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willow-is-a-nerd · 1 day ago

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e.t. pt 5 // (not) Clark Kent

*If you’d like to read, please check out part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 first :)

summary: You are a scientist that is assigned to a top-secret government facility that houses an extraterrestrial subject to learn more about where he came from. In this he is not Clark Kent or Superman, just Kal-El. Martha and John did not find him, but the government did.

content warnings: (please refer to warnings in part 1 as it lists the general themes throughout this story) angst (reader being yelled at, feeling guilty, pleading), reader is insulted based on being female (once), emotional distress, sudden loud noises/power outage, separation

word count: 2.4k+

pairing: female!scientist!reader x Kal-El the last son of Krypton

Over the past few days, you had lost track of exactly how many words Clark had learned to say. At first, it was just a few at a time. Simple things like yes or no.

But now his vocabulary had bloomed into tiny broken fragments of thought. His voice settled into a deep tone that was still cautious and hesitant but with every syllable he seemed to be getting the hang of it.

“Game?” He asked you as you had settled into his cell one morning. That made you laugh.

“How did you know? You’re so smart,” you tell him, smiling as you sit down and take a box of checkers from your bag.

He grins happily as he joins you on the floor. Like always, he caught onto the concept quickly. He studied the black and red pieces intently, and you always found yourself having to force away the thoughts about how adorable he was.

You find yourself staring at him as your thoughts trail off to those inappropriate, unprofessional, and honestly terrifying ones where you admire his cuteness. You are only tore away from them as he skips over two of your pieces, capturing them as he moves them to his side of the board.

You force your eyes away as you let out a dramatic gasp. “You’re getting too good at this.”

The corners of his mouth curve into the small, boyish smile you had grown to enjoy seeing. He didn’t laugh yet, the concept was too foreign to him. For now though that smile was enough to make your heart skip.

Over the next hour the both of you continue to play game after game. When he lost, he didn’t pout or even look upset. Instead he just studied the board with a slightly intense focus, tilting his head. It looked like he was reflecting on what he did wrong. When he won, his eyes flickered up to yours as if he was seeking approval.

You watch as he wins another round, seemingly pleased with himself. A wave of familiar guilt begins to creep up like it had many times already. It would be one thing if he was an oblivious being that didn’t understand what was going on around him. But he wasn’t. He was highly intelligent, aware of so many things and trapped within a confined space for his whole life.

“Are you bored?” You ask, your brows furrowed slightly. You were referring to the game at the moment, but really your question could apply to his wellbeing in general.

His eyes flicker to yours once more as he immediately looks taken back, like he was in shock you would ask such a thing.

“No,” he says quickly, remembering what you explained bored to be. In reality the best parts of his day were with you. He wishes they would never end. “I like game. I like you.”

Your heart stutters at his words as you nod and force a small smile.

“Okay. I like you too,” you tell him. You go to pick up your bag as you search through it and he watches curiously. “I didn’t really know what to bring. Mostly just random things.” You tell him. You take out a Rubik’s cube and put it into his hands. You show him the basic concept of it as he begins to shift it around.

“Hard,” he mutters after a moment as his eyes are trained on it. His face is adorable.

You cough slightly, nodding.

“Very hard,” you agree. “Most people can’t solve them. I can’t”

He seems to relax slightly at your words, almost as if you were giving him permission to not be good at something.

But in under another minute, all six sides are solid colors as he’s solved it. It shouldn’t surprised you at this point but it still does as your mouth opens slightly.

“Wow, Clark. You did it.”

Your voice is soft as he simply places it back in your hands.

After a few more hours, you force yourself up off the floor. You give him a soft, sad smile as you tell him goodnight.

Each night, the time you left became later and later. It was becoming increasingly more difficult to leave him.

His chest aches as his gaze follows you. His head tilts, a flicker of something unreadable on his mind as he stands. You turn toward the door, your bag on your shoulder before your heart skips. Clark had reached out and gently grasped your wrist. It was warm, large, and impossibly gentle as it wrapped around your smaller hand.

You freeze, breath catching in your throat as you look over your shoulder. He looks over you with his broad frame as his eyes intensely searched yours.

“Where?” He asked, his voice quiet.

The question was simple but you knew what he meant. Where do you go when you leave me?

You swallow as guilt rises inside of you. “I go home,” you admit softly. “To my own place.”

Something in his expression shifted, but it’s not anger or blame. It was just… longing. The kind that hurt to look at.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I hate leaving you here. I hate that you can’t… that things aren’t fair.” Your throat tightens as you just want to pull him into a hug. “I just wish it could be different.”

His hand never tightened around yours. He just held you there as his eyes searched your face.

Carefully, he tries his best to select words. “What word is for you?”

You blink, confused as your brow furrows slightly. “You know my name, Clark.” You tell him softly as a soft smile finds its way on your lips.

He shakes his head. “No. Not name.”

He is quiet again as he tries to put what he is asking into words. His expression is confused and frustrated until he speaks again. “I like your face. What word for it?”

The air catches in your throat. Your heart felt like it practically melted as what he was asking started to sink in. He was trying to call you pretty.

You feel flustered, even shy under his gaze now as you force yourself to respond. “Pretty.”

His lips curve as the fainted hint of a smile tugs at them. “Pretty,” he repeats carefully.

Moments later, you are walking through the admin wing on your way out before you spot Dr. Smith leaving his office. He was the person in charge of all of this.

You hurry across the floor as you try to catch up to him.

“Dr. Smith,” you call, causing him to almost let a groan slip. “I was hoping we could speak for a moment. I have been trying to leave messages.”

He unlocks his office one more and holds open the door for you.

“Good evening, doctor,” he greets you although his tone is weary. “I do hope this conversation won’t be long.”

You step into his office as he follows. You open your mouth to speak, ask about what really happened that night before he speaks first.

“Have you found anything about Krypton yet?” He asks, settling back down into his desk.

Your heart skips, remembering that is what you’re here to do.

“Yes,” you lie quickly. “I am currently typing up my findings. I will share them with you as soon as they are finished.”

He nods.

“But Dr. Smith, I just have to ask about something.” You continue. “It says in Kal-El’s file that he was found the night of the crash, correct?”

The doctors eyes flicker up to your face, a puzzled look on his expression.

“Yes,” he answers simply, wondering what you were getting at.

“I have done a little research, and I think truly understanding him and the place he is from requires full transparency. I need to know his life, everything that happened to him. I found that-“

You are cut off by his stern tone.

“I really hope you are not going where I think you are, doctor,” his voice drips with a mocking tone as he addressed your title. “What you are speaking of is highly classified information. It is to protect everyone involved. The alien was found in his capsule that night.”

Your chest burns as he easily lies. “But-“

You are cut off once again, this time his tone even more firm.

“Enough. If we are being transparent right now, you were not my first choice for this study. You weren’t even my second. I warned the panel that a female in this position was a bad idea, that your feelings would be a roadblock in this delicate job.”

Your whole body burns at his insulting words, but you clench your jaw because you knew if you snapped, you would be removed from the study and would never see Clark again.

“Now, I suggest you take the fine tooth comb you have been using to rake through the government’s history and use it to skim your contract. You have seemed to forgotten the details of your assignment. And I expect your findings to be turned in Monday morning. Do I make myself clear, or should I find someone else equally, if not more, qualified?” He continues.

You swallow, rage coursing through your veins as you have to force a response.

“Yes, Dr. Smith.”

The next day, you scan your badge as you walk into the lab that held evidence. You knew that it would probably be a good idea to at least find something out about Krypton. Your job practically depended on it now that you had a reports due.

The guy at the counter straightens as he sees you. He stands up, almost stumbling over his feet as his eyes stay on your face.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He asks.

Your eyebrow raises slightly. “Doctor,” you correct him. “I need to pull piece 6724954.” You tell him, repeating the code for the strange stone that was found on Clark’s ship included in his file.

He nods, but quickly stops as he looks at you.

“Okay, of course. Do you have an authorization code?”

Shit. You keep a straight face as your eyes narrow.

“I believe every moment we’re standing here in interfering with a time sensitive government investigation. I would hate to have to call Dr. Smith,” you try to say as confidently as you can.

You are shocked when he disappears quickly into the back. Your bullshit threat worked.

He returns moments later with a sealed bag that had a white label on the front. He had you sign it out as you quickly took the plastic bag and shoved it into your own.

You walk down to Clark’s cell as you begin the process to get in.

He is waiting eagerly of course as you give him a small smile. You sigh in relief at the sight of him.

“Hi,” he greets you with a small grin. “Good night?”

“Morning,” you smile. “We greet each other with good morning, and say bye with saying goodnight.” You remind him as he nods, locking that into his memory.

You begin your usual routine as you sit with him. He had requested more pictures of you, so you decided to print some out and bring in a stack.

His eyes light up as he takes the huge stack quickly, accepting them like they were the best gift in the entire world.

As he flips through your photos, you pull out the bag that contained the stone as you stare at it. You sigh.

“They found this with your ship,” you explain to him. You open the package as you take it in your hand. It is small, surprisingly heavy, slightly course, and has an unfamiliar emblem on the front. Your brows furrow as you study it in person. “It sort of looks like an S. I know you were just a baby, but this doesn’t look familiar to you, does it?”

When he doesn’t reply, you look up to him to find him staring intently at a picture. Your eyes fall to the picture as you notice it’s one of you in a bathing suit at the beach with plenty of skin showing.

“Clark,” you say sternly, your body burning as you have to hold back a laugh. His eyes move up to your face, but his expression holds no regret, bashfulness, or any trace of feeling like he’d been caught.

“Yes?” He asks. He sets the stack of pictures down, wanting to give you his full attention.

You grin, realizing how innocent he really was. “I asked you about this.”

You hold it out to him as he stares at it for a moment.

His fingers brush yours as he takes it. His large hand envelopes it as it falls flat into his palm.

His brows furrowed, confusion etched across his face. He didn’t seem to recognize it.

Then, all at once, the symbol began to glow.

A bright gold light flickered out from the carved surface and casted the room in a sharp glow. The air around both of you trembled with energy as a rumbling hum filled the space.

Your breathing catches as the rising pitch thunders in your chest. Clark’s head snaps up toward you immediately as he moves closer, taking your arm in a protective instinct.

The hum built to a loud roar and then, with one final flash, the lights died out. It left you both in the dark as you sat in silence.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke as your heart pounded in your chest. Clark’s hand still held you gently as if he was preparing to take on whatever might come next.

But nothing did. Only silence.

Hours later, you find yourself in Dr. Smith’s office. Your hands shake as your heart hammers. The stone had been confiscated and Clark had been contained.

Dr. Smith’s face was a deep red as he tore into you. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he barked.

“I just wanted to-“

“Don’t you dare,” he cut you off, jabbing a finger toward you. “You removed classified evidence without clearance. And thanks to whatever that alien did with your little stunt, the power grid in six states is offline. Six. Highways, hospitals, entire cities in the dark. And no one has any idea how to fix it.”

Your throat burned as you tried to explain. “I didn’t know that would happen. He didn’t either. Please, just let me-“

“Enough!” He booms. “You are lucky I don’t have you locked up in a cell until we figure out what just happened. You don’t understand the level of this, and frankly, you’ve proven you can’t be trusted.”

