. "Clark, open your eyes," you nudge softly.

He does, and the black of his pupils almost swallows his blue irises. You finally finish unbuttoning his shirt, pushing back to encourage Clark to remove the rest of it. You sit back on his thighs, enjoying the look of his glasses pushed to the tip of his nose, his eyes hooded and watching you. The rise and fall of his chest.

You drag your eyes down, down, down to his pants. You place a palm on his bulge, eyes widening at the feeling of it jumping against your touch. “Is this how hard you’d get while watching me undress?” You ask, genuinely curious.

Clark whines. A full fledged, too-far-gone whine.

You decide you can tease him about it later.

Fumbling with his zipper, you're about to stand up to let him take his pants off when he's lifting his thighs up, pulling them off from underneath him like you weighed nothing.

You see his bulge even clearer now, and you'd be intimidated if not for the puppy eyes Clark was currently giving you. It was big, and bigger even when you pulled him out of his boxers.

"Shit, Clark. You just walk around with this in your pants?" He's panting now, hands sitting at your hips, loose as he rubs circles, they tighten on you when you grab his leaking cock, and he hisses when you spit down on it.

You set a rhythm of pumping him, twisting your fist around the base, relishing in his noises, and the way his hips jerk when you thumb at his tip.

“Fuck, does that make you feel good?” You not so sure why you're asking, seeing as the way he was acting told you all you needed to know.

Clark feels dizzy. He thinks he might’ve died and entered heaven. God, you looked like a vision above him.

You look lost in thought, and his cock twitches at the sound of your giggle. Superman, you think. Imagine that. You’re still unaware of his status. He thinks he might have to let superman take you for a ride sometime soon.

You keep at it, eyes locked on his as you listen intently to the squelching sounds filling the room. It almost felt nastier than any time you streamed. More forbidden. You feel heat rising to your cheeks at an idea.

Would your viewers object to a guest star?

---

Can you tell I had fun making up the usernames?

Taglist:

@l1zard-l3ague @needylittleprince @repairheartzz @cosmiiwrites

[ripoutmyinsides]

fuckable

pt. ii of suckable summary: you and clark break the "don't fuck your roommate" rule.

tags: 18+, smut (so much smut), roommate!clark, established friendship, f!reader, clark is older than reader (non-specific,) reader doesn't know clark is superman, slight angst, more mentions of clois past, fwb shenannigans, blowjobs, m!masturbation, accidental voyeurism, finger fucking (m!receiving), pillow humping, there’s a dildo, comeshot, facial, titty humping, big butt!clark, big boobs!clark, big dick!clark, sub!clark

a/n: special thank u to @joeloverture who lets me be a comebrain in her dms 24/7. this fic is 4 u <3

wc: 8.4k

my masterlist - my askbox

It’s been weeks since you first tried to suck all eight inches of Clark Kent’s dick. You still haven’t managed to make it all the way down. You’re not giving up. 

“O-okay, mm– don’t choke,” Clark sighs. He’s finally managed to feel comfortable putting his hand in your hair, but only barely. It rests at the crown of your head, not pushing or pulling, just touching. He just wants to touch you. 

Your throat contracts uncomfortably as his tip pushes at the back of your throat. You’re really trying your best not to choke on him since he hates that, but it’s difficult to open up. Something about this challenge is so exciting, especially seeing how much Clark enjoys it. 

He’s like a puppy. Each time you even begin to suggest the idea of “practicing” again you can see his dick jump in his pants. Clark’s expression is always formed into a shy look, but the shimmer of excited horniness can’t be hidden in the blush of his cheeks and the light of his eyes. He always says “we don’t have to, it’s okay,” but the fact that you want to practice sets him off every time. He’ll scamper off to the couch while shoving his pants down his thighs, usually leaving his boxers on since he likes being teased through the fabric. 

It’s exactly what happened earlier tonight. Clark’s boxers lay beside him, of course with a small stain of precome on the front, and his pants are forgotten somewhere on the kitchen floor. You had caught him washing the dishes and something about him being so responsible had your jaw tingling with a need to try fitting him in your mouth again. He’s fully leaned back on the couch now, his eyes trained on the ceiling as he breathes with an open mouth. One hand is still tangled in your hair, but the other one is cupping his own breast. Clark kneads the tit in his fingers, only letting his thumb brush over his nipple when something feels particularly good. You know why this is, and it’s why you’re keeping your hands to yourself as you kneel with his dick enveloped between your lips.

Clark has a problem with coming. Not coming too fast, but too much. And he can’t recover very quickly from it, which is terrible for practicing sucking his dick. Even though he’s around the same size while soft, it goes down much easier which feels like cheating. So you have to keep your hands to yourself, or at least he’s asked you to. It’s kind of okay, but you really miss the feeling of his skin in your hands, the weight of his pretty tits.

At least you get to watch.

His skin looks glowier than usual tonight. It’s hotter than usual, so there’s a chance he’s just sweating, but his breasts are glistening in the yellow light of the lamp. The darker hair that’s smattered between his tits is slightly sweaty and you wish you could pull off him and lick at it, but then you’d lose progress. As if this is even about that anymore.

Finally your throat opens a little more and you manage to fit another half inch down. It makes your eyes roll back for a second, the pleasant feeling of a full mouth and throat shooting a thrill up your spine. You’ve mostly been using your hands to measure how far down you get on him, starting with both your hands wrapped around almost all his firth, then removing fingers as you ease down. Tonight you’ve finally reached the last three fingers wrapped around him.

“S-slow,” Clark whines softly, his hips desperately trying not to lift off the couch. “Slow, you’re good, you’re doing so good.” 

Everything in you wants to push yourself further, to say fuck it and just suck him down your throat and bury your nose in that delicious little patch of hair at his base, but you won’t. He wants it slow, and you’re not even supposed to be getting him off. You’re proving a point. 

“Geez,” Clark says. He seems to be grateful for the lull in your practice as you try to get a hold of yourself. “I don’t think anyone’s ever gotten… that far.” 

Stupid Clark and his mouth. Each time you do this you tell yourself you cannot be getting yourself off while you suck his dick, but the heel of your foot always ends up pressed against your crotch. Your foot drags underneath you as you try to stealthily slide it to where you need it most. He hasn’t caught you doing this before, or at least he hasn’t said anything about it previously. Your eyes flutter again as the heel of your foot finally presses to your core, and your fingers press into his thighs. It feels like just enough to keep you satisfied until you’re done here and can go back to your room to fuck yourself properly. 

Your breath finally evens out as much as it can with over half of Clark in your throat and he rubs your head gently, telling you again that you’re doing well. 

“So good, you’re getting further everytime,” he sighs faintly. His head is tilted down to look at you while his hand rests on his belly. “Wish I could repay you for this in some way. Mmh–”

A hot rush crawls across your cheeks as Clark says that. He has mentioned “repaying” you once or twice, but it’s not… something you can allow. Sucking his dick is one thing, spreading your legs for him is another. It can’t go farther than it has, not when he’s still so freshly out of a relationship, so you don’t reply. You keep your mouth full of him and just enjoy the weight of his thick cock in your mouth, let it drown out the noise of what this could mean, or accidentally lead to, and focus on him. 

—

The normalcy after these practice sessions used to feel comfortable and normal. At some point last week though, Clark had kissed the top of your head before he had ducked out of the bathroom and gone to bed. He had said “good night,” and pressed a kiss to the top of your head as you brushed your teeth. And you just had to stand there, foamy mouthed from toothpaste and throat still raw from his dick, and accept that this is what you’ve created. 

And it isn’t going away.

Clark isn’t home a lot of the time still, though you do know he has time off coming up. You’re kind of banking on him not being home during that time too, maybe going back to see his parents in Smallville, and leaving you alone. The fact that Clark is so easily affectionate with you is starting to make you scared. All at once you want to suck his dick as far down your throat as you can, but also you’re desperately trying to pull away from him. It’s terrifying that this big man is suddenly under your thumb, silently whining for more even though he never says anything at all. Is it you that’s needy, or is it him? You don’t know. This isn’t worth figuring out, you’re roommates that experiment with his huge body. It’s fine. 

Everything about this would be fine if he wasn’t in a long term relationship just seven months ago. You might even be willing to break the roommate rule of “absolutely no fucking.” The idea that you could be Clark’s rebound is something weirdly scary, preventing you from letting yourself admit that you might have a crush on him. Putting any feelings into this only sets the rug under your feet, allowing a chance for it to be pulled right out. Fumbling Clark after seeing his polite boy attitude and sucking on the anaconda in his pants would feel like… like you don’t know. Every time you think about it you feel dumber. 

What you do know about Clark and Lois Lane is scarce. You know that they broke up amicably, that they were together for almost a year, and that they’re managing to maintain a friendship. Clark has previously said that a lot of their friendship is solely so Jimmy doesn’t feel awkward and so things don’t get ugly at work. But if he isn’t talking about her more than this, then what is being left unsaid? 

You don’t want to care, but can you help it?

Something seriously must have been wrong with Clark for things to go wrong. The hurt on his face the first time he mentioned her told you that it was him that definitely screwed things fully over. You can’t imagine what, though. Clark doesn’t seem very argumentative from what you can tell, and with how quiet he gets about the breakup you can’t imagine that he cheated. Did he have some evil alter-ego that ruined everything? In all the safety you feel in Clark and his ways and his energy, something feels like it’s squirreled away. It must be Lois, is what you’ve concluded with. 

Not that it should matter. 

It shouldn’t pop into your mind ever. You shouldn’t wonder if he’s thinking of her when his eyes are closed and you’re massaging his dick in your mouth, you shouldn’t wonder if he wishes she was there when he opens his eyes to look down at you, and you definitely shouldn’t wonder if he ever called her baby. He’s never called you baby. Only your name. (is Clark a “baby” guy?)

This wondrous jealousy only festers into something uglier as Clark’s week off approaches. He keeps talking about how much he feels like he’ll miss work and his friends. You know he loves his job, but that’s where he sees Lois. You’re frustrated with him and yourself at the same time. It feels like you’re upset that he has another best friend, not even that there’s another woman but just the idea of him missing someone else is overwhelming. He isn’t even yours. You have the possessiveness of a petulant child, though you know that Clark is so much more than a toy you don’t want to share. He’s a friend. What would the loss of Clark feel like now? After you’ve lived with him, experienced him, and found yourself accustomed to his presence in so many ways, how could you survive the loss of a friend and somewhat-lover like him? 

—

It’s making you push him away.

You don’t realize it at first since he’s out of the house a fair bit still, but you’re not acting on your wants anymore. The amount of time you spend in your room when he’s home isn’t just noticeable, it’s agitating him. He keeps knocking whenever he gets home from work, or from going out with Jimmy, and asking if you’re okay. You keep telling him yes, you’re busy, you’re on the phone. So long as you’re too busy to pay attention to him, you don’t have to look at him. Even if you are thinking of him the whole time you’re laying in bed, aching to have him in your mouth again. 

Of course, you could just talk to him. You could sit him down and set boundaries for this weird thing you have. But then there’s more questions. It never ends. 

If he were over Lois, you aren’t prepared to take on a relationship. You’re terrified of the idea that Clark might want you to be his something and then there’s a whole other world of problems that could come with that. Dating your roommate is a terrible idea.

If he weren’t over Lois though, and you are just a rebound, then… what? Maybe you’d cry, feel angry, and tell him that you’re never sucking his dick again. Well, you don’t want that either. You do want to keep sucking his dick. But you don’t want to be his rebound. 

You wallow in your room for hours, listening to him as he comes home and leaves again and again. There is no reassurance for your indecisiveness, only guilt for avoiding him for so long. 

Clark is really hurting over this. He hasn’t told you, obviously, since you haven’t spoken to him yet this week, but he keeps asking if you need anything through the barrier of your bedroom door. The times you’ve left your room while he’s home he hasn’t said much, just stared at you with this look of “what did i do?” And the apartment is so annoyingly clean. Never a dish in the sink, never a speck of dust on the sidetables, and the shower is spick and span. It only serves as a reminder of what you’re pushing away. It hurts so much you wonder if you’re really even protecting yourself from harm.

—

Friday, the day before his time off begins, you decide to slink out of your hole of guilt and jealousy. 

It only took a full week of neglecting all of your roommate duties, showing up to your job with only half your brain in your head, and completely ignoring Clark, to realize that ignorance is not bliss. Clark is too nice to hurt like this, and you don’t want to screw up your friendship with him just because you’re scared that you’ll be a rebound. You knew what you were getting into when you offered to put him in your mouth, consciously or not. Clark wasn’t a stranger with a history you didn’t know about, you knew. It’s time to face the music and let this mess ride.

So you decide on starting dinner a little earlier. It’s Friday and you know he might be tired, and he’ll be hungry. God can that man eat.

You pull out the frozen dumplings from the freezer at around 5pm. He gets off work around 5ish usually, so hopefully by the time he’s home you’ll have your “i’m sorry clark” meal ready for him. He’s been in love with these lately and you can tell. The packaging has been filling up the garbage for the past month because each bag only has “approximately 22” per bag, and Clark can eat the whole bag if he wants. It used to baffle you, but after seeing what he looks like beneath his clothing, it’s no longer confusing. His body puts that food away good. 

The bag turns out to be about three quarters of the way full,which should be enough, so you pour in all the dumplings. Hot water scalds your forearm for a moment when they splash in, but it only hurts for a second. You can’t believe you’re doing this anyways. Clark won’t be mad at you, but he’ll want to talk about stuff. There’s no game plan for his questions, you’ll just answer honestly and hope that he’ll be able to look at you the same.

A bubbling noise is the only sound in the whole apartment as you cook. You end up boiling some vegetables and microwaving some fried rice that Clark must have made while you were hate-hibernating. The dumplings dance in the bubbles of the boiling water as you watch them. It smells good in the kitchen, something that would normally cause you to be hungry, but right now you just feel nervous. You’re either about to lose the dick of your life, or the friend of your life, or maybe both. 

But there’s no time to overthink.

Clark comes stumbling through the door at 5:10, a surprisingly early showup considering he typically misses his bus. 

It doesn’t seem like he realizes you’re out of your room at first. You listen to the soft sound of him slipping off his work shoes, hanging up his shoulder bag on the hook, and slipping his ancient laptop out to put away in his room. He’s breathing a little heavily but his steps are still gentle, like he’s afraid of being too noisy. 

Finally, he steps into the main part of the apartment, and you turn to face him.

He looks surprised to see you, but he also looks… like Clark. Not even Clark, but clark, with a lowercase c. The guy looks exhausted, not like bags under his eyes tired, but the-life-has-been-sucked-out-of-him tired. Dead behind the eyes. And he’s still so handsome. 

Usually Clark wears a suit to work, with ties varying in plain colours. He says that it’s important to him to feel professional and “in uniform.” He’s super anal about this uniform too, you swear he’s the only man you’ve ever seen iron his clothes. But today, he’s a little more casual. There’s still a dress shirt and a tie, but rather than a suit jacket, he’s opted for a dark grey sweater vest. Not like a dorky one, but a loose one that hangs on his frame enough to conceal his hugeness yet exemplify it at the same time. He looks cute, but hurt. 

“Hey,” he says. It isn’t all the way normal, slightly hesitant. You give him a smile that feels weird. The dumplings are sitting on a big plate behind you, the sauce packet laying beside it on the countertop. “You’re feeling better I guess?”

You nod. Clark nods, placing his laptop on the dining room table. 

“You wanna eat dinner together?”  He asks as he slips into his designated seat. You nod again, and there’s the fond smile you’ve been missing. Clark’s cheeks push up his face, his eyes squinting up, and those dimples. God, he makes everything in you a conflicted mess. 

—

Dinner is quiet. Clark takes his time eating all but five dumplings on the plate, leaving them for you, and then scarfs down the rice and veggies. He seems really happy to be sitting with you again, but there’s still a certain amount of mystery in his eyes. You can’t bring yourself to eat, too afraid that the mystery you’re seeing behind his eyes is the same one you’re trying to solve. 

He’s zoning out, staring at his plate, when you speak. 

“Sorry I um… was like that, for a bit,” you say stiltedly. You’re kind of hoping he just lets this go and also doesn’t want to think about it. This could be so easy if neither of you thought about it.

Clark looks up, almost alarmedly, and shakes his head. “What? No– no I don’t, it’s fine that you needed a bit. We all get into slumps sometimes,” he reassures quickly. His hand is fidgeting with his napkin, scrumpling the paper up in his big palm. “I’m not like this,” he gestures around his tired face, “because of that. I’m glad you’re feeling better, honest.”

Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and breathes deep. His chest fills, then releases, and his fingers start to tear at the edges of the napkin.

“It’s Lois, at work,” he admits.

Oh. Your jaw clenches but you try to look like any normal concerned friend would rather than a jealous roommate whose mouth he occasionally fucks. 

“I don’t like talking about her,” he prefaces, “because I think she knows too much about me. I was really, really, in love with her. Like spectacularly in love, and so I just was vulnerable all the time and she knows everything about me ever. And it was fine when we were together but…” He turns his head to the side, raising his arm to rest his cheek in his hand. “But now we aren’t together. And she still knows everything about me. And she still doesn’t love me.”

Again, Clark never talks about her. All you previously knew, was that they were together, and now they were not, and that they are co-workers still. You probably could have figured that Clark is the type to fall hard and fast considering everything about him, but now it’s coming from the horse’s mouth. 

“She just keeps talking to me, y’know? And she just knows me. The things she says, the inside jokes, the knowing looks,” he shakes his head, sighing again. “Lois knows me, but she never made me feel seen. I saw her and it was like cupid had struck me or whatever, but when she saw me she just saw me. I just wish someone could see me, like how I saw her.”

His arm falls back down to rest on the table and he turns his face back to you. Clark looks significantly less dead inside now but more vulnerable than ever.

“I think I just need to sleep this off, right? I have the next week off so I won’t have to feel her eyes on me for a bit,” he decides. You feel bad for not saying anything but you’re honestly speechless. He’s just resolved your insecurities about his ex without even knowing you were insecure in the first place. “You’ll probably be the only one I see,” he says.

—

He told you to leave the dishes from dinner in the sink, and that he’ll do them when he gets up tomorrow morning, but you need to do something with your hands. You’re not shaking, or really feeling anything in particular, but your problem was just… resolved. It’s no longer an anxiety that Clark might be hanging on to Lois. If anything, it seems like he’s tired of being around his ex constantly. 

The soap from the dishes rings up around your wrists as you scrub the plates. It’s thrilling to know you’re not really a rebound, but things are still somewhat in the air. You should have brought it up at dinner, you should have asked him if there’s boundaries and rules that you two should be talking about, but you didn’t. He looked too comfortable, finally opening up to you after he’d stuffed himself full of dumplings, maybe subconsciously you didn’t want to ruin his moment of vulnerability. 

You ponder on it as you scrub each dish, spoon, and fork. There’s nowhere you really want to, or don’t want to, take this. A serious relationship doesn’t sound like a good idea, but an idea of what this is overall would surely alleviate the headache you and him have created. You’re sure he feels the same way, you know he must. 

The last fork is placed in the drying rack, and then you scrub around the edge of the sink and stove, then wring out the sponge of soapy water. And then you turn to the direction of Clark’s door. He had showered after dinner, then scampered into his room. You didn’t turn around just in case he was only wearing a towel. No distractions right now, focus.

Last month you would have knocked on his door, y’know, before you knew what he looked like naked. You’re pretty far past that now, so tonight you just creak open his room.

Your eyes find him before your mouth gets the chance to open.

Clark’s bed is to the side of his room that’s closer to the window. It’s a double size bed, and you’re pretty sure his feet usually hang off the end if he stretches out fully. His bedside lamp isn’t on for once, and his book is abandoned on the floor. 

Clark is placed in the center of his bed, facedown. His knees are drawn up and one of his pillows is folded in half and shoved beneath his lower abdomen, where he rocks into the material with shaky thrusts of his hips.

But you can’t focus on that, it’s not the focus right now.

The focus right now is that one of Clark’s thick arms is reached back, sprawling down his muscular back, guiding his fingers into himself. He’s stretched out on two of his fingers right now, but it looks like a third is what he wants. His pointer finger keeps bending, trying to find its way into him, but he just isn’t ready yet. 

You should speak up, or maybe close the door quietly and leave him to get himself off. You can’t. 

It’s entrancing. You had no clue that Clark was into this, he never mentioned it. Yes he was always more submissive but you didn’t know the extent of it.

His fingers push particularly deep and he whimpers, hips rutting so his cock (assumedly) rubs against the soft material of his pillow. Pervertedly, you wish there was more light in this room. You want to see how the soft rim of his asshole stretches around his fingers, want to see the sweat that’s surely rolling down the indent of his back, and you also really, really, want to be the person whose fingers are in him. Clark’s pace is slow, but he’s pushing pretty deep into himself. The flex of his wrist is fluid and you can tell he’s curling his fingers, searching for the right spot.

You can’t leave the room, not yet. You wonder if this is how he usually gets off, if this is normal. 

Your eyes leave the sight of his pretty ass for one second, glancing to the windowsill to the right of him. There’s a pretty sizable bottle of lube placed there, and it’s only half full. Okay, maybe this is how he usually gets off. 

Clark is totally lost in the feeling of his fingers. He seems to find the right spot inside himself and begins to thrust his fingers faster, curling them harder. You’re familiar with his moans by now, but it’s so much hotter tonight with how he keeps trying to hold back. His hips rut into the pillow desperately, the seesaw of pleasure between his fingers and the pillow is driving him wild. Unfortunately you can only see the mess of curls on his head since his face is buried in the mattress. 

His fingers continue to push into his hole eagerly, each thrust forcing his hips to jump forward into the pillow. You know how close he is just off his sounds, and you aren’t wrong. Clark suddenly jams his fingers into himself as far as he can and then begins to hump the pillow wildly as he comes onto the material. It’s like he’s purposefully overstimulating himself, panting and groaning, and… whining. He’s always whiny, but this breathiness is different. He’s puffing out a word, your name, as he humps into his pillow and then back against his fingers. 

Fuck. 

Now is when you back out, shutting his door quieter than you opened it, and then rushing back to your room.

Clark is fucking himself to the thought of you. He looked so miserably good as he fucked himself on his fingers, his pretty cheeks spread to make room for those big hands that have been in your hair time and time again. He let his cock be neglected on purpose, poor boy. Maybe he was thinking about you beneath him, stroking it, or maybe he was thinking about you behind him, thrusting into his sensitive hole. Oh god, oh god. 

You’re laying flat on your back in your bed when you hear his door creak open. He has no clue you saw what he was doing. The tap in the bathroom runs as he washes his hands and you listen to his shaky steps when he makes his way back to his room and shuts the door again.

In your mind, the roommate rule was about not fucking Clark, that being Clark not being in you. It never crossed your mind that you might want to be the one in him.

—

Getting to sleep was hard, but getting up is almost harder.

The last conversation Clark had with you last night was about how he wanted to feel seen, and you’ve definitely seen him now. 

Yup. Seen him with his fingers knuckle deep in his butt. Great. It will be very easy to look him in the face today.

You manage to get out of bed at around 10am, hoping that Clark is out of the house. The apartment is quiet when you cautiously step out into the main room. You’re safe. Safe from having to face Clark who fucks his butt and thinks of you. Clark who has unleashed a new worm in your brain, alongside the one already in there that begs you to suck him off all the time. 

Clark who is walking through the front door right now, not taking his shoes off because his arms are full with two very full, paper, grocery bags. 

There’s no fucking breathing room for you in this apartment. Shit, he’s right there, he’s right there and you know what he did.

“Hey, you’re up!” Clark says cheerfully. He places the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, turning his back to you. “The early bird catches the worm, you know.”

He says… something after that about french toast, or breakfast. Something vaguely breakfast related. You don’t know, you can’t focus because Clark is wearing shorts today. Not lazy basketball shorts, or cargo shorts, but athletic shorts. Maybe a 5 inch inseam, but they look like a 4 inch inseam on him, and they’re hugging his ass. They’re not meant to hug his ass, but the fabric can’t really contain it all. 

He turns.

“You hungry?”

Clark’s wearing a plain grey tee, the printing is rubbed off on it. Did he run to the store? There’s sweat under his boobs, he has fucking underboob sweat stains. You start feeling dizzy and there’s a weird pull in your pussy, like an ache that’s guiding you. 

It’s been a shitty week. It’s been a shitty week of being separated from him, and not having him under you and in your mouth, and wondering if he’s secretly in love with his ex. And now all you want is to fuck him stupid, especially after seeing what he was doing last night.

Clark tilts his head at you. “Hello? Earth to–”

“Go to your room and take your clothes off.”

The words themselves are demanding, but your voice is strained. A feeling like stress is balled up in your chest and you’re worried it’s not making you as authoritative as you can be. But Clark is who he is, and he loves to lay down and take it deep down, so he listens.

The grocery bags are abandoned on the counter as he quickly walks to his room, mumbling something like “yes ma’am,” under his breath as he goes. 

You watch from the kitchen, into his open bedroom door, as he shuts his curtains and then starts to strip. His shirt is first, tossed onto the floor, and then his slutty little shorts follow, being tugged down at the same time his boxers are. He isn’t hard yet, but he’s still massive.

Clark looks at you as he sits down on his bed, thighs a little bit apart. His chest is puffing a little rapidly. You’re sure you’ve taken him off guard, but he’s not saying no. He looks deliciously willing.

With confident anxiousness you stalk toward him. The door is shut with your foot as you eagerly approach him, shoving your own pajama bottoms down to leave them in a heap. You’re down to your undies in a moment, just that and your sleepshirt. 

“I want you on your back,” you say firmly. Clark’s eyes go wide behind his glasses and he nods, making himself comfortable in the center of his bed. 

You walk around the right side of his bed, then grab the pillow that he was using last night. If you were to look to your left you’d see the stained pillowcase in the laundry bin there. Holding the bare pillow, you kneel on the bed and awkwardly crawl to the space between his legs.

“Wanna try something,” is how you preface this. Your hand comes down, touching the side of his hip and tapping it. He lifts up right away, letting you place the pillow beneath his lower back and the top of his bum. 

He’s looking up at you with the same nervousness you saw the first time you experimented with him. Clark’s eyes are curious as he watches you position him, but he’s pliant like always. It doesn’t matter to him what happens here, he knows he can trust you to make him feel good. So far, for him, this is fairly familiar territory.

That changes quickly.

You lean down and start to press kisses from the tip of his cock downward, lower and lower, until you’re at his balls. Gingerly, you press kisses to them. He’s extremely sensitive there and you don’t want to hurt him, but they’re in your way. One hand reaches to stroke him gently while the other lifts his balls up and out of the way. He tenses at this, a little nervous about what you’re doing, but then you begin to dot kisses along his inner thighs.

“Looked so nice in your shorts,” you say quietly, still stroking him at an easy pace. Your lips start to press more lingering kisses into the hair that grows thicker toward his most sensitive area. “You’ve got such a nice butt, Clark. You know that?”

You pull back after saying that, just enough to catch the nervous look on his face. The hand that was jerking him comes off his cock, then slides along his hipbone, down his leg, and pushes his thighs further apart.

Then, you lay your eyes on his hole. It still looks a little tender from last night, when he was furiously fingering himself to the thought of you doing this exactly. You watch as his pucker tightens shyly, and he gasps. Your name falls off his lips again. You press another kiss to his inner thigh, this time even closer to his hole.

“I saw you last night,” you confess. Clark is breathing so heavily now and his body is growing hotter with shame. A stutter fails to help him explain himself, he doesn’t know what to say. 

“I watched you,” you continue, “and I really liked what I saw. I want to try, Clark,” you admit. Your own chest is heaving with nervousness too. The pair of you are just wrecks over the idea of you in him, indulging in the perversions the both of you yearn for. 

“Yes,” Clark breathes out, voice almost cracking.

You didn’t even have to ask. He’s already said yes.

Clark reaches over the side of the bed, opening his bedside drawer and grabbing the lube. He extends the bottle out to you and you take it easily. His legs prop up in a better position, allowing even easier access to himself. 

The first finger slides in with no resistance. You don’t know how late it was last night when you ended up walking in on him fucking himself. It took you a long time to do the dishes since you were so busy pondering what the pair of you talked about, so it might have been less than 12 hours since something was last inside him. It makes it feel even more natural to be doing this.

You make yourself comfortable between his legs, kneeling so that your legs won’t fall asleep under you, and so that you’ll be able to see his face. His eyes are closed tightly shut as he takes in the feeling of your finger opening him up, sweat starting to sprout beneath the hair on his chest.

“Good, does that feel good?” You ask. Clark nods, one of his hands balled into a fist as the other one lays flat, palm up, and twitching slightly.

His hole is desperate around your digit, so warm and eager as it sucks you in over and over again. He already feels like he’s ready for more and you test it, pressing your ring finger to his hole when your middle finger slides out enough. Clark nods eagerly, a whimper catching in his throat.

“More, need more please?” He asks sweetly.

You don’t blame him, you’re sure that your fingers are not comparable to the size of his fingers at all. You could probably fit your fist in there if he prepped himself with four of his own fingers. 

“It’s so easy to open you up, Clark,” you tease softly. His chest huffs with an embarrassed laugh, but then his brows scrunch again as you start to curl your fingers inside him. “Were you just prepping for me last night? Is that why you were fucking yourself?

He nods first, then shakes his head.

“N-no,” he manages. “I was trying to prep myself for a–nnh, there, there please!” He interrupts himself, letting his hips buck back into your fingers. “I was trying to prep myself for my toy.”

A thrill is sent up your spine at that. A toy, Clark has a toy. 

“I just came too fast, I came too fast cause I was thinking about you,” he keeps rambling, both hands balling into fists now as he tries to keep himself in his mind. “Been wanting this, but I wasn’t sure if you’d… be a fan.”

God he’s so cute, you’re so glad you’re the one fucking him.

“Where’s your toy?” You decide to ask. He motions to the drawer that he grabbed the lube from and you hum. “Go on and get it then. I don’t think my fingers are big enough for you.” 

It takes him a couple tries to actually get a grip on the toy. His fingers keep slipping off since you purposefully curl your fingers extra deep each time he actually manages to grab it. You think about teasingly apologizing, but you figure he’s embarrassed enough as is. 

The toy Clark has isn’t that big, not in comparison to himself. It’s a plain, traditional, dildo. The skin tone of it is strikingly similar to your own, but that’s probably just coincidence. Its girth isn’t much more than what he was taking last night. He holds it out to you, but you hesitate, slowing your fingers a moment.

His cock looks so neglected as it lays hard on his belly. You kind of miss it.

“Can you prep yourself now?” You ask, letting your fingers slip out of him. “It’ll be faster if you use your bigger fingers, I think.” Clark looks surprised but then drops the toy, grabbing the bottle of lube right away. He’s so sweetly obedient to you all the time.

Clark fingers himself with ease, reaching underneath his thigh so he can stuff his hole while your mouth wraps around his cock. The familiar ache in your jaw feels so much better than usual as you try to swallow down as much as you can. You’ve lost a week's worth of progress, but you’re still able to take him farther than you could in the beginning. 

He works himself quickly but gently, eagerly upping himself to four of his thick digits as soon as he feels ready. You pull off once you feel him twitching a little too much, knowing that you don’t want him to come just yet.

His arm crosses his body as he reaches for the toy, his hole still stuffed on his own fingers while he holds up the toy and looks at you pleadingly. 

“You’re ready?” You ask carefully. It’s not like you’ve done this a lot, and you don’t want this to go wrong.

Clark nods, pushing the toy closer to your hand, and whining “please?”

Willingly, you take the toy and then generously lube it up. Clark’s fingers remain in his hole until you have the toy lined up, ready to switch it in. His  fingers make a nasty little noise as they slip out of his hole, but you can’t enjoy it for long.

He takes the toy so quickly, his hole sucking it in as his back arches off the bed a little. A guttural groan is torn from his chest as he finally gets the fill he’s been waiting for since last night. 

You hold it still in him, waiting for him to feel ready for this. You’re sure he could take it rough, but you also don’t want him to come right away. This is something he’s been wanting and so you want to make sure it was worth all those fantasies he probably thought up.

“You want me to start?” you ask.

His face is totally lax, his mouth open as breaths puff out, and his eyes are rolled back under his eyelids. “Y-yep, start, please start,” he gasps.

Beginning is easy. You start at a slow pace, easing the thick toy in and out at a speed which has him squirming. There’s no resistance from him, despite how tight he is around the toy, his body is completely open and ready. He’s so into this his hands are shaking at his sides. Slowly, you begin to increase your pace and start to snap your wrist a little harder. It’s important that you don’t give yourself an arm cramp early if you want to make this as good as you’re imagining. Clark seems more receptive to this pace, nodding his head and letting his eyes open a little more, searching for you. 

“L-like that,” he nods encouragingly.

His glasses are starting to slide up his face and he shoves them back down a little, almost like he’s trying to distract himself , and it makes you smile. Cute boy, cute, cute, boy. 

“You’re smiling at me,” he says nervously. You nod. “Cause I’m looking at you,” you respond teasingly.

Things feel easy again now, like you really are just two roommates that are fucking around. God, god, it’s just him and you, and you’re fucking, and it’s so hot. It’s so hot watching him writhe while you fuck him, unable to control the way his breathing stutters and his mouth parts with silent gasps.

“Y-yeah,” he smiles back, eyes crossing a little, “you see me.”

The implication of his words, the words that feel too reminiscent of last night, feel heavy for a moment. But you can’t let that distract you from what you’re doing right now. Think later, fuck him now. You nod along with his words.

“I see you, I see you baby,” you say encouragingly. His hips keep lifting off the bed, his eyes fluttering and rolling back at the same time. Clark is so damn close and you aren’t even touching him. The tip of his cock is flooding precome now, all over the soft fuzz of his belly, and you want to lick it up. The only thing keeping your lips from wrapping around his cock is the fact that it might be too much for him. He looks starstruck whenever you catch his eyes. You can feel the tightening pressure of his hole as he clenches down on the toy, making it harder and harder to thrust it in and out of him. Tears blur at the corner of his eyes as he begins to try to speak. His lips are moving, but only gasps of air come out. His hips tilt higher.

“Doing so good, you look so nice like this,” you whisper more to yourself than him. The weight of his cock can’t stop the crazy twitch it does, the shaft jumping off his tummy. It almost sounds like he’s choking on air as he fists the sheets in his hands. 

“Y-yours,” he finally manages to talk. “Your cock, y-yours to see. I’m yours t-to have, I need this– I want you to see me.” 

You’re seeing him alright. It’s hard to ignore any part of him, his big body spread out over the bed as he thrashes in pleasure. It’s unusual how long he’s lasting, but he might just be holding back. Your eyes focus on the space between his legs, where his balls sit and his asshole grips onto the toy. The ring of his hole stretches around the girth of the dildo so prettily, like it was just made to take it, like it was made for you to see it. His confession only spurs you on to continue fucking his hole at the same pace, but with harder movements. The tips of your fingers push into the plush of his cheeks as you jam the toy into him over and over, the movement rough but clearly exactly what he needed. 

“Keep looking, please keep looking at me,” Clark begs. You don’t meet his eyes, you couldn’t if you tried. His glasses are fogged up and crooked, shielding his gaze. Instead you keep your eyes on his hole and his dick, exactly where he wants you to look. Clark’s thighs tremble as his hips lift up higher than ever before again and you ignore the cramp in your forearm as you follow his movements. He keeps pushing higher and higher, almost like he’s looking for friction on his dick that he won’t find.

Then, as his hips are fully extended upwards and his cock is pointed down his abdomen, Clark begins to come. Untouched, with nothing but the toy you’re pistoning into his hole, he starts to shoot his load everywhere. His orgasm starts so strongly that his come completely misses his tummy and chest and instead shoots onto his own face. You watch as some of it gets into his own mouth while he’s panting, and then you watch as he swallows it down without hesitating. He isn’t slowing down though, his hips are attempting to jam back into your still-in-shock hand as it holds the toy still. Come spills out of his cock in thick spurts, coating first his cheeks and chin, then stuttering down to his chest and belly. He isn’t coated in it, but he looks like a glazed donut by the time his orgasm subsides. 

Clark’s hips fall down into the bed heavily once he’s done. It’s beautiful, he’s made the most perverted, disgusting, mess of himself. He came off how good the toy in his ass felt, how good you fucked it into him, and now he’s covered in his own come and whimpering like it’s taking effort to breathe. 

“Ah g-gosh,” he mutters as he looks down. You lick your lips, eyes staring at his glistening chest.

This must be how guys feel. This must be why titty comeshots are so popular in porn.

Clark’s tits are sitting so prettily on his chest, slick with his come, and shining in the light coming through the crack in the curtains. You want to lean down and lick it all off of him, but also you have other plans. 

You’ve basically broken the roommate rule, right? You fucked him, now you can release this hold you have on yourself. 

“Clark,” you breathe. His eyes manage to focus on yours, pinching slightly when he feels you release the toy but leave it in him. Your hands rip your shirt off your body, then you awkwardly pull down your undies as you start to crawl up his body, higher and higher. You fit one leg so your knee is almost tucked into his armpit, and the other knee is on top of the meat of his bicep, angling yourself perfectly above his tit.

Your chest is kind of in the way of viewing Clark’s face, but you can see that his eyebrows are pretty high on his head now.

“Just… gonna use you for a second,” you explain before seating your cunt on his tit. 

The fat of it is so soft on your core and you instantly start to rut your hips back and forth, using the come left on his breast as lubricant. It wouldn’t typically be a good place to hump, not rigid enough, but you’re so desperate for him right now that it doesn’t matter. You love his tits so much, love seeing how his dress shirt strains over them, you loved the sight of his underboob sweat earlier, and you love how sensitive they are. His nipple grows harder as your slit grinds up against it, almost nudging against your clit. 

One of your hands reaches down and slips into his hair, winding the curls around your finger as you use his head to anchor your movements. You’re so close already, overly worked up from going all this time without getting anything from him. No more hesitation, no more not using his huge body to get your own. He likes it, you know he likes it.

Your hips switch angles, grinding down harder on the downstroke of your humps so his nipple does finally start to rub your clit. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Clark gasps, staring up at you. He probably can’t even see your face, but he sounds just as breathless as you feel. “You’re so beautiful, please come on me.”

It’s all you need, apparently, for Clark to call you beautiful. Your body flushes with heat from your feet all the way up your neck, choking you for breath as you start to shake on top of him. His nipple sits right by your clit, hardest you’ve ever felt it, and you rub into it as you ride out your high. One of Clark’s hands is on your thigh, rubbing it soothingly as he watches you fall apart on top of him.