Your chest burned as you shake your head. “Please, don’t do this. I can help. He trusts me.”

“You are dismissed, doctor. You are very lucky I don’t change my mind and have you put in prison. Now leave before I do.”

notes: OKAY, I KNOW THIS ONE WAS SAD TOO. But I promise I think you’ll really like the next part ;)

Thank you for reading ily muah💋

taglist: @dmgsuki @foxin5billion @ul4lume @pretty-royals @stardrama @willow-is-a-nerd @anti-heroesanonymous @soupiemeowmeow @ghostreadersthings @love-anonymous-writer @mac-and-cheese21 @dreamlesssleepsaga @juleshadalittlelamb @monsterymoth @boba-is-a-soup @loudpiratepirate @kissmxcheek @clonesdserveb3tter @loveelylani @jackierose902109 @wpdarlingpan

#HOLYYYY

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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CLARK KENT

one-shots:

⟢ vanilla cookies (tooth-rotting fluff, neurodivergent + baker reader, clark is impossibly smitten with you) 9.7k

⟢ you hide your injuries from him (humourous turned serious, hurt/comfort, lots of grovelling, clark was indirectly the cause of your pain) 6.7k

⟢ you’re going to be the death of me (sick fic + pregnancy fic, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff) 5.7k

⟢ he is touch starved (tooth-rotting fluff, Clark Kent is an idiot (an idiot in love), weird girl reader, size difference, etc) 5.5k

⟢ (you think) he doesn't like you back (unrequited crush, misunderstandings, heartbreak, angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending) 5.6k ⟢ part two: clark meets your ex, josh. he's not very happy about that (protective clark, angry clark) 1.2k

⟢ crash landing on you (meet-cute, canon-divergent, fluff, domesticity, open ending) 5.3k

headcanons:

⟢ he's your older bf (age gap, soft dom! clark, fluff) 1k

#reading list

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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going through what clark listened to in his CD collection

got me revisiting to some Iron & Wine.. why didn’t i remember that album being so horny??

CLARK??! HELLO??!?

#this cd collection is so...#attractive...#hehehe #hes soooo small town boy

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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i just want everyone to know

#oh dont mind me #just clenching my chest #at how perfect clark kent is

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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i am not okay, i love everything about him

#this is so devastating #i wont recover #hes everything

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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struggling w my perfectionism and just posting my fanfics bc they dont need to be perfect its just a hobby!! but also knowing i could do better!!!! wtv i just need to write more to improve😭🙏🙏🙏

#writing a 10th grade lvl at my big age #art was always my strong suit..💔

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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BACK TO ME | Clark Kent ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

pairing: clark kent x f!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, angst, semi-song fic, pathetic!clark, groveling!clark, stubborn!reader, no use of y/n, italic flashbacks, clark stalks your social media, use of words insane/insanity, smut, afab!reader, fingering, piv, oral(f!receiving), creampie, slight body worship, body type not specified, no beta we die like men

summary: reader and clark argue about whether or not it’s safe for superman to have a partner. cue breakup and a distraught clark.

word count: 7.7k

a/n: disclaimer I’m nawwwt someone who writes often but I’ve been so obsessed with this song lately. just imagined a clark fic with it and screamed so loud I knew had to write it. ended up way longer than planned...

“I just don’t know if this is healthy,” Clark sighs out, his right hand rubbing the back of his neck while he refuses to look at you. You had just shown up to his apartment, like you always did, but instead of a smile and a hug, Clark was waiting for you at the door with a strained expression and crossed arms. You had just put your purse down when he broke the news that he wanted to break up.

“We seem pretty healthy to me.” You argue, lip quivering, the sinking feeling of your heart giving away to a dull numbness as you study his face and realize something. His expression is unmoving. He’s completely serious.

“I just don’t know if this is healthy,” Clark sighs out, his right hand rubbing the back of his neck while he refuses to look at you. You had just shown up to his apartment, like you always did after a long day. Because Clark was home. But when you opened the familiar sleek modern doorknob to his apartment, eyes groggy and arms ready to wrap around Clark’s firm torso, your smile dropped a bit at the sight that greeted you. Clark was waiting for you at the door with a strained expression and crossed arms. Lights dimly lit like they usually were when he was upset. Gingerly placing your purse down on the floor, you crossed your arms as well, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the strange tension in the air before you even got a chance to say anything. That was when Clark had said he wanted to break up.

“We are, we were.” He corrects himself, making you furrow your brows and scoff, “But Lex threatened me today when I was out there fighting. He said he was going to find all of my loved ones to get to me, and my first thought was you.” He takes a few steps forward to cup your face in his big hands. Looking down at you like you’re his world despite saying just seconds ago he wanted to give that all up.

And despite how distraught you are and how you’re barely processing the conversation, you let him. Because up until a few moments ago he was your Clark. He still felt like your Clark.

Your Clark that took you on picnic dates. Your Clark that stayed by your side for a whole weekend when you caught a cold. Your Clark that let you stop on the street to pet every dog you saw, no matter how anxious he was about making it to your dinner reservation. Your Clark that said ‘I love you’ a week into your relationship because he was just so sure about you.

“You didn’t think to consult me before just dumping me?” You spit out, swatting his hand away from your face as your mind settles back into reality. This was stupid. He’s suddenly scared that you would get hurt when it had always been a risk? Like you didn’t already know that? “I think I get a say in whether I’m willing to accept the risk that Lex might use me as bait one day. I would have been, if you just asked.”

Hurt flashes on his face as you swat him away. But a frustrated look replaced it in an instant. Why couldn’t you get it? The stakes were higher now, sure the threat was always looming, but it was real now. He was sure Lex Luthor already knew he was Clark Kent. Unless it was just an empty threat to psych him out— in which case he didn’t want to admit it worked.

“You think I want this? I want to be with you. But I’ve seen what Lex does to his captives. I can’t let you risk being in that kind of danger by being with me.” Clark waves an hand around before placing it on his hip, voice raising as he grows more and more irritated. You would have laughed at how sassy he looked if it weren’t for your heart breaking. So you grunt in frustration instead.

“Why? Why can’t you risk that if you want to be with me so badly?” You challenge, pacing across his floor in an attempt to avoid looking at him. Because if you look at him it will get too real, and your heart will break more than it already has. You can’t see him, but you can hear him groan and imagine that he’s probably brought his hand to his massage his temples. And sure enough, when you turn around, he is.

“Because it’s selfish, alright? It’s—” Clark practically yells out despite himself. Catching himself, he inhales slowly, letting his chest rise and fall before continuing, “It’s selfish of me to want something like this when- when I swore to myself to protect everyone on Earth that I could. You’re part of that.” There’s a slight whimper in his voice at that last sentence. But before you can get too hung up on it, you spin back around to pick up your purse. Gathering enough courage to face him, you look right into his pleading blue eyes. Pleading for you to understand where he’s coming from and not leave him like this— with anger and hostility hanging around the air between you.

But you’d made up your mind. You were stubborn. Clark knows that. Clark loves that. He loves the way you could be so stubborn, it hurt. That when you set your mind to something, you wouldn’t budge no matter what. He just never thought you’d be so stubborn about something like this.

“Fine. You want to end this? Let’s end this.” Your gaze is steady despite your vision blurring with tears, only breaking eye contact to fish through your purse, “Goodbye, Clark.” The words come out soft. Despite everything, you could do at least that much to mitigate the tension between the two of you. Just before you leave, you place what you had dug out of your purse on the side table by his door.

“Wait, I—” Clark starts, but it was too late. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say anyway. The door closes, and he can hear your footsteps marching down the hallway at an intense pace. A brief thought of catching up to you and taking his words back flashes through his mind, but his feet are planted on the ground. His gaze lands on his side table, and he steps forward to pick up whatever it was you had set down.

When he opens his hand up to see what the object was, his heart aches, and regret creeps up on his face. A dull pang of shame sweeps across his body, as it wasn’t one object, but two. Matching sun and moon rings. The wider sun ring meant for him, and the delicate moon ring meant for you. He closes his eyes and remembers a day you had brought up the celestial bodies randomly.

“You know, we’re kinda like the sun and moon.” You had said one summer day, laying on Clark’s lap as he read a book on the couch. He glanced down from his book for a split second to look at you.

“Yeah? How?” He asked, humoring you but also being a bit curious about what you meant as well. You sat up from his lap, earning a brief frown from him. The frown went away quickly as you took his free hand in yours and leant your head on his shoulder.

“I was just thinking about how you get your powers from the sun. Then it got me thinking about how you’re a ray of sunshine yourself. But I’m not as nice or as warm as you—” You started, and he interrupted with a scoff, offended on your behalf.

“Now that’s just not true.” He shook his head, and you shushed him with a smile, lifting your head up so you could face your body towards him.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is— you bring the best out of me. Like how the moonlight is a reflection of the sun’s light, I like to think my good qualities are highlighted by just… being around you.” You say, gently pushing his book down with your hand and using it to turn his chin towards you. You had wondered if he was listening, but by the wild blush that was evident on his face when he faced you, you knew he was. And he knew, just as he was leaning down to kiss you— at your sweet words and your soft gaze— that he was definitely in love with you.

“Darn it.” Clark lets out a devastated sob, plopping onto his couch with the rings resting coolly on the palm of his hand. He cautiously brings them up to his face to inspect them. When he notices how the hollowed out part of the moon fit right onto the curve of the sun, locking the rings together in a secure hug, he loses his composure. His singular sob a gateway to a whole stream of them, unending as he leans forward to cover his face with his hands, like maybe that would make it go away.

Like maybe if he closes his eyes hard enough, he’d open them back up to when you entered his apartment. He’d say he’s going to order food from your favorite takeout place, and watch as your face lights up because he knows you’ve been craving it. He’d take your bag for you instead of let you drop it on the ground. He’d do anything but break up with you. He knew that was a mistake now.

But it was too late. The second that door closed he knew you were never going to contact him again. You were never going to look at him again with that bright, adoring look you saved only for him when you were both alone in his apartment. You were never going to bring him treats from your favorite bake shop again. The thought of that alone made him want to fly up past the clouds and never come back down.

But he had to stay. He had to, because he had to stay and protect Earth, protect you.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴

Five months. Half a year. 182 days, give or take.

That’s how long it’s been since that day. Clark hasn’t been the same since. His work at the Daily Bugle was getting more sloppy, and everyone could notice. Deadlines weren’t being met, he doesn’t even bother getting his work edited before turning it in. The only things he got right were his Superman interviews, and even those started becoming less and less frequent.

“I’m sure it’s just a slump, buddy.” Jimmy had said to him on a particularly rough day. Perry didn’t outright say anything to Clark, but he gave him a disappointed look when Clark turned in another article a day late.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Clark grumbled, trying to brush it off and seem like he was fine. Like he wasn’t still aching on the inside. Like he hadn’t been waking up every morning with shame and regret rolling over him in waves. Like he hadn’t been thinking of you every night and, despite knowing it was kinda creepy, stalking your social media once in a while. But he couldn’t help it. You were only getting more and more beautiful with each post, and he would wish to be there with you everywhere you posted from. Out for drinks with friends, on a trip to the beach, or even just your apartment.