It takes you at least a minute to catch your breath, but even then your breaths are still choppy and your eyes are dazed. Clark manages to coax you down to lay beside him, but is careful not to get any more come on you than there already is. 

“Uh,” he says, awkwardly reaching down to pull the tip of the dildo out of himself. 

You look down at his body, which is now somewhat covered in your come and his mostly dried come, and stifle a laugh. 

“You should shower,” you tell him teasingly. “You’re kinda dirty right now.”

“Probably,” he replies, frowning down at himself. Clark doesn’t make any move to get up though. Instead he seems a little lost in thought. His hand reaches to touch yours where it lays, but then falls short about an inch.

“If I ask you to shower will you promise me that you’ll never make me go a week without you again?” Clark asks suddenly.

A laugh pulls itself properly from you this time, your head falling sideways to look at him. 

“You better not be falling in love with me,” you chide jokingly. Clark smiles, shaking his head.

“I’m not! I’m not, okay?” He replies playfully. “I just like seeing you.” 

What a dork. Good thing you like seeing him too. 

>///<

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[ripoutmyinsides]

REBEL YELL | clark kent

Late nights, flirty bullshit, and a tension sweeter than Lois’ coffee. Still, you’re both too stubborn to call what it is. When the Red Kryptonite tears through that rhythm, it flips him inside out.

Now he’s at your door—less Clark, more danger, more electric. He's different, but God, you want him more.

⤿ rebel yell | [READ ON AO3 ]

18+ fem!reader, incorporated details from other supermans (sue me), pining, Clark Kent is a dork, yearning, smut, oral (f receiving), red kryptonite clark, unprotected sex, creampie, dick descriptions, intimacy idk, plot heavy, lmk if I missed anything! [ 15.3k words ]

The newsroom breathes like a living beast—overhead lights flicker in defiance, casting halos over hunched shoulders and half-empty coffee cups. Phones wail like distant sirens. Printers cough paper like dying animals. Somewhere, someone’s swearing into a phone like the person on the other end owes them money (they probably do), and the whole place thrums with the jittery rhythm of too much ambition and not enough sleep. 

It’s chaos, yes—but it’s coordinated. Kinda.

You’re hunched at your desk—half-eaten croissant and a stale coffee to your left, a sticky note graveyard to your right, and a cursor blinking mockingly in the middle of your half-finished headline. 

Your coffee went lukewarm around 3 hours ago at 12:24. It’s 3:51 PM and you’ve been editing the same paragraph for twenty minutes. It’s safe to say that you’re  distracted. 

—but it’s not because of the noise or chatter or Perry’s obnoxious shouting. It’s because of him.

You're stuck mid-rant in a particularly damning op-ed when a blur of navy blue and flustered charm breezes in the direction of your desk.

Clark Kent barrels in from the elevators, all tousled hair and boy scout panic. His tie’s crooked. One shirt button is undone. His cheeks are just slightly flushed, like he’s either sprinted back from “lunch” or had a brush with death. Knowing him, possibly both.

Definitely both.

You don’t even look up at first, still typing like there’s a bomb strapped to your back and you’re hacking away at the wires with every semi-colon and comma. 

Then, deadpan and dry as sunburn, you murmur just loud enough for his super-hearing:

“So, farmboy... What’s it this time? Kitten in a tree or—you know—secret alien summit with the big boys?”

He falters mid-step alongside your desk, blinking once. You glance up just in time to catch the tug at the corner of his mouth—the one he doesn’t let anyone else see. It’s the smile, the you-know-me-too-well-and-it’s-a-problem smile. Disarming in all capacities.

—slightly dangerous, if you let it be.

Your cursor blinks impatiently. So do you.

He offers a soft murmur only you can hear, like a shared secret tucked in the folds of this big, loud city:

“Actually, it was a pigeon… In a sewer drain,” he starts, “then it was this fire breathing dinosaur looking thing… Well it wasn’t a dinosaur but it had spikes… like one… Anyway, Uh.”

You huff a genuine laugh at his ramble before returning to your screen. He lingers and adjusts his glasses for a second before continuing past.

You’ve been playing this game for months. Trading barbs, watching each other from across the room, stolen glances over styrofoam coffee cups, toeing the line between flirtation and something too spark-y to name.

He disappears behind the glass of Perry’s office and you can’t help but bite your lip to swallow down a smile.

You always knew Super-Clark was hiding something. You just didn’t expect him to be so bad at hiding it from you.

—but it hadn’t always been this way.

You and Clark Kent have been journalists at the Daily Planet for years now. Long enough to know the elevator stalls between floors 7 and 8, that the good coffee machine only works when you slam it twice, and that Perry White’s neck veins visibly pulse when someone misses a deadline.

For the longest time, you were just coworkers in the loosest sense—desks on opposite ends of the room, your beats orbiting different corners of Metropolis. He covered charity galas and rooftop rescues—the occasional Superman interview.

—the only one who got Superman interviews, by the way. 

You chased zoning board corruption and bureaucratic malpractice with a vengeance. He was all sunshine and bylines. You were ink-stained fingers and three cups of coffee before 10 a.m.

He always brought you your first though.

Every morning, without fail, he’d drop a paper cup on your desk alongside everyone else’s. Always with a polite smile and your name scribbled on the side with a smiley face, never expecting anything in return. You didn’t even realize he knew your order until you noticed it was always right. And you were too proud to ask he found out

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the room. Briefly. Accidental, at first. The kind of eye contact that felt like being caught doing something you shouldn’t. You’d both look away too fast, cheeks a little warmer, hearts a little louder.

That all changed four months, twelve days, and—yeah, alright—six hours ago. 

—not that you're counting. That’d be crazy…

Perry White fired Janine Hardcastle for libel.

Perry had stormed into the greater office area and waved the termination notice like it was an Olympic torch. Full-on public execution, guillotined and blacklisted right under the spinning Globe. Her desk was cleared before lunch. You didn’t even like her all that much, but the office still buzzed like a hornet nest.

Then he turned to you. And Clark.

“Congratulations,” he deadpanned, “You’re my new local politics column. I want city hall leaks, transit disasters, gerrymandering—shit, I want blood if it bleeds. You two?” Cigar smoldering between his fingers, he pointed at you and Clark, “You’re married now. Move your desks, figure it out.”

Cue countless nights shoved into professional proximity; Staked out in the newsroom long after the lights dimmed and the janitors arrived. Empty pizza boxes, cold takeout cartons, whiteboards littered with names and connections. Heated arguments about tone. Cackling over typo disasters. A shared Google Doc titled “thé grind… and clark” because you refused to let him name it “Notes on News.”

It was just business. Until it wasn’t.

The glances across the room turned into glances across directly parallel desks. Your knees brushing under the table, his tie catching your sleeve, his eyes flicking down to your mouth mid-sentence before snapping back up like he hadn’t been caught red-handed. (He had. Repeatedly.)

He thinks he’s suave, that you don’t notice. You absolutely do.

He stutters more when you’re this close now, when your voice dips or you lean in to point at something on his screen. He blushes, ears pink, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think about the way you say “farmboy” with that lilt in your voice.

You slowly stopped pretending not to know the way he tugged at his tie when he was nervous.

He slowly stopped pretending he didn’t look at you like you were the only other person in the building.

Naturally, you tease him for it. Relentlessly.

“You always look like you’ve got something to say, Kent,” you murmur one late night, spinning in your office chair as he visibly scrambles to form a sentence.

“I—I do,” he stutters. “I mean, I might.���

“Uh-huh,” you reply, lazily popping a pen cap between your teeth. “Well, when you figure it out, maybe you’ll use your mouth instead of staring at mine.”

His face goes scarlet. 

Sweet, sweet victory.

As the months progressed being—as he would call it— “Partners in Politics,” you get even closer. Soon, there’s music shared through airpods while Lois is lamenting about a case via whiteboard-presentation, playlists labeled things like “Angry typing” and “Crying over sad dogs.” Half-finished articles delayed because you’re deep in a debate over Batman’s moral code. (He thinks Gotham needs him. You think Gotham needs therapy. Or to be nuked, just to settle the score.)

It becomes routine. Natural, like breathing.

And you’re both aware of the line you're toeing. Of how far you've leaned into each other. Of how close you've let yourselves get. Neither of you mention it. Neither of you dare.

But Clark knows you’re looking.

You know he’s looking, too.

And deep down, you're starting to think it’s only a matter of time. 

—but you’re probably wondering how you stumbled on Clark’s identity. How you know about the totally not-dinosaur aliens and the secret alien summits?

To be frank, how you found out was completely accidental.

No dramatic rooftop reveal. Not catching him duck into a phone booth mid extraterrestrial terrorist attack. No city-wide peril or explosive confession.

Just a Tuesday, about a week after you both got paired up together, the first night you both stayed after hours.

 It started with a trip to the break room at 5:31 PM. Everyone else cleared out like a fire drill the moment the clock struck five—half the staff didn’t even close their tabs, just booked it, coats half on, keyboards still warm. You stood back to work on you and Clark’s first assignment, an implicatory LexCorp exposé—Lord knows you wouldn’t get it done at home. Your feet were already killing you in those new kitten heels, and you were craving one of those Swedish chocolates Lois thinks she hides so well in the top left cabinet.

(Newsflash: putting them behind two Daily Planet mugs isn’t stealthy. It’s an invitation, Lois.)

You headed down the marble hallway, aggressively typing out a text to a source at LexCorp’s PR team who were being cagey about a then-recent “construction incident”—which probably meant an explosion, structural collapse, or moral bankruptcy.

Your heels clicked quietly down the corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights your only company. You had eased the break room door open—

and there he was, like trouble in a pressed shirt.

Clark Kent. 6’5, broad as a barn door, tousled hair still windswept from a “lunch run” across the street—and stood perpendicular to you, sleeves pushed to the elbow. Hands cupped around a mug. Eyes narrowed and focused—

—and a thin red beam, coming from his eyes.

Laser. Beaming. His coffee. Right next to the microwave.

You gasped. Audibly.

His head snapped to you like you’d shouted, the glow in his eyes flickering off so fast you thought you imagined it. The mug hissed and streamed as he set it down on the counter. He slowly stepped toward you with both hands raised like he was trying to soothe a startled animal.

You blinked.

He blinked.

“…Did you just microwave your coffee with your face?”

There’s a long pause.

Then he smiled, sheepish. Caught with his glasses off, his cape down.

—well actually not the cape. Not yet, at least.

“I, uh… yeah. Kinda.”

And you grinned, leaning against the doorframe and letting the door close, like this was the most entertaining part of your week (aside from Jimmy face planting in front of Perry, it was).

“Don’t suppose that’s FDA approved.”

He continued staring like he expected you to freak out, to bolt, to demand answers or scream or tragically collapse. But instead, you walked further into the room, reached past him on your tip toes, reached past Lois’s dumb mug forcefield, and popped a chocolate in your mouth like this was just—whatever. Because it was.

 It was still Clark. Still trips over his own feet and files his stories three minutes before the deadline.

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That’s what you said before turning to leave, chewing, smiling to yourself.

He was dumbfounded. Completely, utterly dumbfounded. 

He forgot his piping hot coffee on the breakroom counter and drifted back to his desk. You were already parked across the way and pretending to type at your own, watching him like you always do when you think he isn’t looking. Then, with a grin he didn’t see, you casually rolled your chair over to his.

At first, it was quiet—the low hum of the city slipping in through the blinds, the occasional mechanical groan of the copy machine down the hall. Clark trying to ignore your proximity and make himself look busy by searching up “wikihow how to be a better journalist.”

You leaned back in your chair, eyes on his screen but voice casual. “So… you ever drop anyone?”

Clark blinked, caught mid-sip of a 4 hour old cup of coffee. “What?”

You turned just enough to look at him, resting your chin in your hand, leaning on his desk. “While flying. Ever fumble the bag?” A smirk tugged at your mouth. “Literally.”

He huffed a surprised laugh, setting his cup down. “No. I’m—uh—I’m very good with my hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you teased, letting it hang there just long enough before you had tilted your head, expression softening. “What’s it like?”

He didn’t ask what you meant. Didn’t need to. He leaned back in his chair, neck craning toward the ceiling like the answer might be written in the tiles.

“It’s… loud,” he said finally. “Like hearing every TV in the world on at once. But you can… tune in, tune out. Most of the time.”

Your brows drew together.

“Do you ever get scared?”

His gaze didn’t move from the ceiling. Didn’t lower. But his voice did.

“Yeah,” he said. “When I don’t make it in time.”

You studied him. He hadn’t bothered to put his glasses back on and before you was just Superman in a 3-piece suit. Except it’s not. It’s just Clark. And there was something in his face that you’ll never forget—like the truth wears heavier than he lets on.

“Do you ever stop hearing people in pain?”

His jaw ticked, just slightly. A muscle moved like he was trying to bite back the truth. Then, quieter this time, almost like it hurt to say out loud:

“No. I just get better at knowing when I can help.”

The air held still after that. Like it was listening too. You studied him, chin perched on your hand, your gaze softer now.

“And what about when you can’t?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just kept looking straight ahead for a beat too long—until the glow of his monitor caught in his eyes, bright and blue and heartbreakingly human.

Then he looked at you. A flicker of that crooked smile returning to his face, trying to cut through the weight of it all.

“You always ask this many questions after hours?”

You shrugged, the corner of your mouth curling as you leaned back in your chair, spinning it slightly like you had all the time in the world.

“Oh y’know, only when my… Partner in Politics might be—well, is—an alien.”

He laughed under his breath, but there was something tender in it.

No one had ever got to ask him things like this. Not as Clark. Not even as Superman. Not without an MO.

And then—when the air started to feel heavy with truth and warmth—you offered up your own secret in exchange.

“To be fair, I’ve been lying too.”

You said it lightly, but it hung there. He turned toward you, slow, brow furrowed, head cocked just a little like he was trying to read you beyond your words. “What do you mean?”

You had let out a sigh and leaned back in your chair, dragging a palm down your face, fingers catching at your cheek. “I lied on my résumé.”

Clark blinked.

You exhaled, a dry, self-deprecating huff, “Said I graduated summa cum laude from Met U…”

Clark turned slightly, brows knitting You kept going.

“I didn’t. Dropped out a semester early. Had to lie to get in the door. Perry still doesn’t know.” You gave a sharp little shake of your head. “If he finds out, I’m toast.”

He blinked once, like the thought had to settle. You hadn’t needed to offer up a secret of your own, but the fact that you were thoughtful enough to at least try to even the playing field melted his heart. His features softened, gaze catching on yours in a way that felt… careful. Kind.

“You’re one of the best writers here,” he said assuredly. “That wouldn’t have made a difference.”

You had  given him a slow shrug, eyes flitting to your shoes just to avoid how intently he was looking at you. “I wasn’t willing to take the chance.”

He was quiet for a beat. Then, with a curve of his head and the faintest edge of a smile twinging his mouth—

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

From that night to all the nights that will inevitably follow, there is always something hanging between you—like static. Like heat.

Like the kind of silence that’s hungry, just waiting for the chance to take a bite.

Presently, work ended hours ago. Right now, you’re dangling upside down by a single ankle from what appears to be a fraying electrical cord inside the hollowed-out ribcage of a now-dilapidated high-rise.

Your heel (singular—its twin is somewhere down below, probably impaled in a taxi roof) glints under the flicker of a dying overhead light. The other end of the cord is still sparking like it’s deciding whether or not to electrocute you. Charming.

You don’t scream. Mostly because of pride. Also because your blouse is riding up and the last thing you need is this going viral with an undignified noise attached to it.

You’re not even sure how you got here. One moment you were at your grandma’s—mint tea, The Price Is Right reruns, the faint perfume of tiger lilies and Vicks VapoRub. You blinked and Green Lantern and his atrocious bowl cut were bulldozing his entire glowstick ass through the side of the building, chasing something enormous and slobbering and very uninvited. Structural integrity be damned.

Now here you are. Swinging upside down and 24 stories above Metropolis with a solid breeze up—well down—your skirt and a bruised shin that’s definitely swelling. Below, people are scattering, screaming, phones held skyward to film your impending death. You look down—well, up—at your watch. 7:36 PM. Alien invasion hour. Right on schedule.

—figures. After work. No hazard pay.

You mouth “fuck you” to the sky.

And then—whoosh.

A low sonic boom thuds through your bones like the drop in a bassline. You barely register the motion before your feet are on the ground, gently, and a pair of arms are anchoring you. The scent hits you first—something crisp and ozone-swept, like lightning in a cornfield. You look up, but you already know.

Superman.

Clark.

He looks rattled. Not from the rescue, he could do this all day. From you and the way you’re seeing through him right now.

Like the crash of it all just caught up to him—like he forgot you knew who he was, and now here you are, pressed close, reminding him without a word. Like you just saved him.

His arms are still around you, solid and anchored around your body. One hand still splayed protectively between your shoulder blades, like he hasn’t registered the danger’s passed. You’re nose to nose, breath mingling in the air between you—what little space remains is thick with heat, adrenaline, and something that should not happen on a public street.

And when you speak, your voice comes out softer than you mean for it to. 

“Took you long enough.”

His mouth parts slightly with a ghost of a laugh

He's still looking at you like you've stepped out of a dream; Or worse, like you've put him back in one. Like you're some half-remembered thing that doesn’t belong in the real world, and now he’s struggling to tell the difference.

You reach up on instinct, fingertips grazing the dark curl at his temple.

There’s dust in his hair—concrete, ash, god knows what else—and when you brush it away, the debris falls in slow motion. Tiny flecks catch the light like crushed glass, like glitter from a fairytale.

—or a Shakespearean tragedy. Time will tell.

“Got somethin’ right here, hero.”

He falters—just barely. A flicker of tension pulls at his jaw before smoothing out again. His eyes drop to your mouth, linger for a breath too long. He almost leans in.

But then they’re back on yours, mentally chiding himself: Time and place, idiot. 

He won’t. He can’t. Not yet.

One fuck up—just a single misstep—and the whole fragile thing would come crashing down like glass underfoot. He knows the sound of ruin too well, has worn the weight of his own wreckage like a second skin his entire life. Every failure, every fracture, etched into him like fault lines just waiting to split again.

—so instead, he pulls you in.

The hug comes without warning—full-bodied, two-armed, all-in. It feels like an apology he doesn’t know how to say out loud. I’m sorry this happened to you, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.

You fold into it without thinking, your fingers curling in the fabric of his cape, your jaw tucking instinctively into the warm swell of his chest. Subliminally telling him that it’s okay, it’s not your fault. For a moment, everything else disappears. Just heartbeats and held breath.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whisper, barely audible above the pounding in both your chests.

And then—right on cue—a guttural roar echoes from somewhere deep in the city, monstrous and pissed off.

Clark tenses. You barely have time to blink before he pulls back, eyes flicking toward the sound.

“Duty calls,” he murmurs, almost apologetic.

And he’s gone.

It takes a while to gather your bearings. A medic checks you over, offers you a blanket and a juice box. You lie and say you’re fine. Your ankle’s tender, your skirt is smeared with concrete debris, and your phone has a bunch of cracks through the screen. You limp on one shoe for two blocks before realizing you’re still holding the juice box.

Most streetlights continue to flick on as the sun sinks lower. Sirens scream in the distance. You take the long way home.

Everything feels louder. Crisper, in the wake of your brush with death. Your heartbeat keeps mistiming with your footsteps. You pass a storefront where the display TV’s in the window replay news footage. There’s your leg, dangling helplessly, your press pass flapping like a flag. You wince. The chyron reads: “DAILY PLANET REPORTER NEARLY KILLED DURING BATTLE.” Underneath: “SUPERMAN SAVES HER LIFE.”

You stare at it for a beat too long, the abundance of colors dancing across your face before you pull yourself away and hauling home.

Your overpriced shoe-box (or extremely humble abode) is quiet when you finally get in. You shed your clothes one item at a time—leaving the one ruined heel by the door, peeling your dust-caked clothes off your body  and tossing it straight into the washer. 

A long shower helps, but only slightly.

You sit on your bed in a bathrobe, hair damp, staring out the window. You can still feel him. The heat of his hands at your back. The look on his face like you were the only person in the city worth saving.

You hate that it shook you. That he shook you.

He always has.

You lie back, dragging the covers up to your chin like armor, even though the room’s too warm for it. The spinning fan hums above you, but it’s useless. You toss, turn, flip your pillow, try breathing in for 7 and exhaling for 10.

But every time your eyes shut, your mind becomes a kaleidoscope—fractured colors and sharp edges tumbling into one another. You’re dangling in the air by your ankle again, the world spinning below, and he’s there—right there—close enough to taste, nose grazing yours, pupils blown wide. A constellation you almost touched, still burning just out of reach.

And it just won’t leave you alone.

You wonder what he would’ve done if you leaned in first.

You wonder if he’s wondering the same.

knock knock.

Two soft, almost polite knocks slip into the quiet—so gentle they barely disturb the air, yet they ripple straight through you. You’re still thinking of his lips when they land. You sit up fast, heart vaulting into your throat. That definitely wasn’t the door. That was your damn window.

You grab your phone in one hand (in case this is how you die) and pad over barefoot. When you yank open the curtain and pull open the window, wind tugs at your robe. You peek your head out, blinking.

It’s Clark—well, Superman.

Hovering twelve floors up like it's nothing.

“Hi,” he says, sheepish, boyish, like he’s just shown up at your dorm room with a six-string and a bouquet of roses.

“Hi,” you echo, smiling in spite of yourself, leaning your elbows on the sill like you’re Juliet and he’s the dumbest, dorkiest, hottest Romeo to ever grace your fine-worthy, prehistoric fire escape.

“How’s the ankle?” His eyes flick over you, sharp and steady, like he’s still taking inventory of every bruise and scrape.

“Sore,” you admit, wincing a little. “But intact. Thanks to yo— wait, how’d you know my ankle was fucked?”

He rubs the back of his neck, a bit awkward. “Oh—uh, I can see through things. And, uh, it looked a little inflamed…” He trails off, realizing how weird that sounds.

“Dork,” You jest softly, voice quieting as you continue, “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” After a pause, he adds, low and genuine, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause—soft, sweet, slightly stupid. You both just grin at each other like teenagers outside a school dance.

“Oh,” he says suddenly, reaching behind his back. “I, uh—think this is yours.”

He pulls out your missing heel, the strap singed and the buckle bent slightly.

Your jaw drops. Where could’ve even kept that? Does he have void pockets in his trunks? In spandex? “You saved my shoe?”

He shrugs, but his eyes sparkle with pride. “Figured you might want it. Looked expensive.”

You take it from him like it’s fragile glass. “It was on sale. But thanks, Prince Charming.” You pause, setting the heel carefully on your windowsill. “You didn’t have to come all the way back just to bring me this, you know.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just lingers there, the breeze tossing his hair.

“I wanted to,” he says finally.

“My glass slipper…” you mumble, the words tumbling out half a quip, half a daze, your gaze flicking between the shoe in his hand and the man that had been holding it.

“Didn’t want you hobbling into work tomorrow,” he says with a sheepish grin, voice still a little hoarse. There’s a flicker of pride in his eyes, but it’s gentled by concern.

You laugh and bite your lip. The moment hangs there; It stretches like it’s waiting for one of you to finally do something about it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits after a beat. “Kept thinking about today... About you.”

Your breath catches and you mentally pray for the willpower to not gasp.

You glance over your shoulder at the dark hush of your apartment, then back at him—his silhouette cut in sharp relief against the spill of city lights, like the skyline itself decided to take human shape.

“Well,” you say, voice husky with sleep you haven’t gotten, leaning just a fraction closer to him, “I’m awake now.”

Clark huffs a soft breath that could almost be a laugh. He’s close. Closer than he should be. His presence fills the foot-long space between you like warmth seeping in through the cracks. 

You lift your hand slowly, without much thought, and brush a curl from his brow. It’s soft, out of place—curling stubbornly like it always does after flight. He doesn’t move. Just watches you with those eyes like storm clouds full of patience and pull.

Then he reaches up, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist before it drops, not to stop you, not to move you, just… to feel. To hold. As if your hand might dissolve into smoke if he doesn’t hold it close.

He brings it to his cheek. Presses into your palm like it means something.

Your skin burns against the warmth of him. His stubble is rougher than you expected. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, the furrow in his brow slowly smoothing out. Like your touch is the only thing that’s let him breathe all day.

He turns his head slightly, and his lips find the inside of your wrist—feather-light, reverent. It’s not rushed, not a tease, but something slower, weightier, like he’s tasting a secret. Heat blooms where his mouth lingers, and your stomach knots tight, your throat drying as if the air between you has thickened.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

He opens his eyes and looks at you again, still holding your hand in his own.

Your foreheads could meet with the barest tilt, the smallest surrender. He’s so close you can feel the pull of him, that quiet, electric hum threading through the air—like static tangled in the night breeze, like a storm trapped in your ribs. Neither of you moves, suspended in that fragile, dangerous inch.

“I…” he starts, voice scraped thin, frayed with the weight of whatever he’s holding back.

But it dies in his throat.

Whatever it is—whatever he wants—it ghosts through his eyes before he buries it again. Pushes it down where it can’t surface. The silence that follows isn’t awkward, it’s full. Heavy. Like the space between lightning and thunder.

His hand lingers at your wrist a beat longer, then slips away—fingers trailing down the length of yours in a slow, reluctant glide, each touch a quiet imprint. It’s not just letting go; it’s an act of remembering, he’s committing the shape of you to muscle memory.

You think that’s it. That he’s about to disappear into the night again.

You brace for the goodbye. The loss of it. The empty window.

But he stays. You see it in his mouth first—words pressing at the seam of his lips, fragile things he’s afraid will shatter if they come out wrong.

“I think about you,” he says, barely above the hum of the city outside.

You blink, the sound of it loud in your own ears.

He swallows. “When I’m up there. Or fighting. Or when it’s too quiet. Or when I’m moving so fast the world’s just a blur… I still think about you.”

Your robe flutters against your legs, a soft betrayal of the wind—and suddenly you feel bare in more ways than one. Seen all the way through.

“I don’t know what this is,” he admits, voice almost breaking into a whisper. “But I know I don’t want to stay away from it.”

Your breath catches, sharp and telling. His eyes flicker—he heard it.

“Then don’t,” you breathe.

His eyes soften, and something shifts in his whole body—like the tension he wears like armor suddenly gives way. His shoulders drop. His breath stutters.

Then he’s moving closer. Tangibly, undeniably closer. His knee bumps the wall beneath your window. His hand comes up, and this time it doesn’t hesitate.

His knuckles drag along your jaw, warm and calloused, grazing the curve just beneath your ear. The touch is solid. It makes your spine go rigid, then melt. Makes your lips part on reflex.

He lingers, thumb tracing the fine arc of your cheekbone like he’s mapping constellations only he can see. His palm hovers—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from it—like he could cup your face, draw you in, and kiss you senseless… but instead, he just looks.

Really looks.

It’s the kind of gaze that strips you bare without a single touch. That makes every inch of you feel claimed, cherished, and dangerously alive. The ember in your belly doesn’t just smolder now—it ignites, a wildfire licking up your ribs.

And then, as if he’s the one who might burn, he draws back.

“You should rest,” he murmurs, voice a soft weight in the space between you. “Long day.”

You nod, small and hesitant, afraid your voice might crack if you try to use it. Your palm still tingles where he touched you, and you fold your arms like the gesture might hold you together.

He lingers at the window, caught between staying and leaving, his presence hovering like the last note of a song you don’t want to end. You feel the faint pinch of disappointment, but you won’t tug him closer if he’s not ready.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, and there’s something raw in it, that pulls low and deep in your chest.

Your lips curve, gentle. “Yeah… tomorrow.”

He dips his head once, as if sealing a promise, before the night starts to reclaim him.

“Goodnight,” he says, backing into the sky, “Cinderella.”

Then he’s gone—swallowed by the clouds, like a wish you never thought to make until it was too late.

For the first time in hours, your heartbeat begins to loosen its frantic grip. You set the heel gently on your dresser, shut the window, and turn the latch until the wind outside is only a memory. The city hums far below. Your room exhales into stillness.

You stay there, fingers resting on the cool pane where his warmth just was, as if you could trap it a little longer.

Slowly, you bring your wrist to your lips. It still tastes faintly of him—heat and stubble and something unnameable—like proof that he’d been here at all.

It still feels like him.

You wake sore—ankle stiff and puffy, ribs aching like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed all the way. There’s a tightness curled inside you, coiled and buzzing, like sleep only paused the adrenaline, not chased it off. It lives in your joints, your muscles, your marrow.

In the shower, you tilt your face to the stream and let the water burn. You stand there longer than necessary, until the mirror fogs, until your skin prickles. You scrub until you’re pink, but it doesn’t erase the feeling of him—his voice, his eyes, the way he said “I wanted to” like it meant more than a shoe and a quiet midnight visit.

When you close your eyes, he’s still there. On the other side of the glass. Wind in his hair. That look on his face—soft, stunned, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You towel off slowly. Everything aches in new, interesting ways, like your body just realized it’s not built for being manhandled and dangled off a skyscraper like a ragdoll in a soap opera. You wrap your ankle with some old gauze from when you broke your arm 3 years ago. You slide on straight-leg trousers, a cute poplin top. You opt out of heels today and settle for some clean sneakers.

Your fingers hesitate at your  messy vanity, brushing over lip gloss before settling on concealer. Practical. Unsentimental. But when you catch your reflection, you pause because your hair’s a little messy, falling over your shoulder the exact same way it had that one late night at The Planet when Clark had looked at you like you were doing it on purpose.

"You are… Dangerously distracting," he had muttered, glasses slipping down his nose all cutely.

You groan. “Jesus,” you mutter to your reflection. “Get a grip.”

Because you’re running late and smiling like a lovesick teenager over a man who floats.

Perry’s probably going to rip you a new one for showing at half 10, but considering you're front-page news today—with a headline that might as well read DAMSEL IN DISTRESS SAVED BY SUPERMAN—you figure you’ve earned a buffer.

Your trip to The Planet is uneventful. You walk in at 10:32 on the dot, tote bag slung lazily over your shoulder. Your ankle twinges with every step. The newsroom buzzes as usual—phones ringing, keys clacking, too much caffeine and not enough grace. Eventually, you get to your desk.

Your coffee's already there.

Slightly cooled from where Clark probably dropped it off at half 9. 

You look up, and there he is. Across from you, leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie already a little loose. Clark Kent. Looking at you like he already knows how you slept. Like he never stopped thinking about last night either.

God he’s gorgeous

He opens his mouth, “How’re you fe—”

“KENT!!”

Perry’s bark slices through the room. Clark flinches slightly, offers you a sheepish, apologetic smile, then jogs off toward Perry’s office, one hand holding his notepad.

You sink into your seat and wrap both hands around the lukewarm cup. It’s stupid, but it feels warm anyway.

Plus, he got it for you.

The rest of the morning passes in a haze of near-misses and stolen glances. The newsroom buzzes around you, but you’re somewhere else entirely—half-lost in the static charge that builds every time your eyes meet.

It starts innocently enough: your foot nudges his under the table. He’s on the phone and freezes mid-sentence, barely blinking. You don’t look up—just keep talking into the phone, your voice steady as the tip of your shoe trails up the sharp line of his shin. His breath hitches. You feel it more than you hear it.

Your calf brushes his, heat sparking where skin meets through the thin fabric. You leave it there, the connection thrumming like a live wire. He shifts in his chair—a small, betrayed movement, like his body’s giving him away before he can hide it.

His eyes find yours. Dark. Wide. A silent plea wrapped in restraint.

You only smile, saccharine and knowing, fingertips still dancing over the keys as if you’re blissfully unaware. Your composure stays even, but there’s a thread of velvet in it he can’t miss.

Underneath the desks is a different story. A secret strung taut between two pairs of tangled legs. A private little war

—no casualties, of course.

You tease him again at 12:12:

“Mind reheating my coffee?”

He immediately stands up in that classic chivalrous farm-boy way, pushing up his sleeves, ready to get his hands dirty. He starts around his desk toward yours, reaching for your cup, always the gentleman, but you stop him. Hand to his abdomen. Not exactly trying to cop a feel… but also, you're just a girl.

He stills.

You look up at him, all big framed and baffled expression. His tie’s askew. The corner of his glasses catch the light.

“Not with the microwave,” you murmur.

His brows pinch, then—oh. He catches on. His hand lifts instinctively, thumb brushing the frames of his glasses like a tell.

He quirks a brow. “Really?”

You nod, sweet and slow.

“Right here?” he asks, hushed. “Right now?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your shit-eating smirk gives it away.

“You trying to get me outed,” he mutters, a glint in his eye, “or are you just desperate for hot coffee?”

“Both,” you say, lips twitching into a grin. “But mostly the coffee.”

His laugh is low and a little dangerous. Lopsided smile. One damning dimple cocked at full power.

He takes the cup from your hand like it’s an excuse to touch you, even if it’s not. His fingers brush yours and linger. You hum a little thank-you under your breath as he turns to leave.

He doesn’t answer—but you know he heard it.

Instead, he moves with a measured stride and slips through the work room like a shadow. By the time you look up again, he’s vanished past the breakroom door, nerves almost visibly trailing behind him.

Twelve minutes later, at 12:24, the building shakes.

You feel it first in the soles of your feet—then the windows rattle, and someone screams. Every head turns toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

The street is utter chaos.

Cars flipped. Civilians scattering. Smoke is already curling in ribbons through the avenue. And then it appears again—towering, grotesque. The Slobbering-Giant-Extraterrestrial (Lois’s exact words in the morning write-up) returns with a vengeance, fists slamming into pavement, claws scraping metal and bone.

The newsroom freezes.

Reporters crowd at the window. Phones recording. Mouths gaping. Perry swears. Lois grabs Jimmy by the collar and starts dictating captions.

You whirl to find Clark.

Still not back.

You spin back to the window—and sure enough, he’s there.

Superman.

You swear the air leaves the room. At least for you.

He crashes into the monster at full speed, and they go tumbling through a glass façade across the street. Brick and dust cloud the air. Then—WHAM—he’s thrown back hard into the side of a bus. The metal groans and collapses under his weight. The thing lunges again. Heat vision scorches its hand off. It shrieks.

But it’s not enough.

The decapitated hand hits the pavement with a sickening slap. Within seconds, the monster's stump begins to ripple, bubble—something festering just beneath the surface. Then, with a wet, splitting crack, the first spike bursts through. It tears the skin like overripe fruit, and more follow, small, but still jagged and glistening, jutting out in violent succession.

Gnarly, mucousy sounds echo even through the sealed glass. You can hear it all—the slick gurgle of tissue giving way, the crunch of bone fracturing. 

You finally unglue your feet from the floor and run up to the floor-to-ceiling window with everyone else.

[scene inspo]

The largest spike glows an acrid, seething green, like poison given shape. The alien roars, a guttural, reverberating snarl that rattles the air.

Then it strikes. The crystalline spike punches clean through Clark’s abdomen, shattering skin and muscle like glass. There’s a wet crunch, a series of screams, and the hiss of burning as the (what you could only assume is) Kryptonite laces into him. His body jolts and for a terrible second, his eyes go wide with something close to fear.

You let out a noise you don’t recognize. Someone else in the office screams. Probably Cat.

He falters, knees buckling in the air, arms limp. The spike pulses green, the protruding tip stained red with the blood of a God.

You feel your heart drop into your stomach. He’s stuck on the spike like a human—alien—shish kabob.

Then—something changes.

The green begins to shift. Burn.

An enchanting red hue replaces the green, radiating outward from the spike, bleeding into the veins of his chest and arms, like poison, like fire. His skin flushes with it—veins all illuminated like live wires. He looks…wrong. Strained. Consumed.

The creature’s monstrous grip rips him through the air like a ragdoll, slamming him with brutal force into the towering glass wall of the Daily Planet. The impact reverberates through the building—a shattering collision that sends tremors underfoot and cracks spiderwebbing across the gleaming surface.

You all scream and back away from the splintering glass. Dust rains from the ceiling. The impact leaves a massive crack right between you and him, and for one breathless second—he’s right there, mere feet away, his hand splayed against the glass, blood on his lip, eyes half-lidded, glowing red like his veins.

Then the creature tries to shake him off, flinging him away, like swatting a pesky fly away from your dinner.

Silence swallows the chaos as Clark’s body arcs through the sky, carried miles away by brutal force. The building creaks and groans, its steel bones protesting. Lois clamps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with disbelief. Jimmy stands rooted, breath caught in his throat. Even Perry, usually unshakable, is frozen, momentarily stripped of command.

Your knees feel weak.

Then, finally—seconds later—the Justice League arrives. Flash, Wonder Woman, Batman—the works. They descend like angels and tear the monster apart with the kind of precision you’d expect from living weapons.

People cheer. The room erupts in whistles and applause.

But not you.

You can’t celebrate. Not with the ringing in your ears. Not with the sight of him being ripped apart still burning in your mind. Sure Superman has gotten the shit kicked out of him before, but nothing like this. Never like this. 

Your vision blurs. Your hands shake because he’s not here, no one even knows if he’s still alive.

Because you’ve never wanted to run to someone so badly in your life.

Clark doesn’t come back into work after the monster is hauled off.

No texts. No calls. Just utter, agonizing silence.

Lois is already calling the alien freak Doomsday in the drafts column. You’re still at your desk, half-heartedly tapping out captions, biting your nails and lips raw, checking your phone every five seconds, texting him relentlessly—

>> where are u? are u alive >> just please say ur okay >> clark, answer me >> please

—until a faint buzzing catches your ear.

You glance over and your stomach twists:

His phone is still on his desk.

You glance at his desk for the twentieth time. It lit up once when you called, then dark again. Your heart drops, each minute drawing out like molasses.

You try not to panic and remember who you’re dealing with.

You try to have hope.

The shift limps on.

You answer emails. You scribble on your notepad. You stare blankly at the same paragraph for hours.

You don’t remember shutting down your computer, don’t remember slinging your overstuffed bag over your shoulder. Just the soft click of the office lights dimming overhead. The elevator ride that feels like it’s someway, somehow taunting you.

The city hums as you step outside. The worst rain you’ve had all year colors the concrete pavement with neon colors from reflections of old storefronts. Cabs blur past in streaks of yellow. Somewhere, a siren wails, calling for Superman’s attention.

Your coat collar digs into your neck as you step out into the cold, a poor match for the churn in your gut that won’t quit. Not anxiety. Not quite grief. Just something that feels a lot like waiting.

—the commute is … Ugh

The monster—Doomsday, you hate how fast that name’s catching on—tore a path straight through the L line, leaving half the city snared in chaos. Your train stalls two stops in, the whole subway path is rubble. No buses, no cabs this way either. You walk the rest of the way, forty minutes to home in the pouring rain.