Meanwhile you were coping in your own, strange, slightly worrying way.

You frequented the coffee shop by your apartment more often, no longer able to look around your apartment and ignore the fact you saw traces of Clark everywhere. A scratch on your coffee table from the time he dropped and broke a mug. He had apologized profusely and promised to buy you a new mug. And now you can’t be anywhere near your living room without reliving that, and countless other memories of playing Mario Kart, winning over board games because he lets you win, and watching cheesy rom coms on days where you can’t be bothered to do anything else.

So here you are, depleting your money every week just to avoid thinking of him. Even though it’s your own apartment, and everything that he left there was stuffed in a box you shoved in the back of your closet to forget about.

You haven’t forgotten about it.

Stirring your latte absentmindedly with one hand, the other is clicking mindlessly on your laptop, unsure of what it wants to find. Your work is done for now, but you’re stalling because you don’t want to go back home. Because your mind is racing a mile a minute at the fact that a notification just popped up on your phone screen that @mghty_clrkjy just liked your most recent story post on Instagram. You always notice him viewing your stories, but never thought he’d have the nerve to like one. And you chastised yourself for the butterflies that took flight in your stomach.

But you just sigh. It had been five months now. Maybe he’s over it, and you’re acting like a child by frequenting this coffee shop just to avoid thinking about him. You don’t even like the coffee that much. Even your friends were starting to get worried, as you started declining invites out more and more, claiming you didn’t have enough money for anything other than coffee these days.

Gathering your belongings to leave, you’re too engrossed in your own mind to notice the commotion outside. The sound of debris hitting the window is drowned out by your soundproof headphones and sad indie music. The coffee shop is slightly emptier than usual, but you think nothing of it. Most of the patrons go home around this time anyway, the sky darkening slightly as the light became golden, shadows from the skyscrapers stretching longer than usual.

A barista cowers behind the counter and tries calling out to you as you opened the door, but your headphones muffle her out. As you step out onto the concrete, you hear the barista yell once more and twist your neck slightly to shoot a confused glance at her. You took your headphones off and pulled them around your neck. Had you forgotten something? No, your phone was in your pocket, you could feel it. And your purse was snug on your shoulder— oh no.

You realize what was wrong after hearing a loud bang, and you instinctively duck down, covering your head. You were used to this, everyone was. Another threat to Metropolis that the metahumans were surely fighting. There’s barely enough time for you to turn back around to hide in the coffee shop when another boom erupts, louder than the last one— and closer. Then before you know it you’re staring at a huge piece of metal debris flying straight towards you. But you’re only able to shut your eyes and begin to fold yourself in half as you try— and fail— to accept death right there, until you feel a grip around you that’s all too familiar.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s Clark— Superman— that saved you from imminent death. Despite your vow to never talk to or even look in his direction again, survival instincts take over and lean in towards him with eyes squeezed shut, arms around his neck as you fly across the street and onto your apartment rooftop. If only to avoid dropping to your death. Not because of other reasons.

It’s only when your feet reunite with solid ground that you open your eyes, looking up at Clark for time since your breakup. And you don’t expect him to look at you with such an alarming amount of worry and concern. It was a bit off putting, seeing Superman look so worried when he’s supposed to instill a sense of hope and security. But there he was, holding you out by your arms, eyes wildly scanning your figure for any injuries.

You pull away from him first with a gulp, hand rushing to your hair and fixing it as you look examine him. He looks the same. The same chiseled, perfect, nervous, Clark. Was looking at you in sweatpants and a normal shirt. You had hoped when you did run into him next, you’d look better than you do right now. Just to make him regret it more.

But you forget— Clark Kent thinks you look perfect no matter what you’re wearing. In fact, he missed seeing you like this most of all. Casual and unsuspecting. So right now, he’s regretting his life decisions just a little bit more. Scratch that— way more.

He backs up slowly, eyes still on you, before launching himself up in the air and back into battle, leaving you to be a confused, dazed mess all by yourself. Without a single word exchanged between the two of you.

╴╴╴╴╴⊹ꮺ˚ ╴╴╴╴╴

Clark was losing his mind.

It’s only been three days since your last encounter, and he is going insane because of it. The worst part is, he’s sure you were feeling indifferent about it. Maybe even mad at him over it. Mad he had the nerve to touch you, even if it was to save your life.

But seeing you almost get hurt, it had changed something in him. Because what if he hadn’t gotten to you in time? He shutters just thinking about it. He realizes, no— knows he has to take you back, even if he has to beg and plead on his knees to get you to even begrudgingly say yes. Because what would he do with himself if you ever got in trouble and he wasn’t there?

So he makes the brash decision to fly to your apartment tonight.

You weren’t expecting anything. How could you have? Tonight was meant as a mental break for you to relax, and hopefully get your heart to stop racing. It had been beating quicker than usual lately, picking up every-time you reminded yourself of Clark saving you three days ago. So to cool down, you were laying on the couch, a thin blanket laying on your lap as you scrolled through streaming services for something entertaining enough to take your mind off things.

With your clouded mind, you almost don’t notice the floating blob of primary colors floating outside your window, brushing it off as being sleep deprived and driven half to insanity. All you could think about was Clark lately, maybe it wasn’t much of a stretch to think your mind was hallucinating him now.

But as you hear a rap on your window, you realize your mind wasn’t making things up. And you groan, annoyed, passaging your temples with your eyes shut. You really would rather have gone insane than be greeted with this bullshit. Really? Now? The universe was clearly playing some sick joke on you. Clark Kent was not hovering outside your apartment window as Superman right now.

You make a show of rolling your eyes before walking over to your window with heavy feet, opening it with a slam that might have woken the neighbors. Despite how cold you wish you could be towards him, Clark’s presence just radiated warmth in a way that you couldn't shield yourself from on account of being exhausted and vulnerable. You step aside and let him in, watching as he effortlessly floats in, something he used to do often. Your instinct was to walk up and greet him with a kiss— you were about to start making your way toward him— and he looks like he’s expecting it. Until a distant car honk snaps both of you back to reality.

“Old habits die hard, huh?” Clark says with a cautious smile, and you only shake your head with crossed arms. The movement making the smile fall off his face.

“Why are you here, Clark?” The words hit him like arrows through his heart. He didn’t expect anything from you, respecting the fact that you didn’t owe him kind words just because he saved you. That was his job. But it still stung the sensitive man in him to know you didn’t let it slide for him.

“I’m gonna get straight to the point,” He says, chest falling and rising slowly as he steadies himself, eyes darting to the floor before they land on yours. “I came here to ask to be your boyfriend. Again. If you’ll have me.” You stilled at the words, your heart dropping. Of course he had to ask in that charming selfless way. Not, “Will you be my girlfriend?” or saying you’ll be back with him like its a statement.Just, “if you’ll have me.”

“What?” Is the only thing able to come out, the shock and exhaustion and emotions heavy on your mind and body.

“Yes, I… I messed up that night I told you we should break up. I regretted my words the second you stormed out of my apartment—”

“I like to think I left rather gracefully, actually.”

“Sorry.” He winces, “But… seeing you the other day… the fact I barely swooped down in time to save you… It made me realize something. I don’t care. I don’t care if it’s selfish of me to want you by my side, to keep you safe next to me. Lex Luthor can pry you from my cold, dead hands. There’s no way I’d ever let him anywhere near you. I see that now, that I was underestimating myself. I was insecure. I thought I wasn’t strong enough to save you when it mattered. But I realize now that I am. I am capable of saving you, and I was too stupid to see that you knew that too. That’s why you looked so sad. Because I should have just shut up and loved you the way you wanted me to.” He spirals, his usually straight posture as Superman making way to the hunched one he wears as Clark Kent, if only to meet your gaze as he winds himself up with his words.

You’re too stunned to do anything else but let him speak. Stutters of a sentence that doesn’t exist leave your mouth, eyes widening in shock when he drops to his knees. Shuffling forward to gently grab your hand, he encases it between both of his before looking up at you with eyebrows tilted up.

“Please, baby. I can’t do this without you. I wake up every day regretting that night. I haven’t been able to think straight for the past five months. You’re the first thing I think about in the morning and… and the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. You always have been.” He searches your expression, voice faltering to whimpers, “It’s been absolute torture, please.” He whimpers your name out loud like a prayer. “Please take me back. Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll take you out to dinner every day for the next year. I’ll avoid overtime at work for the rest of eternity, I don’t need a raise. Leave right at 5 just so I can see you. Heck, I could build us a house. Just need to come back home to you, sweet girl. Please. I’m begging you, baby. Come back to me.”

A small part of you had always prepared for this to happen. For him to ask for you back. In your fits of rage, you had imagined how this would go. He would sheepishly ask you to be his again, and you would say no and slam a door, or storm off looking hot and leaving him in shambles.

But you never expected this.

Clark pouring out his heart and soul to you, actually groveling on the floor, pleading and begging for you to take him back. And despite yourself, you know you can’t say no to him. You’ve never been able to say no to him. Because he’s Clark. The only person who has ever cared about you enough to take his time to truly, deeply know you. There was no one else like him. No one else whose charming dimples shone through no matter what facial expression he was making. And damn it if they weren’t making you weak now.

So you shake your hand free from his grasp, placing it around one of his wrists and leading him back up to his feet. He pushes himself off one knee, his piercing blue eyes not breaking from yours. You’re about to say something, and he can tell, staring at every inch of your face and anticipating the moment you open your mouth. You bite your lip before hesitating.

“You serious? Because you can’t abandon me like that again.” You ask him, and he nods profusely, back straightening as he looks at you hopefully. He grabs your hand again and kisses your knuckles the way he knows you like it.

“Yes. I’d never hurt you like that again.” He promises, voice breaking just slightly, and tears start brimming in his eyes. And that’s what gets you. You’ve barely showed any response through your words and your body movement, but here he is on the verge of tears for you. And, he’s shaking. Quivering. You wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t holding your hand.

Inhaling sharply, your eyes dart between his shaking hand and his face. But you can’t find the words to say to him, catching in your throat the way they usually do when you’re holding back an onslaught of emotion. So you do the only thing you think you can do. You tiptoe and lean forward to kiss him.

You could never forget the soft and pliable nature of his lips. He lets out a happy sob against you, cherishing the kiss and melting into it like he wasn’t ever planning on letting it end. His hand cups your face, gently cradling it it was the most precious thing in the world to him. It was.

You let him take over when his tongue brushes across your lower lip. Leaning back, you let one of his hands holds you by the small of your back. He lifts you up effortlessly, and your legs wrap around his waist. He groans into your mouth as he moves, pushing your back against the wall and gently dominating your mouth despite feeling one tear roll down his face and onto yours. You push on his chest softly, and his lips let go of yours with a confused expression.

“Clark, are you… crying?” You ask softly, tilting your head and cupping his face in your hands. He leans into your hands and hums.