Every block feels heavier than the last. By the time you reach your apartment, your shoes squish, your fingers are stiff, and your clothes stick to you like wet paper. The cold creeps into your bones. It’s dark now—Metropolis is never dark per se, but tonight it feels dimmer without your Man of Steel keeping watch.

And you’re shivering from the cold, from that hollow, gnawing pit in your stomach that just wants him home.

You jam your key into the lock, shoulder the door open, and shut it behind you with a soft thud. The chain slides into place with a practiced flick. Keys drop in the bowl by the door.

Dense quiet swells in the apartment immediately.

You don’t move—just stand there, dripping like a soggy mess, and wondering how the hell this became your new normal.

Your hair sticks to your cheeks, water tracing lazy rivers down your spine and puddling around your feet. 

Then, with zero grace but all the determination, you start peeling off the wet mess.

Shoes, jacket, shirt, pants.

They hit the floor with a wet, pathetic plop. Like they’re laughing at you, mocking all that hope. You gather them in your arms and shove them into the washer with more force than necessary, water slapping the sides as you slam the lid shut.

You stand there for a second, blinking at nothing.

Having your clothes ruined is becoming a habit, you think bitterly.

It’s 9:45 PM when you finally drag yourself into the shower.

You don’t bother with the water temperature—you just turn the knobs and let the spray hit you, scalding at first, then lukewarm, then cool again. You stand under it until your skin starts to prickle, until the day starts to melt off you in clumps: soot, sweat, rain, fear. You press your forehead to the tile and exhale, eyes shut, mouth set. The ache in your chest hasn’t budged. If anything, the silence makes it louder.

You go through the motions.

Dry off. Moisturize. Pull your hair back. Brush your teeth. Wipe the fog from the mirror like you’re expecting to see something different.

—you don’t.

You pull on the old Mighty Crabjoys tee you’ve had since high school—the one with the faded logo and holes in the collar and frayed hems—and a plain pair of underwear. You’re not going anywhere. No one’s coming over. No one’s—

No.

You wander to the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a bowl of cereal with shaky hands . The milk sloshes over the rim, but you barely notice. You don’t even sit at the counter. Just trudge to the couch, slump down, and flick on the TV like maybe it’ll tell you something you don’t already fear.

It lands on the news.

Of course it does.

The anchorwoman’s voice is soft, trembling but composed. You can tell she’s holding back something—maybe tears, maybe rage. You watch her mouth move. You don’t even process most of it. Just flashes and chaos. Unidentified alien entity, unknown casualties, structural collapse, missing persons, emergency protocols.

And then the chyron changes.

SUPERMAN DEAD?

The words stretch across the bottom of the screen in red like they’re bleeding.

Your thumb hits the power button before your brain does.

The TV cuts to black.

You sit there staring at the reflection of your slouched frame, tired eyes back at you in the dark screen. A single tear slips breaks free, scorching your cheek like a match to porcelain. It catches you off guard—so sudden and so stupid. You wipe it away like it offends you. Because it does.

You curl into yourself.

Press your knees to your chest, the fabric of your tee pressed against the tops of your thighs. The bowl of cereal shakes slightly on the coffee table when you set it down—milk rippling against ceramic. You don’t even want it anymore.

You hate yourself for caring this much.

You should’ve known—

— actually, you did know.

This comes with the territory, doesn’t it? He was never yours to keep.

Still, you run through every possible scenario. Every maybe. Every what-if. He’s unconscious. He’s in hiding. He’s recovering. He’s with someone who knows what to do. He got out, he escaped, he had to’ve.

You shake your head, lips already trembling, and bury your face in your arms.

Death is not an option.

After Potential Reality™ No. 34—where he was dismembered in orbit or black-holed into oblivion or swallowed by some godless alien thing or turned into dust at the snap of some purple alien’s fingers—you finally start to accept that you might never know what happened to him, that you might never find out. Your brain aches. Your stomach's in knots. You’ve curled in and out of fetal position so many times your couch has a dent shaped like you.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

It’s rhythmic. Almost sing-songy in nature and wholly too bright for the emotions you’re feeling right now.

It startles you.

Your head lifts like a deer’s. Nobody knocks like that. No one has knocked like that in your entire life—except maybe your parents, and even they don’t show up without texting first. You're frozen for a second, unsure if it's real or part of the mental spiral.

Then it comes again.

Knock knock. Knock. Kn-knock-knock.

You drag yourself off the couch, wiping your face with the hem of your Mighty Crabjoys tee, your body moving before your brain catches up. Every step to the door feels heavier, loaded with dread, like walking through molasses.

You keep the chain on—because you’re alone, and a girl, and maybe not—gee I dunno—stupid. You crack the door open as far as the chain allows, not even meeting the other person's eyes through the gap. They don’t need to see your puffy eyes and red face.

“I don’t want whatever boof-ass bible study program you’re offerin—”

You look up with an air of indignation and time just… bends.

—it slows like honey down a cold spoon.

Because there he is.

Clark Kent in the flesh.

—maybe steel. You’re sure you’ll find out soon enough

Leaning in the hallway, broad-shouldered and still with a hand at the top of your door frame like he owns the very idea of time. Like clocks tick for him and not the other way around.

He’s drenched to the bone. Ash grey shirt soaked and clinging to his chest like second skin, jeans dark and heavy with rain. Muscles pulled tight like wire beneath it all. Hair dripping and wild and curly. There’s a smirk on his face—lazy, cocky, and utterly misplaced—and his eyes… God, his eyes are burning into you like you’re a star he’s been staring at for centuries, even without the glasses.

Everything about him is just utterly different. Too confident. Too smug. Even for his superhero counterpart.

You stare.

He raises his brows like well?

The chain rattles, loud and frantic, as your fingers claw at it—slipping, fumbling, cursing because it’s taking too damn long. Your pulse is a war drum in your ears, breath ragged, hands shaking so hard you nearly miss the latch entirely.

The second it’s free, you rip the door open so fast it bangs against the wall, and then you’re on him—launching yourself forward like gravity’s been cheating you all this time and he’s the only thing that can hold you down.

He catches you without so much as a stumble, the impact barely rocking him. A breathless chuckle rumbles through his chest—half amused, half relieved—like he’d been expecting you to launch yourself at him the second he knocked.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, the words trembling against his shirt, voice splintering in the middle. “I thought you—”

His arms cinch tighter, closing around you like he’s trying to press you into himself. One broad palm spans your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, his fingers threading into your damp hair, keeping you close. 

“I’m very much alive,” he says, and even his voice is different. Lower, rougher. Like it’s been dragged through ash and rubble and whiskey and whatever else the universe chewed him up with before spitting him back out. Though, Clark doesn’t even drink.

You pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands go to his face, checking him for cuts like a startled parent, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, palm pressing to his jaw, fingers skimming through his soaked hair. You want proof. You want touch. You just want him.

His hands catch yours. Still warm despite the rain. He pulls them away from his face and presses a kiss to your knuckles, and then, without warning, crushes his mouth to yours.

It’s not sweet, no, it’s more like a stolen drag of a cigarette, Eve biting the apple. Definitely not how you’d expect a kiss from Clark Kent to be.

You gasp against his lips, and he takes advantage of it, slipping in his tongue with a low, needy groan that shoots straight to your core. Your fingers can’t help but tangle in his wet hair, tugging slightly, and he moans as he starts walking you backward into your house.

You don’t even notice he’s moving you both until he kicks the front door shut behind him.

His hands are on your waist, pulling you flush to him, lips still devouring yours as the thud from the door echoes through the apartment.

That sound snaps you out of it.

You tear your mouth from his with a ragged gasp, palm flattening against his chest—hot, slick, muscles jumping beneath your touch with every sharp breath he drags in.

“Wait—Clark—what the fuck is going on?” you manage, lungs still clawing for air.

But he doesn’t loosen his hold. His arms stay locked around you, iron and desperate, and he dips back toward you like he’s following some invisible pull—like the only thing keeping him upright is the taste of you, and letting go would mean losing his way entirely.

“This is long overdue, baby,” he murmurs, lips tantalizingly grazing against yours.

You blink at him, at this wet, smirking stranger with Clark’s face and Superman’s body—parked in your foyer like he just got rained out of a GQ cover shoot. He’s a fever dream stitched together from heartbreak, exhaustion, and half a bottle of NyQuil… the kind that makes you wonder if you should call a doctor or just start unbuttoning something.

Your hands clutch at his like you’re afraid this is just a dream—one you’ll wake from and find yourself grasping at nothing but cold sheets. Your fingers curl tighter, knuckles white, nails biting into his skin as if you can anchor him here by sheer will alone.

“Clark, I thought—God—” your voice fractures, the words tumbling out jagged, frantic, “I thought—”

“I’m right here, doll,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a thumb brushing over your jaw, the other settling right on your lumbar. His teeth catch on his bottom lip, and his gaze dips and scans you in a way that makes your chest ache. “Mm… you’re so cute when you’re all… worked up.”

With a pitiful whine, he finally closes the gap, his mouth sliding over yours with a fierce, aching hunger that steals your breath, and every other thought—panic, grief, reason—melts and drips away like satin sliding over bare, heated skin.

But one kiss can’t drown the storm raging inside you. The taste of him lingers, but it ultimately only fans the fire of questions clawing at your mind. The journalist in you demands more—answers you need now, before the moment unravels.

With a shaky inhale, you pull back, your fingers digging into the soaked fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality. Your heart pounds, your pulse screaming louder than your voice.

“Clark—wait,” you gasp, voice trembling yet fierce, eyes searching his as if trying to read the battle scars behind those storm-darkened blues. “Seriously—are you okay? Like, really? What happened out there? How are you— how did you—?”

The words burst from you, a jagged crack slicing through the fragile silence in your too-small apartment.

His eyes glaze over, distant yet unblinking, glassy but tethered to you. His hands press firmly against your waist, grounding you with a subliminal insistence. “I’m okay. Better than okay.” The corner of his mouth quirks up into a half-smile—sharp and stripped of the usual dis-ease. 

“Honestly, I haven’t felt this alive in a long time.” His voice drops lower and something beneath it hums, a current you didn’t know was there. Your skin prickles, hair standing on end, as if some silent pulse is thrumming just beneath your flesh.

You lean in, eyes tracing the subtle tension in his jaw, the faint flicker of restless fire behind those baby blues. But his chest just continues to rise slow and steady. If you knew him any less, you’d think nothing was wrong. He has a good poker face—you’ll give him that. 

You reach up, fingertips brushing the line of his neck, testing, teasing the heat beneath his skin. He catches your wrist, thumb sliding over your pulse, anchoring you in place.

This isn’t the Clark you knew, it’s the deluxe edition, all wild hair curling damp over his forehead, eyes too bright and almost glowing, yet somehow darker, with way more trouble and zero chill. Something you’re not sure you’re ready for—but let’s be real, you’re already hooked.

You mumble, needing something to say, something to break the strange spell he’s got you under. “I’ll go get you something dry… To uh… To wear…”

You peel yourself away from him. He lets you go, but not without a little resistance; a hand lingering on your arm until you’re fully out of reach.

Once your hand falls from his, you dart to your bedroom and dig through your drawer for the baggiest shirt you have; one of those oversized hoodies you bought three winters ago, plus a pair of plaid sleep pants you’re not sure he’ll fit into. You pad back with the bundle of clothes tight in your arms, heart hammering, only to stop short of the living room he’s standing in.

He’s already shirtless.

The wet t-shirt is discarded in a pile on your floor, and he’s standing there, bare from the waist up, each droplet carving its pilgrimage down the sculpted terrain of his torso, as if the water itself knows to worship the body it graces.

You stare. 

Eh no, it’s more of a gawk.

He just smiles, that same smirk that makes you want to bite your fist and throw yourself off the nearest cliff (he’ll save you a thousand times over). “You’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before.”

You haven’t, you think. Not like this. Not with so much… promiscuity.

You clear your throat, gripping the bundle of clothes to your chest like a shield. “You’re gonna catch a cold,” you say, which is stupid—he’s literally Superman, but it’s something, and it keeps him grinning like a devil.

His gaze drags down to your thighs, lingers, sinks lower before climbing back up. Each pass feels like he’s etching you into memory, committing every inch to some private archive. Or spank bank. You’re none the wiser.

“You always sleep in things like this?”

“Didn’t think I’d have company,”

He steps forward slowly, eyes roaming down your body with no attempt at subtlety. “That shirt…” His fingers lift the hem of your band tee, rolling the fabric between two fingers with a feather-light touch. “Like you planned this,” he teases.

You swallow hard and thrust the dry clothes at him in attempt to put some space between you. Your heart races, and you pray your flush goes unnoticed. “These, uh, should fit.”

You try to reset the energy in the room, to make it normal again, whatever normal even is. His eyes drop to the bundle in your hands, and he chuckles like it’s all a joke. He takes them from you, one-handed, tossing them on the slope of his bare shoulder like he’s mocking modesty.

“Thanks. You’re sweet.”

You can feel his eyes on you—burning. Following every flutter of your lashes, every twitch in your jaw, every flicker of your pulse. He’s probably x-raying you right now (he is).

“You’re staring,” you mumble, suddenly aware and insecure of how little you’re wearing.

Clark hums, then reaches out. Just two fingers—hard callouses gently brushing your neck as he trails them to your jaw tilting your head to face him. “‘Cause I like what I see.”

Your lips part slightly, and the faintest nervous smile plays at the corner of your mouth as he feels your pulse quicken. The silence between you hums, carrying the weight of all the words you’ve both holding back.

You try to look away, but it’s futile. He gleams—muscles rolling like ancient boulders beneath sunlit skin. Your eyes drift down, then dart away, only to return, drawn by quiet gravity you can’t resist. The longer you stand before him, the closer and further you get dragged to the Kent Solar System™. 

He notices your apprehension, your disquiet. Of course he does.

His finger moves from your jaw and hooks beneath your chin, lifting your face until your eyes are back on his.

“It’s okay to look, honey,” he saunters closer to you, whispers, “I’m not shy.”

Your lips are a breath apart. You sense him lean into you, and you wait for the feel of his lips on yours, your eyes half lidded in anticipation.

Instead, he leans back and undoes his belt with maddening calm.

“I—Clark!” you whisper-shout in shock, scandalized, as his pants hit the floor in a heap.

He raises a brow. “What?”

“Oh my God,” you hiss, spinning on your heel, fleeing to the kitchen with heated cheeks like it's a sanctuary. Your pulse is jackhammering and your nerves are so taut they sting under your flesh. You busy your hands, filling the kettle with water, trying to focus, to breathe, to think for a second

“I’m— I’m making tea,” you stutter, trying to convince yourself more than him. “You probably need to warm up. Mhm, of course, you just walked through a storm, I’m sure you’re freezing.”

You grab the kettle and reach for a mug—hands trembling—and you turn to ask if he prefers Chamomile or Earl Grey—

You bump into his chest and nearly scream. “Jesus! Clark!”

His hands come up to settle on your hips, steadying you. “Relax,” he coos, voice low, thumbs toying with the top hem of your panties. As if he read your mind, “I like Earl Grey.”

He leans to your ear, “Reminds me of the sun.”

You exhale his name, just exhausted. “Why are you acting like… this? Whatever… this is?”

He dips his head, brushing his nose along your jaw, lips ghosting just over your skin.

“Because,” he murmurs. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”

He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t hesitate. Definitely doesn’t hold back. He just takes. Tongue and teeth dance like wild fire against your mouth, breathy groans tumbling like thunder through the storm of your skin, pushing you backward until the kitchen counter cuts into your spine—sharp as a cliff’s edge beneath a crashing sea.

You moan, high and a little startled, one hand fumbling behind you to brace against the surface, the other fisting in his damp curls. He crowds into your space, utterly unbothered by the chill still clinging to his damp boxers, the faint metallic scent of city rain steaming off his skin.

Eventually, you can’t help but melt into it, let him devour you. His hands—God, those hands—trail low from your waist, firm and greedy, until they find your ass. He squeezes, shameless, pulling you somehow further into him with a groan that rumbles in his chest and makes your knees go wobbly.

Everything after that is a blur—heat, wet fabric brushing your thighs, the sharp edge of the counter digging into your spine. He eventually lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh no more than a breath of wind, hoisting you onto the countertop with only one hand slotted at the back of your thigh. 

Your back bumps a salt shaker and it clatters sideways, the faint tik-tik-tik of it spinning unnoticed. You turn your head just long enough to set it upright, heart pounding, and when you face him again—his mouth is already on your throat.

He groans like he’s been waiting millenia just to taste your skin.

He marks your neck with everything he has; Down your neck, over your collarbone, mapping you in wet, hot paths, like every suck and bite and lick will eventually lead him to his salvation. His breath is heavy as he hums, like he likes how fast your heart is going. Like he did that. Like he needs that.

Then his voice drops low, murmuring against your clothed chest. “When I got stabbed,” he says, slow and syrup-thick, “it wasn’t just green.”

Your brows knit, dazed but present enough to blink down at the top of his head. He keeps going. “There was something else, something red.” he moves feverishly, another kiss up to your jaw. Another groan. “It’s still inside me.”

Your fingers rake through his hair, curling at the nape of his neck. “Clark,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a question or a plea. “Are you… okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He moves to nip beneath your ear, making your thighs jolt around his waist.

But still—you’re melting. Still—you’re trying to think. “Clark,” you gasp, pulling his face back to look at you. “I just don’t want to take advantage of you. If this is because of the kryptonite, if this isn’t really you—”

He cuts you off by grabbing your hand.

And placing it right on his cock.

Your eyes go wide. Your mouth parts in shock. He’s hard. So hard. Thick and hot beneath your palm, barely restrained by his boxers. You can feel every ridge and every vein as they thrum with need… God it makes your cunt flutter.

He whines at the contact, a low, needy sound that vibrates straight through you, still nuzzled deep into the warm crook of your neck like he can’t get close enough. His breath comes quicker now, hot and uneven against your skin, each exhale fanning over you in frantic bursts. You feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the way his chest presses tighter to yours, and you realize—he’s not just breathing. He’s panting. His hips give the smallest grind against your hand, a restless, involuntary push that betrays just how bad he needs you.

“Please,” he breathes.

The small rational part of your brain tells you you should say no. You know that. Your brain is screaming it somewhere far off in the distance. But the rest of you? The warm, wet, aching parts of you? Well…

… Once again, you’re just a girl.

And Clark-fucking-Kent is practically trying to eat your soul through your neck, whining so prettily in your ear.

“Okay,” you whisper.

The moment you give him your confirmation, his breath catches like a held storm breaking free. His eyes flutter shut, lashes casting delicate shadows against his high cheekbones. Then he reverently sinks to his knees, like you’re the gravity pulling him down.

His lips press a slow, heated trail of kisses along your inner thighs starting from your knees, each one an electric shock that makes your breath hitch involuntarily. His mouth moves with a fierce hunger that’s equal parts desperate and worshipful. 

He won’t bow to the altar of anyone, of any God, but he’ll kneel for you. It’s all for you. 

“Fuck baby, you don’t even know what you do to me… Could stay here forever.”

Your fingers tangle deeply in his damp curls as he rips off your soaked panties without a second thought, clutching as if holding on to keep from falling apart. He whines, his mouth immediately working your folds with fervor, lips and tongue revere every inch, pulling and sucking with an urgency that makes your knees buckle.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your skin, his voice almost a growl as his eyes meet yours, “I was gonna wait… Do this right... But after tonight you have no idea how badly I need you. Fuck, I need you… Can’t even think straight without you.”