“Yeah, I’m just… so happy.” He says with a shy smile on his face, and you can’t help but break out into a smile yourself. He leans back in and starts kissing your jaw, and you crane your neck up so he has better access. He moves down to your neck and starts sucking on a soft spot near between the base of your neck and your collarbone that makes you groan and roll your hips onto his. This elicits a pathetic, high pitched groan out of him as he gently bites your neck and thrusts his hip up towards you in response.

Your left art reaches out to your bedroom door, just a few inches next to you, and twists the doorknob open as he keeps working on your neck, jaw, and lips. You let out a satisfied sigh, feeling him grin knowingly against your neck before wordlessly lifting you back up again and setting you down on the edge of the bed.

You land with a soft thud, Clark still leaning over you and sucking the skin on your collarbone, hands firmly placed on your hips. His hands move down towards your thighs as his lips leave your neck, following suit. His arms sneak around your thighs and pull you towards him, staring down at you with a hungry look in his eyes. He kneels down again, and you whimper as you can almost feel his breath on your core through the fabric of your shorts.

You wait in vain for him to do something, anything. Even one breath on your core would have sufficed, but instead he lifted his head up just slightly and loosens his grip on your thighs hesitantly. Looking up at you with all the concern and care the entire world.

“A-are you sure you want this?” He asks sheepishly, his demeanor melting to uncover the gentle Clark Kent underneath the Superman uniform. And it almost makes you sob. Because he held nothing against you for keeping a petty distance from him for all those months. He was still sweet, caring, sensitive Clark.

So you nod, hand going down to pet his hair, which you swear he nearly purrs at as he leans into your touch.

“Yeah, I’m sure Clark.” Your voice barely a whisper, but you know Clark can hear you. Especially when you see a sheepish smile spread across his face before he nods.

“Alright” He smiles, then falters, “I mean good— great.” He trips over his words, a light pink forming over his nose and cheeks. You lean forward and tousle his hair, the gel breaking, making his natural curls falling out and over his forehead. A wide smile spreads across your face for the first time in a while, and the sight of it makes Clark feel so giddy he leans up to place another long, grateful kiss on your lips, as if to look the expression onto your face. And it works, as the you smile into the kiss, the corners of your mouth not going back down even after Clark goes back down between your legs.

His hands move up your inner thigh and slowly upwards, massaging and molding the soft skin of your thighs like he was studying them before he lifted the waistband of your pajama shorts and pulled them down along with your underwear. He stares down at you, exposed and glistening for him, before hooking his arms around your thighs and bowing his head down.

“Mm— Ah!” A breath escapes your lips as his soft lips finally reach your puffy clit, placing a small kiss that sends tingles up your spine. He hums in response to you saying his name, clutching your thighs firmly, holding you in place as you try to lift your hips up.

“Stay still— baby— let me— ngh— take care of you.” He mumbles against you between licks and kisses on your clit. Not long after, he bring a finger up and rubs it up and down your folds, barely hovering above it you can both hear and feel how wet you are. “So, so beautiful. All this for me? I don’t deserve it.” He practically pouts, his warm breath tickling your now sensitive clit before moving his fingers aside and licking up your arousal. And you almost feel woozy, because only Clark would be whining about how he doesn’t deserve your pussy while he’s eating it out. And when he slides his fingers slip up effortlessly inside you, you let out a soft, lingering moan that breaks up into small yelps as he pushes his fingers in and out of you.

“Fuck, Clark… please…” You whine out, gathering enough clarity to glance downwards and at him, “Please fuck me.” His tongue and his fingers slow down at your words, disappearing from you— leaving you cold and exposed. But only for a moment, as when you look back up, Clark is leaning over you, suit off and lining himself up with your entrance. His warm hand finds both of yours as he pins them up above you on the mattress before steadily pushing his length inside you with a languid groan, your eyes fluttering at the stretch of having him inside you.

“You feel so good, doll… Taking me in so well... Made for me,” He says between thrusts, grunting his words out, “Should have never let you leave, been missing having you like this.” You don’t have time to relish in the fact he had been missing you in this way before you feel his hand letting go of yours and move down to your waist. His other hand joined your waist, and it felt familiar, something he would always do when he was loving you like this.

He’d floated the both of you a few feet up in the air, his hair brushing against the ceiling as he continues thrusting into you, with less restraint this time. Being suspended in the air gave him more leverage to impale himself into you, and you could do nothing but let out unintelligible mumblings in the form of moans. In the middle of you getting cock drunk, he pulls off your pajama shirt and tosses it to the floor, your nipples hardening at the cold air.

“These are perfect,” He murmurs, taking the hand that threw your clothes down and massaging your mound. You whimper as he rubs his thumb over your nipple, the sound making him squeeze your breast just slightly before letting go. His hand travels down and grabs at your hip, “Gosh, these were made for me, so perfect…” He mumbles again, barely audible, and you think for a moment that he might just be saying these things to himself. “Why do you have to be so perfect for me baby? Waist made for me to hold you…” He says, his hand going back up to your waist where the other was. You notice how dilated his pupils are in the darkness of your room, focusing on them as his thrusts become quicker. Weak moans falling out of his mouth as his eyes scan your whole body, grip on your waist tightening.

Suddenly, he lifts you off of him and turns you around, your nipples rub at the coldness of the wall that your breasts are suddenly pressed into as he takes you from behind. There’s no longer space for words between the two of you, the thick air of warm breaths and panting from both parties saying enough for the two of you. And it’s only after you both cum at the same time, your walls clenching around him and his cock twitching inside of you before spilling out, that he descends and lays you down on the mattress with all the care in the world.

You scramble to sit up, the cold air of your apartment biting at your skin, especially after having been surrounded by Clark’s warmth. You pull a blanket towards you haphazardly, it really only covering half of you, when you catch Clark staring at you on the edge of the bed with a soft, knowing smile. You reciprocate with a bashful one of your own.

“What?” You shrug, adjusting the blanket on top of you to cover up all of you, but the rest of it is caught underneath Clark. He just shakes his head, grin widening.

“You’re beautiful.” He gets up, helping you with the blanket. He moves towards the empty space next to you but hesitates, like he’s unsure if he deserves to lay next to you. “Can I..?” You let out an amused chuckle, clutching the blanket up to your neck.

“I just let you rail me in the air. What do you think?” A smile tugs on the corner of your mouth as he climbs in next to you, mattress shifting under his weight. He turns to face you and smiles a boyish smile that makes him glow.

“I think I don’t deserve you.” He says simply, the back of his fingers going to graze your cheek.

“Yeah well, you’re just lucky I can’t say no to you. You know,” Your eyes look away from a split second, “When you entered my apartment. I think I was already ready to take you back. My body moved like it knew something my brain didn’t. You just… there’s something about you and your whole demeanor that reflects onto me. Like the pure essence of you is contagious.”

He just looked at you patiently, sincerely. He always had a way of knowing when you were done talking and when you weren’t. Stopping to let you finish your thought when most people would assume you were finished speaking.

“What did you end up doing with the rings?” You ask meekly, suddenly embarrassed about dramatically leaving them on his side table.

“The promise rings.” He says, not as a question, but as if to state he knew what your dedicated purpose for them was. “Well… for a while I just let them sit on top of my dresser. Like a reminder to myself about what I lost.”

“Masochist.” You snort playfully.

“Yeah well when you lose the love of your life you don’t really get over it,” He says, placing a peck onto your temple as you look up at him with glowing eyes.

“Love of your life?” You echo, voice hopeful. His heart absolutely clenches and he has to fight the urge to pull the blanket off and show you just how much he loves you. Again.

“Yes,” He says your name like a prayer, “I wouldn’t have gotten into this mess if I didn’t think you were every bit worth it.” He says, searching your eyes and your face to make sure there was no trace of doubt in them. He didn’t ever want you to doubt his love for you. And doubt wasn’t present, only the same wondrous glow in your eyes.

“So what did you do with the rings?” You ask again.

“After that, I’d…” He trails off, and you use your elbow to prop yourself up in bed as he stays silent.

“You’d what?” You ask. He sits up himself and presses a long, deep kiss onto your lips before standing up.

“Wait here. Maybe get dressed for this.” He says, blushing, your naked body exposed when he threw the blanket off to get up off the bed. You stand up and wordlessly watch him place his suit back on before leaving the bedroom. With nothing else to do but wait, you put your pajamas back on. It takes a few minutes, so you grab a claw clip off your nightstand and put your hair up, pulling stray hairs out to frame your face.

Clark comes back in with his Smallville High shirt and plaid pajama pants on, holding something behind his back, a mischievous glint in his eye as we walks towards you. You figured he’d used super speed to change. One hand comes out from behind his back to reach for yours, and you let him take it, smiling.

“This is too soon for a proposal, Kent.” You tease him, and he lets an embarrassed laugh out.

“I know.” His voice is high pitched, “But… never too late for a promise ring right?” he asks, pulling a velvet blue ring box out from behind him, opening it up towards you. And there they were. The sun and moon rings you’d picked out in a coastal shop when you were on vacation almost a year ago.

“Hmm…” you bite your lip. “Only if you admit my sun and moon analogy is accurate.” You tease, and he pouts.

“I still think you’re wrong about me being nicer and warmer than you. I mean, I was in you earlier and you were pretty darn warm… ow.” He says as you playfully swat his arm with a blush. Obviously it doesn’t hurt him, but he knows the reaction makes you smile. “But yeah. I’d actually thought about it for a while after that night. I guess I’m more… open about my willingness to see the good in everyone and help everyone I can. Considering the whole Superman thing. Big and obnoxious like the sun.” You both smile at that. “Plus my powers come from it. But you… you’re nice and amazing in the small ways that some people might overlook. You make me homemade gifts perfectly catered towards me. I mean, the rings are a perfect example. And you memorized the part of my hair I like to be touched. And you brew me coffee in the mornings even though caffeine does nothing to me, but you know I’ve gotten used to the taste of it from work and make it for me anyways. And…” He smirks and reaches up to touch the hair around your face, “you do your hair in that adorable way that you know I love.”

A comfortable silence falls as he looks down at you, grin not faltering.

“And—”

“God, you’re not done?” Your shoulders shake with mirth, and he shakes his head.

“Never.” He smiles, squeezing your hand, “It’s not just about what you do for me. There’s also just you. I love the way you bite your lip when you cook, and I love the way you refuse my help in the kitchen with cute pout. The way you sing to yourself and dance when you think no ones watching you.” You blush in embarrassment. You thought he was asleep that night he stayed over and you had a small concert in the living room. “There’s also the way the sunset hugs your face in a warm embrace that makes me think— maybe you’re the suns favorite. Maybe it only heals me because it knows how weak I get in front of you.”

“You’re such a cornball.” You say softly, ruffling his hair, and he puts his free hand up in surrender.

“In my defense, you make me that way.” He shrugs, but his eyes are smiling.

“But you’ve been a cornball ever since I met you.”

“Exactly.”

A smile and warmth spreads across your face. You’ve missed this. Banter that goes nowhere but sticks with you for weeks. But when your eyes land back down on the rings, your expression flickered and faltered as you retreated back into yourself. You started to remember that night and the five months following it.

“You know, you really did hurt me.” You start, causing him to stiffen in dread, “I… I don’t want to be left behind like that again.” He nods, watching you intently, clinging onto your every word.

“I promise,” He whispers your name, and your smile comes back, “If I ever break that promise I’ll walk into the ocean.” You chuckle.

“Please don’t. And you don’t have to do those things you said, earlier.” You say, and Clark tilts his head in confusion, “When you were spouting nonsense on your knees begging for me to take you back?” You bite your lip as you job his memory, making him furrow his brows and shake his head.

“I was fully serious about that.” He takes your hand and raises the back of it to his mouth, kissing it gently as he looks into your eyes, “I meant every word. You deserve everything I could possibly give to you, and then some.” You shake your head.

“Clark, I don’t need all that. I just need you to be honest and tell me when you’re in trouble. We can work things out together. I may not have powers, but I can help if you’d just let me.” You say, placing a kiss on his warm cheek.

“You’re right. I should have just talked it out with you that night.” He says your name, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You smile, tears starting to well in your eyes. “Now put the ring on me already.” You try to chuckle through the obvious knot in your voice as tears start falling.

“Alright, baby.” Clark whispers before he wipes them away, placing a kiss onto your cheek. You watch as he fumbles with the rings, taking them out and placing the box down on the dresser next to him. He separates the rings gently, the gems capturing light of the moon and the city lights just outside the window.

The moon ring looks perfect on your finger, and you pride yourself in your jewelry taste.

“It’s beautiful. You have an eye for jewelry.” Clark hums, watching as you admire the ring on your finger as if you weren’t the one who bought it.

“Your turn.” You smile up at him, taking the sun ring from his hand. He lifts his hand out and waits. You hesitate before placing it on his finger. What if it was the wrong size? You had just guesstimated the ring size when you bought it. It would be so embarrassing if you made the rings a whole thing only for his to not fit.

Clark can see you panicking internally. He was looking down and wondering why the ring wasn’t on his hand yet, when he looked up to you, eyes darting all over the place, and he could hear your breathing picking up. His right hand lands on your arm, and you look up to see him shoot you an encouraging smile. The sight calms you down, relaxing the shoulders you didn’t even know were tensing.

You ultimately had nothing to worry about, as you pushed through your panic and finally slide the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly. He brought the ring up to his face with glee, opening and closing his hands to get used to the feeling of it.

“Does it fit alright?” You ask, just to make sure. And he grins down at you, answering you by dipping you down and capturing you in a long, deep kiss. You giggle as you separate, and he guides back up.

“It’s perfect.” He places another, sweeter kiss on the tip of your nose, and you scrunch it in response. He can feel his heart swell with joy at the sight.

“Good,” You smile. Looking up at him and the way he looks so different from earlier— happier, messier, dorkier. “Because you stuck with me now.”

“Thank goodness.” He says dramatically, coaxing a laugh out of you. He reaches down so that both of your hands are in his, pulling you to stand closer to him. You stumble forward with a giggle, almost colliding into his chest. And as you look at each other, you can’t help but be glad that you let him come back to you.

a/n: formatting might be weird bc i wrote half of this on my phone and half on my laptop oops. anyway i hope u guys like it!! more to come bc im so clark brained rn

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

Text

pairing: lois lane x fem!reader

summary: reader’s been in love with lois for years but never said anything. when lois starts spending more time with clark, reader thinks they’re together and pulls away

you could handle it, you told yourself.

you could handle the way lois looked at you like you were the only thing anchoring her to the earth. the way she smiled when she saw you like it was involuntary. the way her voice softened when she said your name, even when she was angry at everyone else.

you could handle how touchy she was with you—how she’d rest her chin on your shoulder when you were both editing late at night, or absently fix your collar before a meeting. how her hand would linger on your back when she passed by. how she always seemed to stand just a little too close.

you could even handle how everyone thought you were dating. how they made casual jokes about it, and how lois never denied them. she just smirked and looked at you like it was a joke you were both in on.

it wasn’t.

because you were in love with her.

hopelessly. quietly. stupidly.

and it wasn’t a crush. not anymore. it had grown over years—through late nights, long talks, subtle looks, and a friendship that felt like a gravity well. lois pulled you in without trying, and you stayed in orbit, pretending it was fine. that it was enough. that being her favorite person—her person—meant something.

until it stopped feeling like enough.

until she started spending more time with clark.

it made sense, technically. they were working on something big—she said so, vaguely, when you asked. but she never gave details. never invited you in. and the longer it went on, the more it felt like you’d been quietly pushed out.

she stopped staying late with you. she left the office earlier, sometimes with him, sometimes without saying goodbye. she didn’t text you as often as she used to. and whenever you asked how the story was going, she brushed it off with a quick “it’s boring” or “not worth the rant,” and steered the conversation somewhere lighter.

you told yourself not to take it personally. that she was busy. that this was work. but your brain didn’t believe you. your brain told you the truth you couldn’t face: she was seeing clark, and she didn’t want you to know.

you told yourself she didn’t owe you anything.

you told yourself she didn’t have to explain who she spent her time with.

you told yourself you were happy for her.

and then you stopped telling yourself anything, because the ache in your chest made it hard to hear your own thoughts.

so you pulled back.

you stopped lingering around her desk. you took lunch at odd times. you gave short answers, polite smiles. you told yourself this was for the better—that you were making room for whatever was happening between her and clark.

you told yourself it was mature.

she noticed.

you knew she noticed, but you didn’t let her bring it up. you avoided her gaze. you left rooms when she entered them.

and somehow, despite all of it, you still loved her. you still ached for her.

---

it went on for weeks.

the worst part was pretending. everyone noticed. people asked. clark gave you looks like he knew something, like maybe she’d told him. like maybe they’d talked about you, about how strange you’d been acting, about how distant.

maybe they laughed about it.

maybe they kissed afterward.

you made yourself sick thinking about it.

---

she found you alone, late at night, in the newsroom. most of the lights were off. you were sitting at your desk, staring at the same sentence for twenty minutes, typing nothing.

you didn’t hear her footsteps until she spoke.

“why are you avoiding me?”

you stiffened, eyes locked on your screen. “i’m not.”

“don’t lie.”

you swallowed hard. “i’m working.”

“you’ve been working,” she said quietly, “for three weeks. you haven’t looked me in the eye once.”

you shut your laptop slowly and turned to face her.

she stood a few feet away, arms crossed, hair a little messy like she’d been running her hands through it, like she was frustrated. she looked tired—and not in the overworked way. in the worn-down way.

you felt like a coward. you had been for weeks.

“what do you want me to say?” you asked.

“i want the truth.”

you laughed once, bitter and tired. “the truth won’t change anything.”

she stepped forward. “try me.”

you looked up at her, your chest so tight you could barely breathe. “i’m in love with you.”

silence.

you watched the words hit her like a wave—her eyes going wide, her breath catching. her arms slowly dropping to her sides. she opened her mouth and then closed it.

you pushed through, voice shaky. “i didn’t say anything because i didn’t want to ruin what we had. but then you and clark started getting closer and it felt like.. like i’d already lost you. and i didn’t want to make it worse. so i stayed quiet. and i pulled away. and i told myself you didn’t owe me anything—which is true—but it didn’t stop it from hurting.”

still nothing from her. just stunned silence.

you kept going, like if you stopped now, you’d fall apart. “i thought maybe if i kept my distance, it’d be easier. for both of us. i could pretend i was okay. that it didn’t kill me to watch you with someone else. that you didn’t see me the way i saw you.”

finally—finally—she spoke.

“…you think i’m with clark?”

you blinked. “well.. yeah, obviously.”

lois stared at you like you had just confessed to believing the sky was green.

“obviously?” she echoed, incredulous.

“you never wanted to talk about it,” you said quietly. “you’d shut down whenever i asked. i figured you were keeping it private, and i get it—”

“that’s because i hate talking about work when i’m with you!” she burst out, stepping closer. “that story’s been eating my brain for months. you’re the only person who makes me forget i’m drowning in it. why would i want to talk about it when i’m with you?”

you were frozen. breathless. “so you’re not..”

“with clark?” she made a face. “no! we’ve been chasing down finance leaks and sitting in city hall for like ten hours a day. that’s not romance, that’s hell.”

your mouth opened. no words came.

lois looked at you—really looked—and something in her expression crumpled.

“you’re in love with me,” she said, softer now. “and you thought i didn’t want you.”

you nodded slowly. “yeah.”

“i’ve been losing my mind thinking you were pulling away because i made things weird,” she whispered. “that i crossed some line. i’ve been walking around this office half-sick thinking you figured it out and hated me for it.”

“figured what out?”

she looked at you nervously, blinking before softly admitting it. “that I’m in love with you, too.”

your heart stopped.

lois smiled shyly. “you think i act like this with everyone? you think i remember how everyone takes their coffee? you think i let anyone else see me on two hours of sleep, in a hoodie, with my hair in a clip?”

you looked at her—really looked at her—and something inside you just.. let go.

slowly, like you were still giving her time to pull away, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against her jaw. her breath caught, but she didn’t move—just watched you, eyes soft, wide, waiting.

and then you leaned in, careful and quiet, and kissed her.

it wasn’t rushed or desperate, just the kind of kiss that had waited a long, long time to be allowed. her lips met yours like she’d been holding her breath for years. her hands slid up to cup your face, your arms moved down and wound gently around her waist, pulling her closer like you’d always belonged there.

when you finally pulled apart, her forehead pressed against yours, eyes still closed.

“you’re not allowed to ever assume i want kent again,” she murmured.

“noted.”

“and you’re buying me dinner for three weeks to make up for the emotional damage.”

“fair.”

she leaned in, brushed her nose against yours. “also.. i love you.”

you smiled, cheeks flushing and your throat tightened again. “i- i love you too.”

she kissed you again, deeper this time. like the start of something real.

and it was.

finally.

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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Rachel Brosnahan as Lois Lane Superman 2025 — dir. James Gunn

#shes so beautiful😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏🙏

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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map of downtown metropolis from the set of Superman (2025) from reddit

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #621 )✅️

Today was unlike any other.

We received a few donations and with them, we had our first real meal in over a month. For the first time in so long, we didn’t go to sleep hungry. We cried, not from pain this time, but from overwhelming joy and gratitude.

To everyone who donated, shared, or simply kept us in their thoughts thank you. You didn’t just feed us. You reminded us that we’re not alone. You gave us back a piece of our dignity and hope.

But the struggle isn’t over. We’re still in need of food, support, and a little more light in these hard times.

Please, if you can, continue to help. Every share, every dollar, every act of kindness makes a real difference.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. And please, stay with us on this journey.

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willow-is-a-nerd · 2 days ago

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how to: fall in love again

summary: lovergirl at heart, you've decided love isn't anything you're willing to risk pursuing again after your last boyfriend. and then comes clark kent who's a little too perfect at breaking down those walls. and isn't that terrifying?

word count: 10.8k...yeah <3

a/n: the word count getting longer when i edited oh i'm sure. this one was serious to me. like notes app outline, specific through-line playlist, pinterest board inspo serious. hope it's serious for you guys too hehe fem!reader, no spoilers, avoidant attachment tbh, bit angsty but happy ending! happy reading, let me know what you think <3

If there was anyone more cynical about love in Metropolis than you, you’d be delighted to know.