Then he’s back, diving in with wild abandon like your skin is the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. He works your clit masterfully, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing ever so gently, each of your gasps and whispered pleas of his name stoking the blaze until you both burn brighter than before, caught in a fierce, unbreakable tempest.

His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs pressing into the crease where your legs meet your hips, holding you wide for his mouth. The heat of his breath against your soaked skin sends a shiver through you, your body tensing in anticipation even as he pins you in place.

He doesn’t tease. No slow, torturous licks—just a deep, desperate open-mouthed drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, groaning like the taste of you is the only thing keeping him alive. His lips seal around your swollen bud, sucking hard, and your back arches off the cabinet, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

“Taste so good,” His voice is wrecked, muffled against you as he laps at you with rough, messy strokes. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every suck just shy of too much, but he doesn’t let up, drinking you down like he’s starving. His nose bumps against your clit as he buries his face deeper, and your hips jerk, but his hands tighten, keeping you spread, trapped in the brutal rhythm of his mouth.

You can hear him—the obscene, wet sounds of his tongue working you open, the ragged breaths he takes when he pulls back just to dive in again, his low, broken moans vibrating against your cunt. His fingers flex, pressing bruises into your skin, and you already know you’ll feel the marks tomorrow.

“Baby, please— shit!”

The words tear from your throat, ragged and desperate. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—more, less, mercy—your thoughts fracturing under the relentless heat of his mouth. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. His grip shifts, fingers digging into your thighs as he literally grinds you harder against his tongue

And god, does he.

He licks into you like he’s trying to carve himself inside you, like he wants to brand every inch of you with the shape of his name. Each flick, each deep, languid stroke of his tongue in your hole drags another broken sound from your lips. Your hips jerk helplessly, torn between rocking into his mouth and twisting away from the overwhelming pleasure—but he holds you firm, refusing to let you escape.

When you finally cum, it’s with a wretched sob. Your body trembles, sweat-slick and shuddering, as pleasure crashes over you in waves. His tongue doesn’t stop, drawing out your climax until you’re gasping, until your fingers tangle in his hair—pulling, pushing, clinging—because you can’t tell if you’re trying to drag him closer or shove him away.

By the time he lets you go, you’re a dazed, breathless mess, every coherent thought obliterated. Your chest heaves, your skin burning, your pulse roaring in your ears. And all you can manage, voice raw and wrecked, is—

“Fuck, Clark… I’m yours—all of me.”

He rasps at your surrender, a sound drenched in satisfaction and utter salacity. He stands and his lips find yours again—wholly intoxicating. You taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and heady, and you pull him closer by his neck, heart pounding like a drum.

He doesn’t hesitate. With one arm, he lifts you up as if you weigh nothing at all, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. His breath fans against your skin as he carries you to your small bedroom.

He lays you down gently against your unmade sheets, eyes dark with want and a vulnerability you’ve yet to see. Towering over you, he fills the cramped room, a presence too immense, too overwhelming to even fully grasp in this moment. He’s a giant here, not just in stature but in everything that hangs heavy between you.  For a moment, all the wild tension between you holds still. 

Clark slowly settles himself on the bed, straddling you with knees planted firmly on either side of your thighs. His strength is undeniable, but there’s a careful gentleness in the way he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours, eyes searching yours with quiet intensity.

His fingers brush a stray lock of hair back from your cheek, soft as a whisper. His voice is low and vulnerable as he murmurs, “If it ever gets to be too much… you just say the word, okay?”

You nod, your heart drumming a frantic tattoo beneath your ribs, breath snagging on the fragile thread of tenderness entwined with the warning in his gaze. His smile unfurls like dawn breaking through a bruised sky, a rebellion against the storm that churns beneath the surface.

He lowers himself with the careful weight of a tidal wave pulling back, his lips a whisper of smoke and honey, tracing a kiss that tastes like the promise of calm in a world that’s always on the brink of breaking.

His forearm presses against the mattress beside your head, grounding him, while his hand tangles gently in your hair, fingers threading through the soft strands like he’s memorizing their texture. The other hand slips under your shirt, fingertips tracing lazy circles on the bare skin of your ribs. The warmth of his touch contrasts deliciously with the cool air, making every nerve sing.

He kisses you deep, not with nearly as much fervor as he did before, but with unrelenting passion. His lips lock with yours and it's as if you’re breathing for the first time, as if you’re consuming his very essence like ambrosia, conferring you to stay like this with him for eternity. 

His hand trails higher, fingers gently tweaking your perked nipples until you’re whining into his mouth. He greedily swallows them all before carefully hiking your shirt up and off your frame. 

You let him—you lay before him completely bare and he can’t help but sit back on his haunches and take you in. Leonardo, Monet, Dalí, Kadinsky—not a single one of their works could absolutely wreck his extraterrestrial nervous system the way you are right now. 

His eyes—wide, dark, and glazed with awe—lock onto yours, as if he’s caught between reverence and hunger. For a heartbeat, he’s frozen, his breath shallow, his fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you.

You don’t give him the chance.

Pushing up onto your elbows, you close the distance between you before he even thinks to move. The heat of his skin seeps into yours as you trail soft, open-mouthed kisses along the strong column of his throat and his pecs, tasting salt and the faint, woodsy scent of his cologne. Your fingertips skate teasingly along the hem of his boxers, tracing the defined V of his hips, dipping just beneath the fabric to graze the coarse trail of hair leading lower. A silent invitation.

His breath hitches, his stomach tensing under your touch. When you glance up through your lashes, his gaze has darkened—not just with lust, but with something possessive. Understanding.

Without a word, he stands. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, peeling them down his thick thighs, letting them drop to the floor. The air between you crackles as your eyes drag over him, taking in the full, breathtaking sight of him.

His cock stands heavy and proud, jutting from the thatch of dark curls at his groin. Thick veins rope along the length, the flushed head already glistening with pre-cum, the evidence of his need for you. It’s big—intimidatingly so—the kind of size that makes your pulse stutter, your thighs clench instinctively. The sheer girth promises a stretch that borders on painful, and yet… the thought sends a rush of heat pooling low in your belly.

Your lips part on a shaky exhale, shock flickering across your face.

He knows. Of course he does.

A low, rough chuckle escapes him as he reaches down, calloused fingers tilting your chin up. “It’ll fit, doll.” His voice is smoke and gravel, leaving no room for doubt.

You believe him.

With a slow nod, you surrender completely, your body arching toward him in silent supplication. He rewards your trust with a quick, tender kiss—soft, almost sweet—but it tastes like a promise, like a prelude to something permanent.

Then his hands slide under your thighs, lifting your legs with effortless strength. He folds you effortlessly, crossing your ankles over the solid planes of his shoulders, the position leaving you exposed, vulnerable. His thumbs press into the soft flesh of your thighs, spreading you wider, and the first brush of his cock against your soaked entrance wrings a whimper from your throat.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with restraint.

You obey and look at him with a stripe of anticipation in your furrowed brow. He reciprocates by fisting the length of his cock before guiding it to your sopping cunt, gently teasing the sensitive bud of your clit, your folds. A gasp tumbles from your lips at the feel of him—hot and thick in all the ways that matter. 

He looks at you once more, his free hand simultaneously looping over your legs to hold them flush to his chest. 

“Please, Clark, I need… Shit— I need you,” You whimper.

He responds by turning his head and placing a soft kiss to your ankle before pushing in. You immediately grasp the sheets, fisting the cotton as he stretches you wider than you’ve ever been. You can feel him pulsing inside of you, your walls responding in kind as they flutter in attempts to adjust to him. 

His grip on your hips tightens as he pauses, his breath ragged. The stretch is achingly slow, every inch a sweet torment. His head lulls forward, dark lashes fluttering as he fights for control. A low, broken groan escapes him when you clench around him and his cock twitches in response.

“F-fuck—” His voice is rough, strained, like the word was dragged from his chest. “So tight, love. Gotta relax for me.” He strokes your side with trembling fingers, soothing, worshipful. “That’s it… just like that.”

You gasp when he lets go of himself to lace his fingers with yours, palm pressing warm and grounding against your own. The intimacy of it—the way his thumb brushes your knuckles—unwinds the tension coiled in your belly. He murmurs praise against your skin, lips skimming your calves as he pushes deeper, deeper, until your body yields, taking him in with a shuddering sigh.

And then he’s fully sheathed, hips flush against you, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. You hadn’t even realized you were holding yours until it rushes out of you in a trembling exhale.

The fullness is overwhelming, consuming. It’s not just the physical stretch—it’s the way your body seems to recognize his, like something inside you has slotted into place. Your fingers clutch his, anchoring yourself as pleasure hums under your skin, bright and dizzying.

“You okay?” The question is tender, almost reverent. His free hand skims up your ribs, pausing over your frantic heartbeat. “Feel so good… fucking perfect.”

You blink yourself out of your daze and meet his eyes. He looks anxious and worried, like the Clark you know. “Yeah. Fuck me, please.” 

He chuckles softly, “I’m tryin to.”

“Clark, just move, please… I can feel you in my throat,” you mumble half-coherently.

Needing no further instruction, he gently eases out of you before pushing back in, and you hand help but dig your nails into his hand. He bites his lip as he moves against you, trying (but failing) to stifle the soft groans that leave his lips. 

Every thrust punches the breath from your lungs in ragged gasps, his hips moving with a controlled power that reminds you that he’s holding back. A fraction of his strength, and yet you’re unraveling beneath him, reduced to a trembling mess. Each drag of his cock inside you is deliberate, the swollen head stroking your g-spot with precision, and with every pass, your mind rewrites the future: elopement, courthouse, honeymoon—how could you wait another second when he fucks you like this?

The air is thick, charged with the aftershocks of what he’d done to you in the kitchen, the way he’d ate you over the counter like an afterthought and dragged his tongue through your folds until your thighs shook and you nearly sobbed. Even now, the memory coils tight in your belly, your body clenching around him in helpless recognition.

A low, rough groan escapes him as you suffocate his cock, his grip tightening on your thighs as he unfurls them, re-wraping them around his hips and leaning over you, spreading you wider. The new angle wrings a broken, hoarse cry from your throat, his cock sinking deeper until the stretch borders on unbearable.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his breath hot against your ear. “So fuckin sensitive.”

You can’t speak, can’t think, can’t do anything but clutch at him like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth. Your fingers dig into the hard planes of his back, nails carving half-moons into his sweat-slick skin, the salt of him sharp on your tongue where your teeth are buried in the meat of his shoulder. He groans, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest as he rolls his hips against you in a slow, deliberate grind.

The friction is maddening. Every drag of him inside you is a study in exquisite torture—the stretch, the burn, the way your body yields and clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there forever. The tufts of hair at the base of him tease your clit with every thrust, the rough-soft contrast sending jolts of pleasure so sharp your thighs tremble. 

You’re so wet it’s obscene, each time he pulls out, the air kisses your slick flesh for a split second before he’s driving back in, the filthy squelch of it echoing in the space between your ragged breaths.

And god, the way he moves like he knows exactly how to ruin you. Slow, then punishing, then slow again, his rhythm erratic just to hear you whimper. Every push and pull of his cock sends sparks up your spine, your nerves alight, your toes curling into the sheets. You can feel the coil in your belly tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he leans down to mouth at your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin, his voice wrecked, “you take me so well, baby,”

You can’t even reply—just arch into him, your body singing with the need for more, more, more—

“Clark please—” the word barely even leaves your mouth, but he hears it.

His lips curl against your jugular. "Please what?" Another punishing thrust, "You gonna come again? Just from this?"

You whimper, your body betraying you with another flutter around him and he has his answer. He groans, his rhythm turning ruthless, each snap of his hips stealing your breath. The whole mattress rattles in its frame, but the sound is lost under the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin.

It’s too much, yet somehow not enough. Pleasure twists and coils beneath your skin like a live wire sparking in the dark, raw and electric. You’re unraveling and he watches with a burning intensity—his gaze a furnace that fires every piece of you down into something molten, holding you captive in the heat of the moment.

His hand reaches between you and finds your clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles in perfect sync with his thrusts. The dual stimulation is unbearable, too much, and your back arches off the bed, your chest to his, as pleasure crackles through you like live wire. Desperate for contact, you fist a hand in his hair and drag his mouth to yours, intertwining his groan with your own as your hips jerk against him. “I’m—fuck baby—I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish, the words dissolving into a whine as your orgasm slams into you, blinding and violent.

He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, his own breath hot and uneven against your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls, “take it. Feel it.” And you do: every pulse, every shockwave, until you’re boneless beneath him, trembling with aftershocks.

The night stretches on in a delicious blur—two rounds, then three, then maybe even four. Your bodies move together with an ease and urgency that’s almost intoxicating. Every touch, every whispered word, every heated kiss peels back another layer of the barriers you’d both been holding up for far too long. His hands explore like he’s memorizing you, and you match him with equal fervor—fingers tracing the sharp planes of his back, lips finding the sensitive spots on his body that make him shiver.

You lose count of how many times you both cum, a tangled mess of limbs, soft gasps, and ragged breaths filling the space between you. You think your legs might give out on you, but Clark just laughs—breathless and wild-eyed—and somehow pulls you close again, like he’s powered by something beyond just his Kryptonian physiology.

Eventually, when it cracks midnight and when you’re tearing up from overstimulation and practically begging for a noise complaint, then —and only then—is he collapsing beside you, body against yours. His eyes flutter, blinking slowly as if waking from some surreal dream.

He rolls onto his side to face you, and the faintest crease of uncertainty lines his brow. Running a hand down his face, he mutters, “T-that wasn’t how I wanted this to happen…”

You can’t help but giggle softly, your fingers brushing a damp, rebellious curl from his forehead. The simple touch seems to soften the tension around his eyes. He smiles at you then—a smile full of something deep and tender—but there’s a flicker of worry in his gaze, as if he’s silently asking if you’re really okay.

You nod, heart pounding in your chest, and lean up to press a sweet, tired kiss to his lips. He returns it gently, the softness of it melting all the raw edges of the night away for a moment. When you pull back, he strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, eyes flicking down and away, cheeks flushing faintly.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t more special,” he admits quietly. “I don’t want you to think this was just some fling or—”

His voice catches. “I care about you. More than I ever thought possible.”

You smile, warmth flooding your chest, and reach up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Clark, I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” you whisper. “And honestly, I’m just glad that red stuff was good for something.”

His cheeks flush deeper, and he scratches the back of his head like a bashful schoolboy. “Yeah… so… funny story. The red kryptonite actually wore off about halfway through eating you out...” He shoots you a sheepish grin. “But I was still riding that high, so… Uh, yeah… But I think everything ended up okay.”

You burst into laughter, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips, the fondness in your eyes unmistakable. “Clark Kent, you absolute dork.”

His laugh rumbles deep and warm against your skin, and you find yourself thinking, maybe after filling you like a Twinkie four times over, he’s officially your dork now.

After about another fifteen minutes of tangled pillow talk—shared secrets, lazy touches, soft laughter—he helps you up. Your legs wobble like jelly, and he doesn’t hesitate to catch you, lifting you into his arms with effortless strength. You rest your head against his chest as he carries you toward the bathroom, fetching you water and gently cleaning up the little (big) messes you both made.

When he’s done, you both settle into your bed, flicking off the lamp and settling into each other. You lay practically half your body on his, half your torso on his chest (Lord knows there’s enough real estate there), and you both sigh contentedly. 

You nuzzle into the warmth of his skin and after a few silent moments, you smirk. “You’re kind of a rebel, you know that?”

Clark’s brow lifts in amused confusion. “Huh?”

You shift your weight, meeting his tired gaze with a teasing sparkle in your eyes. “Sex before marriage, Clark? Pretty non–Midwestern farmboy of you.”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Oh please. I’ve been breaking rules my whole life.”

“Yeah? Like what? Forgetting to return library books?” You tease.

A slow, smile tugs at his mouth. “Okay fine… Guess I learned how to sin.”

You snort. “And who taught you that?”

He shrugs.

 “Only girl I’d go to hell for.”

[ripoutmyinsides]

us against the world, just me 'n you !

「 tws + notes: unedited, probably ooc, cw: toxic relationship with lex (because... it's lex), yes that's a lana ref in the title im sorry y'all, is this giving 2012 mcu fandom? 」

「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic <3 」

↳ ft. my sweethearts + one stinky poopy head

aka: clark kent, guy gardner, lex luthor (stinky poopy head in question), lois lane, michael holt

author's note: superman (2025) movie was fire. here's some hcs that i brewed up,, jus u being close with these characters, friendship or otherwise. had to get a little evil abt lex. becuz. >:] some are shorter than the others! this is because. um mmm ummhh uhhh..... :'> i tried and i failed. specifically kendra which SUCKZZ but MY BRAIN JUICE!! HELP!!!!! anyways this post is split for your convenience becuz otherwise it's too GatDamnb long </3 see part two for more characters!!

CLARK KENT

▸ please tolerate his awful music taste. he wants to make playlists for you :[ !! and really, it's not that bad but like. dude c'mon stop trying to sneak the mighty crabjoys in.

he always makes the title of the playlist a random inside joke the two of you have and makes sure to add you as a collaborator. plays it on shuffle whenever you're hanging out

▸ his parents love you. you aren't leaving that place until the kents make sure you are well fed and taken care of.

you absolutely WILL have the best apple crumble you've ever had after being invited to dinner, and yes, ma kent will insist you have second plate.

clark will always be there to politely decline for you (or eat it) if you don't want.

they adore you! always asking clark when his "polite little friend" can come over again.

▸ gently harassing clark is good for enrichment. yours or his? who cares! there's something about you that makes him wanna be playful too. his form of being silly includes taking sips of your drinks when you aren't looking though. guard your snacks too.

of course, you have your own ways to messing with him. hiding his stuff, flooding his camera roll with selfies of you (and less than flattering photos of him with the 0.5 zoom), etc...

he does seem to panic extra when you try to remove his glasses. so maybe not that. huh. odd.

GUY GARDNER

▸ going yap4yap with this man. explain whatever is going on in your head, your latest obsession, your new interest or hobby, a rabbit hole you fell down while sleep deprived, and he'l listen.

depending on what you're talking about, he may or may not get why you like it, but at least he tries.

expect lots of lore dumps about general glory comics though.

"an' they retconned this backstory for ernie the battling boy. for this shit! trash, i'm telling you, the modern interpretation is trash—"

he's got big feelings about comics okay.

hey is this metacommentary? in MY headcanons about guy gardner specifically? idk what ur talking abt lol...

▸ using his oath as an excuse to do things he doesn't wanna do is funny.

using his oath as an excuse to force you to accept his help? even funnier. he likes being a hero. and being your hero specifically? that's the best feeling in the world for him.

"guy!" you yelp, as he unceremoniously hoists you up by your thighs. you had been trying to reach something just out of grasp, but the minute guy saw you struggling, he knew he had to do something. and that something was obviously lifting you without warning. "forget grabbin' the stepstool, sweetstuff. you got a big, strong hero at your service."

▸ massive sweet tooth. always down for getting a sweet treat with you. he'll suggest it and make it seem like your idea, just so he can say,

"...you're paying right?"

LEX LUTHOR

▸ will leave you on read for literal weeks and months. somehow doesn't see it as hypocritical when he gets catty about your response times, even if it was only a few hours.

he's always saying shit like:

"i'm a busy man. i thought you'd understand that."

but when it's you replying late?

"i expect you to at least answer when i message. it's the least you could do to show me you value this relationship."