It’s not like you’re against love by any means. In fact, you really, well, love it. You love your friends and you love seeing them in love. You enjoy romance books and love songs and romantic comedies. You take pleasure in finding the ways in which love is around you each day.

You’ve just decided that romantically, it’s not for you. Not anymore, at least.

It’s been three years since you swore off of it and honestly? You’re doing great! So what if sometimes a viscous yearning creeps through your apartment on a Sunday night? That hardly means anything!

Relationships are one thing and you’ve had your fair share. Once in high school, a couple in college. They never ended well, not like how you would’ve wanted rather. Sometimes they faded like a bruise and other times you were left alone and behind in the rearview.

But none of that mattered to you anymore once you met Ben.

Six years ago, you fell in love. Ben was a dream and a half. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents and revel in the way they gush over him and the both of you together. The kind of guy someone writes songs about with a swooning guitar and lyrics that wax poetic. The kind of guy you marry. At the time, Ben was it for you.

Then, three years ago, Ben broke your heart. You hadn’t seen it coming. It felt completely out of left field. You believed you were everything each other wanted until he was walking out the door.

“I’m not..happy anymore. I don’t know how to make you happy.” He had said and you remember a nauseating confusion coursing through your veins. What did that mean? You were happy….weren’t you? And before he walked out the door, “I hope you find someone who does.”

He clearly had. Two months later he was engaged to another woman you’d had in your home at dinner parties and holidays and suddenly it all clicked. You’re only slightly embarrassed to admit how long you cried and the amount of sweets you ate to try and feel better.

While the wound was still fresh, the ache cutting so deep in your bones, you decided you never wanted to risk feeling like that again. It took you a while before you felt like you were yourself again.

Two years ago, you got a job as a columnist for the Daily Planet. A basic “how-to” column that you’ve come to love, even if you’d rather be writing something more substantial. There, you met Clark Kent.

He was everything Ben wasn’t from the second you were introduced. The second he’d fixed his striking blue eyes on yours and smiled at you, something inside you jolted. And you’ve been petrified ever since.

Because if there was anyone who could make you consider taking that risk again, it was Clark.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

It’s a busy day at the Daily Planet. Well, it’s always “busy” but it’s especially so today. The printers are working overtime and there’s people fluttering all about, checking edits and typing like there’s no tomorrow. An argument splits open near the coffee counter.

Deadlines will do that to you.

You’d arrived earlier than usual, earlier than you needed to considering you were basically done with your newest “how-to” for the next print. Still, the only time you can pin Perry White down to talk to him about writing for something other than your column is on his way from the coffee machine and back to his office.

“But Perry, I think I’ve really got something here! If you’d just look at it-” your footsteps are hurried as you keep pace with Perry. He stops suddenly and you nearly stumble over yourself, words getting cut off.

“Look kid, I appreciate your enthusiasm but right now I need you to stick to your how-to’s,” he fixes you a look and fits his cigar between his lips before resuming his trail to his office. You sigh, but you don’t want to give up that easily.

“But could you at least just-” you start to plead and then you’re cut off again. He holds up a finger this time and heaves a sigh.

“I’ve given you my answer, kid. We’ve got a deadline to meet.” The words form around the cigar in his mouth. You wither, footsteps faltering.

“Yes, Chief,” you sigh, to which he just shakes his head. Your shoulders sag, the entirety of your body drooping like a wilted rose. When Perry’s out of earshot you toss your head back with a frustrated groan.

This wasn’t exactly where you thought you’d be by now. Two years seemed like enough time to establish yourself at the Daily Planet. Your little column that’s shoved towards the back of the paper seemed like as good a stepping stone as any towards writing about something more.

It’s not like you dislike your column, in fact, you really enjoy it. You just feel like you have more to offer after two years if Perry would just give you the chance one of these days.

You’re admittedly, a little visibly pouty on your way to your desk. It feels a little childish, like you might as well cross your arms and stomp your foot with a hmph! You don’t, of course. Though maybe it’d provide some kind of emotional release. That’s why toddlers do it, right?

As you near your desk you notice there’s a new coffee cup waiting for you by your keyboard. The culprit, you notice next, is standing next to your desk with his bag still on his shoulder like he just got in. Which, he probably did.

It’s hard for you to stay grumpy at the sight of Clark. His tie is slightly askew and he’s holding his own cup of coffee, hot where yours is iced.

He’s far too nice to you, you think, but he’s a wonderful friend. And God knows you were in dire need of a good one after what happened. Sometimes though, when you start to feel a little lonely, you wonder if he’d be a wonderful boyfriend too, but you’re quick to shove that aside.

It’s better for you to just be friends. Less scary that way. Less of a risk that you end up absolutely demolished again, too.

“Was just dropping this off. Just how you like it,” he says when you’re within earshot, motioning towards the coffee that wasn’t there when you’d gone after Perry this morning. You can see the ring of condensation it leaves against the lacquered top of your desk. You smile at him.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to.”

He matches your smile and shrugs.

“Yeah but I want to,” he says. There’s a faint pink that blushes his cheeks but you think it might just be the lighting. Still, you revel in the fact that he wants to do a nice thing for you. You try to quell it. The familiar fear of getting too close to someone again prickling your skin.

On paper, Clark is the perfect guy to be with after Ben. He’s charming and patient and kind, overwhelmingly so, to everything and everyone he encounters. He never fails to make you smile. Doesn’t hurt that he’s devastatingly handsome, too.

Truth is, Clark Kent scares you to death.

“How’d it go with Perry this morning?” he asks, breaking you from your thoughts. You deflate, frustrated all over again. A grimace pulls at his face at the look on yours and the huff that escapes you. “That bad?”

“He refused to read it! Appreciates my enthusiasm but wants me to,” you twist your voice into your best impression of your editor-in-chief, “stick to my how-tos.”

You relish in the chuckle your impression pulls out of Clark. He opens his mouth to say something and is cut off.

“Stop flirting and get to work, Kent. We’ve got a deadline,” Perry’s voice seems to boom as he strides past your bullpen on the floor. Clark flounders, cheeks warming into an embarrassed red. You’re all too aware of the amount of eyes on you and you feel yourself start to fold inwards.

The two of you look at each other and Clark flashes you a tight lipped, shy smile. He motions towards his desk across the way and you nod, wordlessly communicating with each other.

“Thanks again for the coffee,” you say before he can walk away.

“Anytime, really,” he says as he passes. There’s a fleeting press of his hand against your back. Your breath gets stuck in your throat, heat radiating out from where his touch lingered. You steel yourself for a beat before sitting down at your desk.

The ice in your coffee shifts as you log into your computer. You glance over to Clark though you can only see the back of his head from here. The side of your hand brushes against the cold drops of condensation on your coffee cup. Goosebumps skitter up your arm.

When you finally take the first sip, a pleased hum drifts out of you. It’s just how you like it, like he had said, but it’s also better somehow. Familiar, but different in the best way.

Just like Clark, you think.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Despite it being sarcasm, you can’t get Perry’s insinuation that Clark was flirting with you out of your head. It’s been weeks and no matter how hard you try, it stays at the back of your mind constantly. And it’s starting to do a number to your nervous system.

Sure, maybe your interactions can be read as flirtatious but Clark’s also your closest friend. It’s just friendly banter and actions to show you care. Hardly anything romantic.

That’s what you keep telling yourself anyway.

It’s a Wednesday towards the end of summer when you start to notice something different.

The second the workday ends, you’re logging out with a swiftness. You’re not alone. Nearly everyone at the surrounding desks does the same.

There’s a shuffle of sound as everyone starts to pack up their things. The corner of your notebook bends as you shove it in your bag and you curse under your breath. You’re inspecting it, trying to bend it back into place but the crease is still there in the corner. Annoying.

“Heading out?”

The sound of Clark’s voice behind you makes you jump in surprise, your bag falling from your hands and to the ground. You’re pressing your hand to your chest, trying to calm your racing heart. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when you turn to face him.

Clark has a bad habit of sneaking up on you. You’re not sure how someone so…big can be so quiet. Or how he only seems to be able to sneak up on you, considering his occasional clumsiness tends to alert his presence. Too busy always trying to not occupy so much space that he almost seems to occupy even more.

“Sorry! Sorry.” He’s dropped to the ground to retrieve your bag and bent notebook for you. His lips press together in a sympathetic grimace as he hands them over. Your hand falls from your chest to take them.

“Jesus, you’re like a stealth agent or something, Clark. I’ll never understand it.” You shove the notebook into your bag and sling it over your shoulder. He shakes his head and is reaching to grab your water bottle for you before you even get a chance to turn around and get it yourself.

He holds it out to you and you smile your thanks. There’s a shock of something almost magnetic when your fingers brush his in the exchange. You try not to flinch away too noticeably.

“Do you have plans? Like, now?” he asks, almost a little nervous. It makes you nervous and you hesitate in your movements. The corners of your eyes crease as you narrow them quizzically at him. “Sorry, that was..really forward.”

“No…why?” You start to walk away, full trust that he’ll follow you. He does. You slide your water bottle into your bag as you walk, Clark keeping pace. “Do you?”

“Oh! No, no I–Well…maybe?” he stumbles over his words and you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His shoulders straighten just a tad. “There’s this new ice cream place that just opened downtown and I saw it and thought of you and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to check it out?”

You nearly trip over yourself, a pit dropping from your throat to your stomach. He thought of you. Is he asking you on a date? He thought of you. A mirage of emotions rushes through you and over your face. Clark starts to panic at your silence.

“Totally friendly!” You let out a soft breath. He thought of you. “Obviously! We don’t have to, unless you want to. And it doesn’t have to be tonight, sorry I didn’t–”

Clark’s a panic rambler you’ve come to notice. It’s rather endearing if you’re honest. The two of you pause outside the elevator. You nudge him with your shoulder which jostles you more than it does him.

“Tonight’s great, Clark,” you say, cutting off his rambling. He looks at you and breathes something like a sigh of relief at the sight of your smile. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. He lets you in first, mumbling under his breath.

“Great. Great, okay.”

Clark leads you around downtown Metropolis, his hand hovering just above the small of your back as a guide when needed. You fall into step and easy conversation the whole way, Clark making you laugh without even trying to be funny.

You mention the argument that you heard break out by the coffee this morning and he tells you it was Jimmy and Lois arguing–Jimmy annoyed that Lois has used up all the sugar. He mentions his Ma is planning to come visit him in the coming weeks and you swear you can feel your chest start to expand at the evident admiration for her in his voice.

“Here it is!” he announces a few minutes later as you turn a corner.

The first thing you notice is the red, yellow, and blue striped awning with scalloped edges. A sign above reads Super Scoops in bright letters and a bold font. The obvious hero homage makes you snort but the small line out the door leads you to believe it must be good.

“How’d you find this place?” you ask, relishing in the shade the awning gives while you wait in line.