DIVA STFUUUU

▸ this man does NOT apologize. it's not his style.

lex belittles or buys his way out of things. he either makes you think you were in the wrong or just buys you something nice and expensive to quell your anger.

has 100% e-transferred you 2k just so you would stop being mad at him.

▸ that being said though, this man does have taste. lex insists that since you're seen with him so often, you gotta look nice. he takes care of your wardrobe. and it gets you crazy amounts compliments.

he's very good at picking things you'd look good in which suit your personal style. he might be neglectful, manipulative, and downright cruel to you sometimes... but damn, lex is attentive.

he stands at your side, a hand on your hip. someone has complimented you again, as the both of you have become accustomed to at this point. lex clears his throat, smiling at you as if telling you, "that's your cue." "...thanks," you reply to the person, "lex got it for me."

LOIS LANE

▸ inside joke: asking her "is this off the record?" when you're gossiping.

to which she'll reply, "only if you say it beforehand. which you didn't. this exposé is going to be scathing."

▸ always sending you random voice messages. it'll be three am in the morning and she'll go,

"how many p's in therapist again?"

could she just search it up? yeah. but she wants an excuse to talk to you.

but dyslexic lois hc my beloved. i struggle with numbers so i'd totally end up screenshotting stuff with big numbers like "say this out loud for me please? :("

▸ imagine sharing old photos with her ohh mygoshhh,,,,

lois has shown you pictures of herself she thought she would take to her GRAVE. mostly from middle school and high school. in the spirit of being fair, you've also shown her yourself at your most awkward stages.

"...actually, you know what?" she holds up the pictures of your younger selves beside each other. lois' squints at them thoughtfully. "what?" "i think we would've gotten along."

MICHAEL HOLT

▸ the better playlist maker (sorry clark)

he enjoys the technical aspect of the stuff that he listens to and favours pieces that are the most complex musically.

given that he has an ear for these things, he's good at identifying the patterns in the music that you tend to gravitate to.

burns the playlist on a CD. it contains some are your favourites that you never tire of, some reccomendations from him, and it's ALWAYS absolute bangers.

▸ is it a headcanon if it's technically canon?

the best person to have around during sick days. always there to assure you that, no, you're not dying from the minor cold.

take the medicine, rest, and don't fight him on this. michael has 14 phds for a reason.

he will cave if you're asking for him to cuddle. of course, he's aware of the transmission risks, but something about you being all sniffly does something to him.

lets you rest your head against his chest while you nap :]

▸ locked in 24/7. superhero stuff, being THE mr. terrific... it makes for some really odd hangout times.

that being said, he will always try to make time for you. ass crack of dawn or middle of the night, i fear. very apologetic about ruining your sleep schedule, but always happy to spend time with you.

he's more relaxed in these moments, you notice. open to being soft with you. rests his head on your shoulder. rubs the back of your hand with his thumb when your fingers are intertwined. plants kisses to your temple ocassionally. it's his favourite place to kiss :(

— reblogs always appreciated!

[ripoutmyinsides]

bury the lede

pairing: clark kent x journalist!reader summary: clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you. word count: 5.7k warnings: 18+ mdni, coworkers/friends to lovers, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), semi-public sex (office), hair pulling! (m!receiving), wall sex, mutual pining, so much yearning, light angst, happy ending, clark losing it over an injustice, them christening every corner of the daily planet, this man lives to go down on u idc idc

In the twelve months you’ve known Clark Kent, you’ve counted exactly zero swear words.

Not one.

Not when the printer jammed five minutes before deadline. Not when a senator’s aide ‘accidentally’ dumped her $14 latte over his notes. Not even when a rat the size of a chihuahua moved into the break room and stared him down like it paid rent.  

Three hundred and ninety-something days. Zero expletives. You’ve been tracking it like a long-term assignment.

The working headline? The Unshakable Composure of Clark Kent.

It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.

But over time, it became something else.

A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldn’t stop writing in your head:

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Height: 6’4” (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure). Known aliases: None. Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every intern’s fundraiser and forgets to take them home.) Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says ‘good gosh’ and ‘heck’ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.) Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that you’ve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)

And through a year’s worth of careful observations—of eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%—the man has yet to let so much as a ‘damn’ slip past his lips.

And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft you’ve outlined in your head:

“Clark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with ‘Thanks so much!’ even when they absolutely should not be. He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.”

And that, you’ve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.

But tonight—

Tonight blows the whole story wide open.

Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screen—and he is absolutely vibrating with fury.

He’s leaning back against a desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jaw’s locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest it’s like he’s physically holding himself back.

And he hasn’t looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:

We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.

No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.

Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:

Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than you’ll ever have.

You’re still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.

But Clark?

Clark is something else entirely.

He’s past fury. Past protest.

Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaks—not out in the world, but inside him.

You’ve seen it before, in fragments.

When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.

When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.

When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didn’t ask if it was tied to your reporting—just asked which story.

When Clark gets truly upset, he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t storm around or slam doors.

He goes still.

Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.

You’ve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.

Tonight makes five.

And this time, it’s for you.

You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo might’ve changed since the last time you read it.

It hasn’t.

The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like it’s buffering.

Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.

Because your article—your article—

The triple-sourced, fact-checked into oblivion, airtight exposé Perry promised would front the Sunday edition—

Pulled.

Not bumped. Not buried on page ten.

Gone.  

And it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Because it wasn’t just a story. It was a truth someone didn’t want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.

It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.

Now, it’s nothing.

Scraped like gum from the bottom of someone’s shoe.

But what wrecks you—what truly undoes you—isn’t the memo.

It’s him.

Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.

And it’s unbearable. Not because he’s angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. It’s a spotlight on everything you’ve been trying not to feel.

And the fact that it means this much to Clark—it's excruciating.

When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.

“This is such complete—”

He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.

You blink. “Were you about to swear?”

His laugh is barely a breath. “No. I was about to flip this place upside down.”

You snort softly. “Well, that’s healthy.”

He looks up at that.  

And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if you’ve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, which—you have.

The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.

They’re still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.

Grief. Fragility.

Recognition.

Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.

The kind of knowing that can’t be taught, only earned—through late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.

He knows you.

Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a lead—obsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.

Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.

And how badly it broke you when you failed.

And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And it shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didn’t know how to end until just now.

Because he means it. Really means it.

Not just for the story—for you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.

You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if that’ll erase the memo from existence. 

“Should’ve pitched a fluff piece,” you mutter. “Stuff that matters. ‘Puppies of Metropolis.’ Or, I don’t know. ‘Ten Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.’”

 Clark frowns. “Your story mattered.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. “It’s just a job.”

“No.” His voice sharpens, solidifying. “It’s not just a job.”

And the way he says it—

God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.

So you do what you always do when it gets too real:

You deflect.

“What’re you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?”

It’s a joke. A dumb one. You’re not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.

But something flickers in his expression.

His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrow—not in anger now, but in purpose. 

And you’ve seen this look before, too.

In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.

Decision.

Steel-willed and absolute. Like he’s already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.

“Give me the files.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Your article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Just—trust me.”

 “Clark, I—”

“I’ll make sure it gets out.”

You stare at him.  

This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders don’t get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.

But there’s something in his eyes that stops you cold.

Because what’s there isn’t hope—it’s certainty.

Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.

And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.

You nod. “Okay.”

He nods back, steady as anything. “Good.”

You turn—toward your desk, your files, this impossible thing you’re now apparently doing together—but he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.

“Hey.”

You look back.

And that’s when it hits you again.

That thing.

That not-quite-hidden headline that’s been quietly building in the margins between you for months.

The Look.

The I’d burn down the sky for you look.

The I’d rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.

The this isn’t just friendship and we both know it look.

His eyes are warm. Devastating.

“I know it hurts now,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, “but this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.”

It cracks something wide open in you.

You’ve held it together for hours—through the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it all—but this? This is the last thread.

And before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thing—full of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.

Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.

And then you pull back like you've been burned.

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

But Clark—

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stammer or reassure.

He just looks at you.

Steady. Intense. Certain.

Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.

And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.

You thought he’d be gentle.

Because he always is.

But this?

This is not gentle.

This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.

His kiss is all heat and purpose—no backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.

Just immediate, all-consuming want.

And you’re gone. Instantly.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.

Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like he’s built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.

His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.

And then you hear it—

A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.

It destroys you.

Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.

Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.

Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.

No, this Clark—the one kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting months to be allowed this close, like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth—

He’s new. Terrifying. Addictive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.

“Clark,” you whisper, breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”

“I know.” His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t not anymore.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.

You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.

His hands roam everywhere—your waist, your back, your jaw—like something broke loose in him and there’s no putting it back.

When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because he’s there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your head—like even now he doesn’t know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he can’t shake.

Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.

“We’re still at work,” you manage to gasp.

It’s not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let go.

Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like he’s studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, it’s just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.

You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anyway—rough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.

And something inside him snaps.

His hands slide to your hips, lifting you—gentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everything—and suddenly you’re perched on the edge of your desk.

His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “If this isn’t what you want, please. Tell me.”   

Your pulse stutters.

He’s wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And still—still—beneath all that, he’s endlessly soft.

This is Clark Kent at his core—steadfast and true.

The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’

You take his hand.

Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where you’re already soaked.

“Does this feel like I want you to stop?”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch—then freeze.

Like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been holding this want in both hands for months and doesn’t know how to set it free.

But then you lean in, forehead to his.

"Clark."

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.

Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like he’s holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, it’s slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice blown wide open. “You’re…”

His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.

“...you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re telling me.” You gasp, already trembling.

He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined—but it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

No pretense. No buildup. Just down.

And something in you stutters.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But he’s already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

And then his mouth—

His mouth—

Fuck the plan. No time to think.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthy—it knocks the breath clean from your lungs.

Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.

His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.

And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.

Bastard.  

“Clark—please—”

He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.

And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.

His hair’s a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm it’s almost too much to bear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. “Don’t hold back.”

Then he’s gone again.

No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.

His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.

You’re shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.

And Clark—sweet, perfect, fucking Clark—just keeps going.

When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just right—your back lifts clean off the table.

“Clark— Jesus, I’m gonna—”

You barely get the words out before you break.

Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry out—sharp, wild, unrestrained—coming hard and helpless in his mouth.

And he doesn’t stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.

Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.

Careful, reluctant. Like he’d stay there forever, if you let him.

And when he rises, he looks—

Destroyed.

Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.

Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.

And god help you, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.

Your hands fumble for his belt—still burning, still aching—but he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.

Still the same Clark underneath it all.

“Not here,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Not like this.”

You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.

“Why not?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because when I finally have you,” he says softly, “I want to take my time. I want to see you.”

And the way he says it—like it’s something sacred, like you’re something sacred—knocks the breath from your lungs.

“…okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Uhm, your place or mine?”

He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.

“Yours. You’ve got better snacks.”

You laugh—really laugh—and something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe.  

He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple.

The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isn’t clawing for your attention.

You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark window—swollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeks—and something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.

When you turn back, Clark’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his world.

“You okay?” he asks, soft.

You nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah, it's just… kind of unexpected.”

He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But there’s something nervous in it too.

“Unexpected... bad?”   

You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.

Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.

“No, just—”

But you pause. Because now there’s room to really look at him.

The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way he’s watching you—like he’s terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.

Like he knows every jagged, weary part you’ve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.

His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.

Your chest goes soft.

“No,” you say quietly, eyes locked on his. “Unexpected perfect.”

Clark’s lashes flutter. And then—

He smiles.

Not the polite, mayor’s-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.

No. This one is his.

Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.

And when he leans in again—slower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when it’s just the two of you—

You meet him halfway.

Three days later, your article is everywhere.

Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.

Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.

The byline? Yours.

The exposé—your exposé—is splashed across every feed, pinging inboxes faster than the spin doctors can catch it. Reporters are quoting it, politicians are dodging it, and suddenly, you’re the name in the room. The one who broke it wide open.

When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.

Even Perry White, who doesn’t do applause—who curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him money—walks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:

“Hell of a story, kid.”

You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees aren’t full of helium.

You don’t ask how it happened. You don’t have to.

Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like it’s just another Friday, is Clark Kent.

He doesn’t look up at first. Doesn’t need to.

But when he does—when his eyes find yours—he gives you that look.

That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when he’s sure of something.

It hits you dead center.

You mouth: Thank you.

He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.

And when you move past him—headed for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normal—he reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.

Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.

You stop. Turn.

Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.

You lean down, all slow and casual, like you’re just checking his screen—then murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:

“Stairwell. Five minutes.”

Clark drops his pen.

You smirk.

His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.

You shove him hard—no grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up need— and he barely grunts before you’re on him, kissing like it’s a fight, like you’re trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.

It’s more violence than a kiss—teeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours.  

“What is—fuck—what is wrong with you?” You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. “Whose balls did you have to bust to—get that—” Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. “You said it’d take longer. You can’t just—drop this on me—”

He’s laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I cashed in a favor,” he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“For fuck’s sake, Kent—”

You yank back just far enough to glare at him.

His hair’s a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.

He looks completely undone. Glowing with it.    

Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends it’s ordinary.

Something behind your ribs gives way.

Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.

You blink hard, trying to look away.

But he sees it.

He always sees it. 

His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.

“You did all the work,” he says, voice rough with truth. “I just helped the story get where it needed to go.”

You blink back at him.

This man.

This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didn’t turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.

Like the truth was always going to find the light—he’d just hold the sky steady until morning came.

You want to say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you can’t name.

So you do the only thing you can.

You grab his collar and kiss him.

Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency—and when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefs—

Jesus.

He’s already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.

He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him—slow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.

He’s stunning like this—glasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.

“Fuck, please—"

“Language, Smallville.” You grin.

He laughs—just barely—but it turns into a moan when you squeeze.

“Unfair,” he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. “You’re being so unfair.”

“You broke embargo,” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “I’m just collecting interest.”

Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.

“Clark! You can’t—”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Three days ago, you didn’t know what Clark Kent sounded like when he’s desperate.

Now, it lives under your skin.

You used to think he’d be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.

He’s not.

He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.

And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.

And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pull—he shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.

"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."

He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.

“Not a chance. And it’s really not fair how well you know me already.”

“Three days,” you murmur, lips brushing his. “Eleven orgasms. I’ve had time to study.”

“Twelve,” he rasps. “You forgot the shower this morning.”

You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “Oh god, the shower.”

“I like you wet,” he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got you up against tile.”

“Clark,” you gasp, laughing. “We’re not in a shower right now.”

“No,” he grins, shifting you up higher. “We’re not.”

His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Still soaking.”

You gasp as he slides in two fingers—slow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.

You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time—eyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.

You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.

"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.

"Pocket," he pants, "But you’ll have to let go.”

You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.

And then—

He’s inside you.

The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not new. Not anymore.

But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.

He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like it’s the only breath he’s needed all day.

“Every time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel unreal.”

You clutch at his back, hips rolling.

“Move,” you plead. “Please, Clark—move—”

He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.

Again. And again.

The rhythm builds fast—skin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.

And then—you feel it.

The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.

“There,” you choke, eyes flying open. “Right there, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he pants, unraveling. “I’ve got you—just like that—please, keep pulling—fuck—”

So you do.

You yank his hair again, and it’s enough.

You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.

Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.

The world holds its breath.

Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:

“…we should head back.”

He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.

You don’t need a mirror to know that you’re a wreck.

Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling.  

You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.

And Clark—well, Clark doesn’t even try.

His shirt’s wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.

He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You meet his eyes, brows raised. “Think we were subtle?”

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, beaming.

You smack his chest. “Clark, we’re gonna get fired.”

“I’ll write a defense,” he says, tucking himself away. “‘A Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.’”

You choke on a laugh. “Catchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.”

He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.

“In these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?”

“Oh my god.”

“Sources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,”

“Clark.”

“Eyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.”

“Eyewitness?”

“Ferguson. The rat, remember? Hope he’s still crawling around the vents somewhere.”

You’re still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.  

When you turn, the joke’s still in his eyes—but something else has surfaced.

Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.

“Okay,” he starts. “What if… instead of writing that article…”

He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “I pitched a different one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

His smile tilts—shy and hopeful.

“Yeah, forget the op-ed. How about: ‘Local Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.’”

You blink, heart catching in your throat.

And suddenly—this is scarier than anything that came before.

You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.

That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes.  

You swallow.

“What’s the angle?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Human interest.”

You bite your lip, smile threatening. “And your sources?”

“Reliable,” he says, nodding seriously. “She even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.”

You hum. “Sounds like she’s into you.”

“Yeah,” he steps closer, smiling shyly. “I’m starting to think so too.”

You let the silence bloom between you—warm, delicate, just a little terrifying.

Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.

He leans down to meet you halfway.

This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.

You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her seven o’clock.”

His smile blooms slow and bright—a sunrise you get to keep.

“Done.”

epilogue

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life. Height: 6’4” (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment). Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, and—Superman. (Yes, that one. You’re still not over it. You probably never will be.) Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praise—saying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs. Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironically—only now it’s the morning after he’s had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue. Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you. Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like he’s twelve and in love. (He is.) Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.') Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly. On every flat surface in your apartment. And his. And yes—occasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)

[ripoutmyinsides]

cw. porn with plot, sex work industry, toxicity, allusions to violence, huge size kink, breeding kink, graphic smut

as an sex worker you'd be really hurt and insecure when out of nowhere you're the only one who's not getting called on for private sessions. you used to be one of the most popular ones, so why is that huge, grimy guy with biceps nearly the size of melons and tattoos the only one doing your sessions? surely he's not paid your boss to steer customers away from you. he definitely didn't threaten to bash the head in of anyone who tried to have a go at you...right? right?

you can't really complain, can you? you're getting tipped a fortune for each session with a man who only wants to pleasure you and pillowtalk, saying things about how you're the best thing that's ever happened to him and how he wants you and only, and all you have to do is enjoy it and reply with whatever he wants to hear.

but he doesn’t want anything, not really. he undresses you slow, gives you long, sloppy kisses while he thrusts into you. you don't do anything but take it, let him fold you around and leave lovebites on you. then he pulls you into his chest afterward and murmurs things into your hair while having a round of cuddle fucking.

it’s not like anything you’ve had before with clients, or even in real life. there’s nothing selfish about him. he doesn’t rut into you or grab your head and force your mouth on his cock greedily, trying to get his money's worth. he makes love to you like you’re married. he always kisses you before anything else, with purpose. both hands on your face, thumbs dragging softly across your cheekbones, mouth coaxing yours open.

he lays you down like you’re delicate; he thinks you deserve silk sheets and candlelight instead of dirty linens and hourly bookings. he whispers shit in your ear, calling you sweetheart, precious, baby...his.

moreover, his cock is insane. freakish, even. so fucking heavy and thick, with a blunt, flushed head that stretches you way past where you’re supposed to go. and even soft, it’s bigger than most guys at their hardest. but when he's at his full size...

when he lines himself up and holds you open with those huge hands, there’s this second of panic because no matter how many times he’s had you, or how wet you are, or how much prep he’s given you; it never looks like it’s going to fit.

it’s too long, too wide, veiny and obscene, drooling pearly strings of arousal, twitching against your folds like it knows it’s about to wreck you.

he always pushes in slowly, inch by inch. his face is scrunched up with effort to hold himself back from slamming in all at once, whereas you're wriggling and already feeling stuffed with a third of his cock in you.

you feel everything, every ridge, every twitch, every throb. he splits you open and then keeps going. you claw at his back, panting, blinking through tears while he shushes you and kisses your cheek affectionately. a gesture saying "don't worry" about the overwhelming size of him forcing your body to take him.

“so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, “you're squeezin’ me so hard, feels like you don’t wanna let go.”

but the worst is when he finishes.

it doesn’t make sense that there's so much of it. it's not just a few warm spurts and then done, he fills you. he jerks once, twice, and then just starts pouring into you. groaning into your neck, gripping your hips so tight you’ll have bruises, twitching while you feel it flood you. you’ve never felt so full in your life.

his cum leaks out around his balls and your hole before he even pulls out. he’ll still be inside you, balls still pressed to you, and it’s already dripping down your thighs. when he does finally slip out—slow, careful, groaning because he hates leaving...it’s messy. you don’t even want to look between your legs. he marks you in the most primal way possible, thick globs running out of you, coating the sheets in masses.

“look at that,” he whispers, stroking your hip while he stares between your legs. “took it so good. see how much you’re holdin’ for me? you're perfect.”

[ripoutmyinsides]

watched superman recently and this reel has been absolutely FRYING MEEEE

(📹 art.b0i on instagram)

[ripoutmyinsides]

there’s something about the way lex kept instructing his employees with those codes “1A! B13! 6G!” it’s like a chess match for him, and it makes so much sense too, he’s watching clark and he decides which move to use, he instructs his employees since they’re his pawns and idk, whoever wrote that deserves a raise and a highfive, because it was just cool and made sense for lex luthor

[ripoutmyinsides]

I loved watching superman (2025) where he gets bullied by every specie under the sun for 2 hours and 9 minutes

[ripoutmyinsides]

UNTOUCHED ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: spencer’s never done this before, and you’re more than happy to teach him how — slowly, thoroughly, and with plenty of praise. he’s always been an eager learner, but you weren’t expecting him to enjoy it this much.

genre: smut | w/c: 2.3k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI!! virgin!spencer, experienced!reader, heavy praise, reader calls spencer good boy & other pet names, subtle sub!spencer vibes, making out, breast/nipple play, brief masturbation (f), fingering, finger sucking, oral (f receiving), reader talks him through it, spencer cums in his pants, glasses!s2!reid, no use of y/n

a/n: yeah so this is probably the filthiest thing I have ever written (but still somehow so soft??). nobody look at me idk what came over me. it just happened, ok? lmao enjoy BYE. tbh not my most eloquently written fic but I haddd to get this out of my system

Your relationship with Spencer, although wonderful, is still very new. There’s been a few slow, tentative makeouts on this very couch, but nothing more. It always stops before things escalate too far — he pulls back, or gets called into work, or a TV commercial ruins the moment, or some other force of the universe steps in to keep all the orgasms you know you could be having behind lock and key.

Tonight, you have plans to change that once & for all.

You’re not sure who leaned in first. It might’ve been you — let’s be honest, it usually is — but by the time you’re in Spencer’s lap, one knee on either side of his thighs and your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt, it doesn’t really matter. His lips part against yours, pink and already a little swollen. His glasses are fogged at the edges, and his hands hover uselessly at your waist like he can’t decide what to do next.

So you make the decision for him.

You rock forward, slow and deliberate — just enough to drag your body against his — and his breath catches on a quiet sound he probably doesn’t even realize he making.

The cushions dip under your knees, and everything smells like him: old paper, bergamot soap, something faintly spicy underneath. He tastes like a heavenly mix of breath mints and the honey tea you made for him earlier.

Spencer always kisses like he’s studying you — memorizing pressure points, cataloging every hitch of breath, every soft sound. The drag of your bottom lip. The little touches that make your spine arch.

But there’s tension in him, too.

You feel it in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness in his hands, the twitch of his thighs when you shift your weight. Something’s holding him back.

You slow the kiss, draw away just enough to trace the line of his cheekbone with your nose, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

“Spence,” you murmur, breath warm against his skin. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He stills.

“I—” His voice falters, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses. “I haven’t really, um… done this before.”

You blink.

“You haven’t…” you echo, tilting your head.

His ears flush deep red as he shakes his head.

“I mean— some stuff, yeah,” he says quickly. “Kissing. A little touching. But… not much more than that.”

There’s something raw in his expression, like he’s waiting for you to flinch.

Instead, you kiss him. Soft and steady, nothing showy — just the kind of kiss that says I want you anyway.

When you pull back, his eyes are still closed.

“Spencer,” you whisper.

He opens them slowly.

“You being a virgin isn’t gonna scare me off.”

You thread your fingers into his hair, pushing it back gently from his forehead. His curls are soft, and he shivers when your thumb grazes his ear.

“I kind of like the idea of it, actually,” you murmur.

“You do?”

You smile. “I think I’d like being the first person to show you how good you can feel.”

He goes quiet again, clearly overthinking.

“You’re not afraid, are you?” you ask softly, brushing your nose against his.

He swallows. “No, no. I just… I don’t want to do something wrong. I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Baby,” you whisper against his mouth. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”

You kiss him once more — slow, deep — and feel the hitch in his breath when your tongue brushes his.

“I’ll teach you,” you murmur with a smirk.

You shift to straddle him more fully, your skirt hiking higher around your hips as you settle across his lap. You can feel him under you, hard and twitching through his pants, and he gasps when your hips press down.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods too fast.

You raise an eyebrow. “Use your words, Spencer.”

“Yes,” he breathes. “I-I’m okay.”

You smile and roll your hips again, dragging the lace between your legs over the firm outline of his cock. You kiss along his jaw, down the column of his throat, mouthing at a spot above his collarbone until he shivers.

“You like that, don’t you?” you murmur against his skin.

“Yes,” he chokes, hips jerking upward. “Fuck—yes.”

You laugh softly as your hands slip under the hem of your top, peeling it off slowly and tossing it aside.

Spencer stares like a baby deer caught in headlights.

Your black lace bra is sheer, nipples already peaked beneath the fabric. You reach behind you, unclasp it with one practiced motion, and let the straps fall from your shoulders.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“Touch me,” you murmur.

His hands are shaking when they rise — gentle at first, tentative. He cups your breasts like he’s sure he might be dreaming. His thumbs brush over your nipples and you let out a soft moan, pressing forward into the touch.

“Harder, baby,” you whisper. “Don’t hold back.”

He obeys. His touch deepens, massaging one breast as he catches the nipple of the other between his thumb and forefinger, upping the pressure as he rolls and twists. His confidence grows.

And then his mouth replaces his hands.

His tongue is hesitant at first, then deliberate, then filthy. He sucks your nipple into his mouth and his teeth scrape, just barely, as you grind down against him in response.

“That mouth,” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair. “God, Spencer. You’re doing so well already, sweet boy.”

He groans into your skin, and you feel every twitch of his hips beneath you, the desperation in every movement.

“So good for me,” you murmur, letting your thumb trace the flush on his cheek. “Such a fast learner.”

He whines — helpless and sweet — and you cradle his jaw, bringing his face back up to meet yours to kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, before guiding his hand between your thighs. Your skirt slips higher, lace panties exposed, already damp.

You press his fingers down against the wet spot.

“Feel what you do to me,” you whisper. “I’ve been wet since the first time you kissed me tonight.”

You move his hand against the lace, helping him slide two fingers along your covered folds. He gasps when he feels how wet you are — not just damp, not just eager — soaked.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

“Not God,” you murmur cheekily, smirking as you kiss the corner of his mouth. “Just me.”

You draw his fingers upward to circle your clit once — slow, precise — and then pull his hand away.

Spencer watches, dazed, as you slide off his lap and lay down against the couch cushions, hiking your skirt up higher and moving your panties to the side. His breath shudders out in a long, low exhale, his eyes fixed on your bare core.

Then you touch yourself for him — slow, deliberate strokes, dragging through your slick and back up again to circle your clit. Your eyes never leave his.

“This is how I want you to touch me,” you murmur. “Not too fast. Just enough pressure. Like this, okay?”

He nods, transfixed.

You slide two fingers inside yourself, moaning softly, then draw them out again. You hold them up to him with a smirk.

“Want a taste?” you ask, voice thick.

He nods greedily.

“Say please, baby.”

“Please,” he whimpers.

You press your fingers to his mouth, and he sucks them in without hesitation. His tongue curls, eyes fluttering shut as he moans, licking you clean like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“Good boy,” you breathe, pulse skipping. “Taste how much I want you.”

He sucks harder. You see the way his hips shift — searching for something to rut into and failing. He’s panting now, tension coiled so tight you can feel it.

You pull your fingers from his mouth, slide your hand down, and curl your fingers around his wrist again.

“You try now,” you murmur.

You guide his hand back between your thighs and help him find your clit. His fingers are a little shaky, but you hold him there and let him feel the way your body responds beneath his touch.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Just like I showed you. You can go slow.”

He moves carefully, eyes flicking between your face and your core, trying to memorize every twitch and sound.

You sigh, low and breathless. “Good job, baby. Feels s’good.”

Your praise lands like a spark — his shoulders straighten, his strokes grow bolder, more confident. He draws tight little circles over your clit, then dips down, gathering more slick before coming back up again, mirroring your earlier actions.

“Jesus,” he breathes, staring at you. “You’re so wet.”

“For you, Spence,” you pant, arching into his touch. “I’m like this because of you.”

He groans, and you can feel the effort it takes for him to keep his hips still, to stay focused on you instead of chasing the heat building in his own body.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep going.”

“I want to,” he says eagerly. “I want to make you feel good. Please let me make you come. Please.”

God, does he sound desperate for it. You lean up just enough to kiss him messily before gently easing his hand away.

“And you will,” you murmur, shifting your legs open wider. “But not like this. Want you to do it with your mouth.”

His breath hitches. His pupils dilate. And within a few seconds, he’s nodding with excitement.

You smirk and hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them down slowly and letting them fall to the floor.

He’s between your thighs in a heartbeat — laid out on his stomach, elbows braced on the couch, arms wrapped around your thighs, chin tilted up and eyes locked on your cunt.

You run your fingers through his hair and smile down at him softly as you guide him closer. His warm, shaky breath ghosts over your skin.

“Start slow,” you whisper. “Use your tongue and lips together. Don’t overthink it. Just feel.”

He nods, then leans in.

The first lick is cautious — a single drag of his tongue from bottom to top — and he pauses at the end, waiting. When you shiver, he breathes out like he’s been given permission.

“Good,” you murmur. “So good, baby. Keep going.”

He does.

The second lick is more confident. By the third, he’s circling your clit with shaky precision — steadier each time.

“That’s it,” you breathe. “Such a fast learner, aren’t you, Spence?”

He groans — low and hungry — the sound vibrating through your deepest parts as he nods against your core.

And then he devours you.

There’s nothing careful about it now. His tongue moves in messy circles, his lips parting, mouth opening wider. He sucks at your clit and moans like a man possessed.

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders and his rhythm falters — gets sloppier, wetter, better. He’s all-in now, relentless, eating you out like he’s starving, like this is what he was made for. Like he’s been waiting his whole life to make you fall apart. He’s taking cues from your reactions — repeating his movements when you moan, experimenting with his tongue as your hand tightens in his hair, reading every twitch of your hips as if it’s an answer key.

“Oh, fuck—Spencer, YES. Good boy. My good boy.”

The words land heavy, and he whimpers loudly in response. His hands grip your thighs hard, and that’s when you feel it — the tension in his body, the way he’s moving. Subtle at first, then more desperate. You glance down and catch the flex of his hips as they grind into the couch cushion beneath him.

“Don’t stop,” you pant. “Don’t you fucking stop, Spence. You’re doing so good for me. ‘M so close.”

He groans — guttural — as his lips close around your clit once more, and your orgasm rips through you like heat lightning. It hits all at once, spine arching, thighs locking tight around his head as you cry out his name, shuddering through it.

He doesn’t let up. His tongue keeps moving, soft but focused, even as you writhe under him. The aftershocks roll through you, deep and dizzying.

Somewhere in the haze you hear it — a quiet, choked sound. A sharp inhale. A low groan.

You don’t register what it means until you feel him go still. His arms lock. His mouth freezes.

When he finally lifts his head, his face is flushed and slick, lips swollen, and his eyes…

His eyes are wide. Embarrassed. Almost guilty.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” he stammers, voice wrecked. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t— I just—”

You blink, confused for a moment before it hits you:

Spencer Reid, your perfect, sweet boyfriend, just came in his pants, completely untouched.

Came. In. His. Pants.

Untouched.

Your heart stutters.

“Oh,” you whisper. “Spence.”

He flinches. “I’m so sorry—”

“Hey.” You sit up a bit, still breathless, and reach down to cradle his face between your palms. His skin is hot — not just blushing, but burning.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, voice low but sure. “Please look at me.”

He does, barely.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

He blinks. “What?”

You smile. “That mouth of yours just gave me an orgasm that made me see stars. And then you came in your pants just from eating me out? That’s so hot, Spence.”

He swallows, stunned. His gaze softens. The worry’s still there, but it’s quieter now. His eyes shine.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, straightening his glasses and smoothing his hair. “You’re more than okay.”

You guide him up, help him collapse against your chest, your fingers still threading through his hair as his breath slows. He’s quiet, pliant, curled into you like a lazy puppy.

Eventually he shifts, wincing a little at the sticky mess in his pants.

You giggle.

“C’mon,” you murmur, kissing his temple. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You tug him gently off the couch and take his hand, leading him toward the bathroom. He hesitates, glancing down at the wet stain on his slacks, embarrassment rising again, but you squeeze his fingers and smile.

“Don’t look so ashamed,” you whisper. “You made a mess because you were too turned on by me to stop. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, baby.”

You lean in, lips brushing his neck.

"It's incredibly sexy.”

He groans softly — part laugh, part surrender.

“We’re not done, you know,” you add as you push open the bathroom door. “That was just your first lesson.”

He swallows hard. “N-not done?”

You shake your head as you step closer, fingers unfastening his belt with ease, and press a wet kiss just below his ear.

Your lips curve.

“You’ve still got so much to learn.”

ᝰ.ᐟ

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masterlist

[ripoutmyinsides]

[ripoutmyinsides]

Can You Babysit Tonight?

girldad!clark kent x reader

summary: You decide to pull the “Can you babysit?” prank on your very devoted husband Clark — who is so confused, so offended, and maybe just a little bit dramatic about it.

a/n: baby leia again! in tears because of girldad!clark and the ever gnawing longing for clark kent and his children

also: any more funny pranks to pull on clark? you and leia are aging him (stressed out dad forever!!)

The moment is perfect.

Leia is strapped snug in her bouncer, chewing serenely on the tail of her stuffed (bat)cow. Clark is in the kitchen in full Dad Mode — apron on, sleeves rolled up, gently stirring something on the stove with one hand while bouncing Leia’s bouncer just so with his foot.

You sit on the couch and casually open your phone, pretending to scroll. You hit record.

“Hey babe,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Can you babysit Leia tonight? I want to run a few errands.”

Clark pauses mid-stir.

Turns his body slowly towards you like he had a stiff neck.

“Can I... what?”

You blink innocently. “Babysit. Just for a couple hours. I’ll be back before bedtime.”

He squints, the wooden spoon still in hand like a weapon of betrayal.

“You want me to babysit... my own daughter?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Just for tonight.”

Clark gasps like you slapped him with a diaper.

“Is this—are you filming me?!”

You grin. The not-so-subtle phone camera in his direction gives you away.

“You ARE!” he points at you accusingly. “You’re doing the TikTok thing. I knew it. I’ve seen this. Bruce sent me one last week and said ‘This’ll be you.’ I said, ‘No. I am a grown man. A father. That could never be me.’ AND YET—” He gestures wildly to the kitchen.

Leia, delighted by the sudden performance, lets out a happy screech and flails both arms in support of her father’s monologue.

Clark turns to her. “Did you hear what your mother said? Babysit. Like I’m the backup. Like I’m a part-time uncle who pops in from time to time! Like...like Kara!”

Leia blows a raspberry.

He nods solemnly. “Exactly.”

You’re now fully laughing, tears stinging your eyes as Clark keeps going.

“I changed sixteen diapers last week. Sixteen. I tracked them.” He looks down and points the wooden spoon at your daughter, “I burped you while writing an article. I once flew across four time zones with only one pacifier and a dream. And now—babysit.”

He crosses his arms, staring at you with the full judgment of an overcaffeinated PTA mom.

You finally stop recording and set your phone down. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It was a prank!”

He points at you again. “Tell TikTok I live here.”

You walk over, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your chin on his chest. “Okay. But seriously, will you watch her for an hour so I can go to Target in peace?”

He eyes you suspiciously.

“Yes,” he mutters. “But only because she just smiled at me, and I think I’d die for her.”

You reach up to kiss his cheek. “Knew it.”

Behind you, Leia lets out another delighted squeal and throws the stuffed cow on the floor like she, too, is deeply passionate about your betrayal.

[ripoutmyinsides]

go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo

Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!

WC: 7.7k

After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.

Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky? 

“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.

It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.

You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.

It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.

And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people. 

But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought. 

Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.

All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does. 

But you can’t think about that right now.

Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.

Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.

No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.

But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.

You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.

When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.

“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.

You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.

You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong. 

Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”

You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.

“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”

Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”

Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.

Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.

Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.

She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”

You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.

“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.

“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.

You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.

You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.

“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”

You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”

She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.

“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.

“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”

“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.

Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.

+++

Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.

One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.

You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.

You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.

“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”

Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.

“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”

Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.

You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.

You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.

When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.

“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.

“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.

You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”

“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”

You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”

“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”

And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.

“For what?” you whisper.

“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”

“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”

“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”

It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.

“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”

You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.

“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”

His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”

You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.

But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”

You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”

He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”

Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.

+++

Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.

Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.

Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.

The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.

You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.

Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.

“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”

He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”

“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”

“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”

“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”

“I think so too.”

“Did you two talk?”

You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”

“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”

You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”

He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.

Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.

Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.

“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”

“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”

He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”

“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”

“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”

It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.

You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.

Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.

“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”

“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”

“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.

“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”

“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”

“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”

You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”

“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.

“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”

It’s just that.

You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”

“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”

Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”

“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”

You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces. 

You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever. 

That’s Clark. 

That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent. 

And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”

His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”

“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”

He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.

+++

The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.

Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!

You don’t listen to them.

But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.

“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”

You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.

“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.

“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”

“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”

“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”

“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”

You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.

“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.

He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.

“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”

He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”

+++

You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.

Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.

You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?

No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.

When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.

It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.

But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.

“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. 

He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.

So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?

You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.

Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.

“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You believe her. It will be okay.

You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”

“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.

“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.

“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”

“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.

Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.

Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.

You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.

Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.

You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.

Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.

A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.

You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.

You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.

You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.

“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”

As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.

You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice. 

You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.

Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.

“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. ���I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”

“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”

You can’t help it, you start giggling. 

“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”

“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”

You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”

Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”

“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”

He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.” 

“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”

“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”

“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”

“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”

Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”

“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”

“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”

“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”

“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”

“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”

“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”

“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”

“On flying quieter?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”

“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

“What?”

“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”

“Clark--”

“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”

“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”

You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.

“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?” 

He shrugs. “Of course he can.”

“Are you sure?” you ask again.

And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave. 

“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”

“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”

“Exactly!”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”

“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”

“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”

“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Your breath hitches.

“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”

“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.” 

“Oh, it’s a competition now?”

“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”

“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”

“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”

“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.

Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.

You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.

And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away. 

“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more. 

“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered. 

His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”

“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”

“No, she loved us.”

“Maybe you, she was your cow.”

He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”

“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.