“Just happened upon it on the way into work today,” he shrugs. He hopes you don’t realize his route to work from his apartment never crosses this section of downtown. If you do, he’s none the wiser.

“And the whole,” you wave a hand around, “Superman of it all isn’t at all why you wanted to try it?”

You’re teasing. Poking a jest at his superhero work connection. Clark scoffs a little though there’s no malice behind it, and briefly wonders if maybe you’ve figured him out. (You haven’t.)

“No!” his voice pitches up an inch. “I know you like ice cream and you just did that how-to bit about summer and I just thought you might like it s’all.”

There he goes again. Thinking of you and sending your heart ablaze. You need to get a grip.

The line moves quickly for which you’re thankful. When you get to the counter, you opt for a swirl of soft serve on a cone and Clark gets his in a cup. The price seems a little outrageous for what you’re getting and you accredit it to the theming.

You pull out your wallet and Clark gives you a piercing look, bumping your hand away though not unkindly. You go to protest but relent and put your wallet back in your bag when he swipes his card. He shoves his wallet back into the pocket of his slacks, stepping off to the side with you.

“I could’ve paid for that, you know,” you say, eyes locked onto the employee dispensing the swirl of chocolate and vanilla onto a cone. The uniforms here are rather silly. Blue t-shirts with little red capes attached, the parlor’s logo on the back.

“I know. I didn’t want you to,” he states simply, like he’s telling you the sky is blue. You probably should’ve expected it. Small town, farm boy chivalry and such.

Clark collects your ice creams from the teenager behind the counter who looks a little miserable. You accredit that to the uniform. He passes your cone off to you as he leads you out the door.

A comforting silence hangs around you as you linger in a little grassy patch next door. There’s kids running around and a dog chases them off leash. A hum of delight escapes you at your first taste of the soft serve. It’s exceptionally good.

Golden rays of the fading sun cast a radiant haze around the outline of your body. Ice cream is starting to melt around the rim of your cone. The surface tension breaks and a rivulet slips over your knuckles. You let out a soft gasp, more an exhale than anything and quickly lick it off.

Clark’s looking at you. Endearment glimmers in his irises, the sunlight reflecting off of it. You’re trying desperately to ignore the sticky feeling on your knuckles. You need to wash your hands. Or steal a generous glob of hand sanitizer even.

You catch his eye and feel pinned by his stare. You blink at him.

“What?” you ask. A thorn of self-consciousness pokes at you for a brief moment. Clark shakes his head.

You’ve got a smear of vanilla soft serve across your left cheek from when you tilted your hand to lick the ice cream off your knuckles. Your eyes are doe like. Backlit by the setting sun, the fleeting rays highlight the frizz in your hair, creating a halo around your head.

Clark thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful.

“You’ve got a little..” he gestures towards his own face. You bristle with a light embarrassment. Before you can reach up to wipe away the ice cream from your face, Clark beats you to it.

He’s somehow procured a napkin and softly wipes the ice cream you smeared across your cheek away. You don’t remember seeing him grab them on your way out of the parlor.

Time seems to slow. The seconds drag by like the pouring of a thick stream of honey. The moment feels incredibly intimate for what it is. Your breath stills in your lungs.

“There we go,” he says. He turns and tosses the napkin into the trashcan. The spell breaks. Your fingertips reach up to graze against the spot he cleaned. You drop them before he can turn back around to catch you.

“Thank you,” your voice feels a little shaky. Clark smiles at you with a soft shake of his head, a silent don’t worry about it, and takes a bite of his ice cream.

“This is really good,” he says, swallowing it down. He looks so..boyish in this moment and it does something funny to your heart. Combined with him wiping your face clean, you’re a little afraid you could go into spontaneous cardiac arrest.

You’re staring at him, something sweet and awe-like in your eyes. Something in Clark brightens at your attention. His cheeks twinge pink and he smiles softly.

“Careful,” he points at your cone that’s starting to melt down to your fingers again. You blink away, embarrassed at your staring and hurriedly lick up the melted cream. What is going on with you?

Clark seems to have figured out a way to weasel himself inside and poke at your tender bits, making things in your chest twitch and move in a way they hadn’t in years. You weren’t sure when he had been able to step in so close to do so.

It feels all too familiar, yet different, just like that coffee he’d brought you a few weeks back. Your heart stutters, the beat spelling out an uh-oh.

You think you might be falling in love with him.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Things steadily progress with Clark after your ice cream not-date.

You’ve crossed into hug territory. Simple side ones when you see him in the office in the mornings. Longer, more proper ones when you go your separate ways after a hang out. Each one starts to untie the rope that’d been knotted around your heart three years ago.

The risk grows more and more each day and now it feels even more ominous. Because now Clark’s more than just a potential romantic partner, he’s also one of your closest friends. And the thought of losing him in two ways instead of one scares you infinitely more.

You don’t mean to work so late on a Friday but it happens anyway and when you log out and pack up your things, the moon has risen completely in the sky. Clark has stayed late today too but you wonder if he was just waiting for you to finish so he can walk you home.

You’ve never asked and he’s never outright offered except for the very first time. Now it’s just become something unspoken. A given in your friendship. You appreciate it all the same.

He lingers outside your apartment with you tonight and you can tell something’s bothering him. Like he’s holding himself back, restraining from something. You go to ask if he’s okay or what’s wrong but you never get the chance.

Because Clark asks if you want to get dinner with him tomorrow night.

“Like a date. A nice, proper one with dinner and dessert.”

And despite the fear that shivers down your spine and the choking anxiety like a lump in your throat, you agree.

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds…nice.”

You hope your smile looks real and not as scared as you feel. He seems to buy it. He’s beaming with glee, trying to hide the intensity of it and failing. Quite adorably, you might add.

“Okay. I’ll pick you up at 7.” He states. No sense of a question, just a simple statement. Warmth rushes through you.

“Okay.” The word is pushed out with a breath. Clark smiles at you.

“It’s a date!”

His enthusiasm is comforting and you squeak out a confirming uh huh! which is all you can seem to muster. Words are failing you. He reaches out to squeeze your hand briefly instead of hugging you goodbye tonight.

You’re grateful for the change, certain he would’ve been able to feel your racing heart when your chest pressed against him. You watch him walk a few strides down the hall before you go inside.

You’re already nervous when you wake up on Saturday morning. You spend a lot of the day panicking, over both the mundane and existential. Should you wear a dress? What if this goes horribly sideways and the two of you never speak again?

The usual.

In the end, you decide on your nicest dress, or rather, the nicest date night dress you own. You feel good. So long as you don’t think too seriously about it all.

You’re trying to practice some age-old breathing exercise in the mirror to calm your nerves. Trying not to overthink too much about your shoes or your hair or how this is your first date in three years. You’re interrupted by a knock on your door.

A quick glance at the clock on your way to the door shows it’s seven on the dot. You’re a little surprised at Clark’s punctuality. Not because you didn’t think he wouldn’t be but because you’ve never experienced it before. A punctual date, that is.

You pause at the door for a beat. Then, you shake out your hands and swing it open.

Clark stands at your doorstep with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Peonies and delphiniums, chamomile sprinkled amongst blushing roses in a brown paper wrapping tied with string. He must’ve stopped by the florist for these, you think. It might be the prettiest arrangement anyone’s ever shown you, let alone given you.

Clark is staring at you, jaw a little slack. You feel yourself start to fluster under his gaze, shrinking slowly.

“Wow. You look..” his voice trails off, eyes dropping to what you’re wearing and back up to lock with yours. “You look great.”

Your smile is a little shy, bright around the edges. The heat beneath your skin makes you feel like you could burst into flames.

“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself,” you say. He’s wearing clothes similar to what he wears to work, a charcoal pair of slacks and the usual white button down but he’s not wearing a tie and the sleeves are pushed up his forearms. It’s really doing something to you.

A blush rises on his cheeks and it’s his turn to offer you a shy smile. He clears his throat.

“These are for you,” he says, holding the flowers out for you to take. The paper crinkles as you take them from him. Your fingers brushing sends a pleasant zing! down your back. You can’t resist pressing your nose against the blossoms.

“They’re beautiful,” you say on an inhale. Clark could say the same about you ten times over. “Come in. I’ll put them in a vase and then we can go?”

You back up to let Clark inside and he closes the door behind him. He stands in the tiny entryway. It’s not very big, your apartment; it looks even smaller with him standing in it.

“You can come in further, you know?” your laugh carries through the air like a breeze. He lingers in the entry of your shoebox kitchen now. The bouquet lays gently on the little kitchen table tucked away in a nook off the kitchen.

You’re grateful for the boost of height the kitten heels you decided on give you, albeit small, as you reach up to grab your favorite vase. Clark’s eyes trail after you as you flit around the kitchen. Watching as you bring the vase to the kitchen sink to fill it with water and take it over to the table.

You untie the string and paper around the bouquet and place the flowers in the water with the utmost of care. It’s a perfect fit. You fluff it a little bit, arranging it so each blossom has space to shine. Then, you slide it to the center of your little homely kitchen table.

It’s picturesque. And so are you, standing with your hands clasped, admiring it. Clark wishes he had a camera. You turn and look at him, taken aback a bit at the sweet look in his eyes.

“Ready?” you ask. Clark blinks like he’s been shaken out of a stupor.

“Right. Yes! Let’s go.”

He follows close behind you as you grab your bag off the hook by the door and lock up. It’s your turn to follow him as soon as you leave your building. Ever the gentleman, he walks on the outside of the sidewalk and offers you his arm to hold.

Butterflies that have laid dormant inside you start to revive and flutter around your stomach. It’s a beautiful night in Metropolis, the sky clear and the air fresh. You think you’d be satisfied if you never made it to dinner and just walked around all night instead. Your feet might not thank you though.

He takes you to a nice restaurant a few blocks over. A place as nice as this was always reserved for anniversary dates in the past, never for a first. This specific one Clark leads you into, you’d never been to. The reservations always too hard to come by.

You’re a little awestruck when you walk in. Your eyes dance around, taking it all in as you get seated. Beautiful artwork decorating the walls. The tables covered in pristine white linens. The lights are low and there’s music playing softly in the background. Clark pulls your chair out for you and pushes it in.

“This place is so nice,” you say, as you sit. “How’d you even manage a reservation with so short notice?”

Clark looks a little sheepish, his shoulders hunching upwards towards his ears.

“Oh I, uh- This is going to sound presumptuous and I apologize. I got one a while ago. It’s just taken me so long to work myself up to asking you out.” He says it like a confession. Something in you preens at the idea of Clark liking you so much, he’d plan so far ahead for a first date with you.

Your nerves start to ease as the night progresses and maybe the bottle of red wine you share helps a bit too. It’s easy with Clark. As if you’ve always been doing this. It sends a thrill through you.

Slowly but surely, your defenses start to come down. The hesitancy and fear that normally holds you back starts to fade. Clark starts to see you really shine with each new thing he learns and each new laugh that escapes you.

Just like he said when he asked you out, you get dessert after dinner. A rich slice of the most decadent chocolate cake you’ve ever had in your life. Your eyes close when you take the first bite, a delighted hum escaping you louder than you’d like.

“Oh my god,” you open your eyes and the amused admiration in Clark’s eyes is clear as the moon in the sky. You get a little shy, your skin prickling under his gaze. “This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

You gesture for him to try it. Clark’s reaction almost mimics yours.

“Golly,” is all he says and you laugh a little at his choice of word, both of you going in for another bite. The cake is gone almost embarrassingly fast but you’re both too stuffed to care. The waiter drops off the check as you take your final sip of wine, draining the glass.

He reaches for it without hesitation, doesn’t flinch at the total, just slides his card into the fold and sets it on the edge where it’s quickly retrieved. You fold your arms and rest them on the table, your hands holding on limply to the space above your elbows.

The edges of you feel fuzzy. Your head is tilted a little towards your shoulder, a serene smile on your face. To Clark, you look radiant even in the dim lighting. When the waiter brings back his card, you watch as he signs and puts his card back in his wallet.

He offers you his hand to help you out of your seat and neither of you let go as you walk out of the restaurant. In fact, you make the move to intertwine his fingers with yours and swing them a little between you. He pulls you into his side and you giggle, your shoulder bumping his bicep.

You feel giddy head to toe. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of the wine. Maybe it’s Clark’s fingers slotted between yours. Or the way he’s been looking at you all night.

All you know is you feel more happy than scared and it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way that you’ve forgotten how good it feels. And maybe it’s your lapse in memory or maybe it’s Clark but it feels even better this time around.

You’re laughing at something Clark says–he’s been making you do that a lot tonight–when there’s a call of your name. The laughter gets stuck in your throat and dies out quick, your steps faltering on the sidewalk. Clark’s eyes are swimming with concern when he looks at your face.

“Is that you?” Ben’s voice is just like you remember it. You turn towards it and your hand falls out of Clark’s grip when you catch sight of him. Because standing next to him is Jane. Beautiful, alluring Jane who drank your wine at your hosted parties and probably slept in your bed when you weren’t around.

You think you might be sick.

“Oh my god, how are you?” Ben gives you a hug, like you’re still friendly and things ended amicably. Like the last time you saw him he didn’t put your heart through a paper shredder. Your limbs feel wooden as you half-heartedly reciprocate. Ben steps back and wraps his arm around Jane’s waist. “You remember Jane?”

She lifts her left hand in a wave and the streetlight overhead catches on the ring on her finger, making it glint. At least she looks a little awkward at the whole situation. You nod, a pounding starting to form behind your brow.

“Yeah, I..I remember,” you reply. You take a deep breath, force yourself to smile and sound way more friendly than you feel. “Good to see you.”

The puzzle pieces start to click into place in Clark’s head. He’s not completely aware of your dating history but he’s easily figures out that’s what this is. And that you’re completely beside yourself. He’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist, steady and strong. You relax a bit without even realizing.

Ben catches the motion and his eyebrows raise a hair. He has to look up at Clark, not by a lot but enough that you notice it if you’re paying close attention. And you are. Then Ben looks at you, silently waiting for an introduction.

“Oh. Ben,” his name tastes like venom on your tongue. “This is-”

“Clark Kent.” He finishes for you, taking a step forward and extending his hand. You think you can see Ben wince from Clark’s grip but it’s gone as soon as it arrives. (And if Clark put more of a grip into the handshake than normal, well that’s nobody’s business but his own.)

There’s a beat of silence that passes. The four of you stand on the sidewalk, almost mirror images of each other. The same wave of nausea passes over you, the pressure in your head getting worse.

“Well, it’s good to see you. I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy,” Ben says, voice genuine. Something in you bristles at that, taking it more as one final nail in the coffin jab at you. Clark feels you stiffen in his hold. You’re not sure what to even say, lips parting but nothing coming out.

It doesn’t seem to matter. Ben nods at you and Jane gives you a tight smile as they pass. You blink at their retreating figures. You’ve long since gotten over the love you held for him but you didn’t expect the pain of it all to still linger.

You don’t want to let this one twisted encounter ruin the great night you’ve had with Clark but you can feel your reservations start to creep back in. It’s like Clark can see you start to slowly build those walls back up after he’d worked to pull them apart all night.

“Hey, you okay?”

You focus on the good. The softness of his voice. The care in his eyes. The steadfast grip of his arm around your waist. You inhale and on your exhale, flash him a shaky smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, that was just…” A plethora of words dance around your head. Weird. Unexpected. Awful. Horrifying. “Strange.”

Clark nods and glances over his shoulder in the direction they walked off in. He looks back at you, your eyes locked where his just were. He clears his throat softly and your gaze finds his.

“Sorry but, I couldn’t stand that guy.” A sudden laugh, loud and genuine bursts out of you. A sentence so unlike Clark and yet, you can tell he means it. His eyes crinkle at the corners at the glow that’s started to come back to your face. He almost hadn’t noticed how dim you’d become in that guy’s presence.

“Yeah,” you say, as your laughter dies down. Your smile softens. “Me too.”

Clark walks you home, conversation still full but maybe not as lively as it had been pre-Ben and Jane. You hate how they seem to haunt you like this. But you revel in how easy it was–and is–for Clark to make you laugh again.

He expects the night to end at your doorstep but you invite him inside for a little while longer. You’re a little surprised, mostly delighted when he agrees.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, kicking off your shoes and walking into your kitchen. Clark toes his shoes off and neatly arranges them next to yours. “Do you want anything to drink?”

Clark glances over and can see you grabbing two glasses down from a cupboard near your tiny stove. You set them on the counter and at his silence, look up to where he’s standing.

“Oh! Water’s fine.”

He takes interest in your photos hanging on the walls and the knick-knacks on your shelves. He particularly likes a corkboard you’ve got hung up with a bunch of mementos pinned: movie ticket stubs, fortunes from fortune cookies, postcards, one of your first how-to pieces from the Planet, a photobooth strip of you.

You bring your drinks in, and set them on the coffee table, water for him and another glass of wine for you. You sit, knees pulled up on the couch and your feet tucked beneath you, your body facing Clark. You like how he looks sitting in your space. Like he fits right in.

You talk for hours about anything and everything that seems to come to mind. You share the abridged version of Ben and Jane and your chest goes warm at how quick Clark notices your need for a subject change. He switches gears smoothly. You laugh so hard your stomach hurts.

The hours tick by without either of you paying much attention. Your drinks sit empty on the table and when the conversation lulls, you take them into the sink. Clark checks his watch when you leave the room.

“Oh gosh, it’s late,” he says. You come out of the kitchen to an apology. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

“Clark, it’s okay,” you shake your head with a smile. His mouth is twisted into an apologetic frown.

“Still. I should let you get to bed.” Only then do you realize how tired you feel.

You walk him to your front door and watch him put his shoes back on. When he straightens up, you take a step closer to him.

“I had a really good time tonight.” You say softly. Your eyes shine in the dim lamplight.

“Me too.” Clark smiles. He swallows and shifts on his feet. “Would you..wanna do this again?”

“I’d like that.” You nod, smiling widely up at him. He nods.

Clark leans down to hug you goodnight, his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Yours reach up and over his shoulders. Your body sinks into his and you think you could stay right there forever. After a beat, he pulls back but you don’t let go right away.

With your arms around his neck and his around your waist, it leaves hardly any space between you both. Suddenly, the air feels similar to the moment before lightning strikes nearby in a storm. Your gazes both fall from eyes to lips and back.

Clark’s tongue darts out to wet his lips and you track the motion with your eyes. You swallow, lips parting only just. He starts to lean in and your eyelids start to flutter shut. Your hands are trembling from both anticipation and uncertainty. Not about him, but about the unknown. You send a quick plea outwards that he doesn’t notice.

There’s no telling what lies on the other side of letting Clark kiss you, a faint warning siren echoing in the back of your mind. You decide to ignore it the second his lips brush against yours. You’ll cross that bridge when it comes.

The siren fades into a silent static hum, your senses flooded with ClarkClarkClark. Of the gentle press of his lips to yours, pliant and willing. Of the press of his body against yours as you eagerly push up to reciprocate.

You wonder briefly why you hadn’t done this any sooner. There’s such an ease to it that you almost feel like you’re experiencing deja vu. Like there’s another version of you that wasn’t burned, that gets to kiss Clark like this all the time. You’re envious of her immediately.

His hands slide to your hips to pull you even closer to him and that dreaded siren breaks through the static in your brain. You pull back, your hands falling to his shoulders. Clark’s glasses are askew and have fogged up considerably but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Wait,” you say breathlessly. He’s quick to renew the gap of space between your bodies.

“Sorry-”

“No, no, it’s not- you’re okay,” you pause, chest heaving. You try to catch your breath, coming up short. Your arms fall from his shoulders as you take a step back. “I think I need a second.”

The wounded expression on Clark’s face makes you feel considerably worse. He resembles a confused, kicked puppy and you think you might be sick.

You turn on your heel and make a beeline for the bathroom. Clark catches your shaking hand wiping at your eyes and doesn’t think twice before following after you. To apologize, if anything. Convinced he’s done something wrong enough to make you cry.

The counter of your bathroom is cold against your palms. You take a couple deep breaths in and out. Mentally kicking yourself because why can’t you just be normal about this and cursing Ben (and his bloodline, too) under your breath for causing your aversion to love in the first place.

You turn the tap on, splashing cold water on your face in hopes that it’ll shock your system back to normal. Back to how it felt mere moments ago when you were kissing Clark.

A gentle knock on the door makes you jump.

“Honey, talk to me. What’s wrong?” Your heart pinches, a piece of it chipping away at how sad he sounds. You don’t say anything for a beat. “Did I…” a defeated sigh, “sorry, did I do something wrong?”

You turn the water off.

“Oh, Clark,” you sigh. He hears the lock click and then the door swings open. This time, his heart twists at the expression on your face. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just..”

You let out a sad laugh and then your eyes are pinching shut. You press your face into your hands.

“I’m just a mess.” Your words are muffled against your palms. Clark tsks in disagreement and takes a step towards you. His fingers circle around your wrists and he’s so soft with you, you think you might burst into tears all over again.

“Hey, hey, no. Look at me,” his voice is equally tender and you let him pull your hands away. The reveal of your eyes shiny with unshed tears chips away at his heart. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, nothing, I’m fine,” you sniffle, rapidly trying to blink away the tears. One slips past anyway and he quickly smooths it away.

“You’re most certainly not fine,” he says, voice still gentle but firm. Your shoulders slump. Clark sighs. “Let’s get you some water. That sound good?”

You nod, looking at the floor. He leads you over to your couch and sits you down before getting you a glass of water from the kitchen. He’s back faster than you expect and you whisper a quiet thank you when he hands you the water.

He doesn’t sit until you’ve drunk a considerable amount. You cradle the cup in your hands, looking anywhere but at Clark.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say. You spare a quick glance up at him. “It wasn’t anything you did, I promise. I just…I haven’t done this since..”

“Since Ben?” Clark fills in. You look at him with a small smile that’s equal parts embarrassed and sad.

“Yeah. I just spooked myself a bit,” you say. Clark nods in understanding.

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” he says, resting a hand on your knee. Your eyes focus on it.

“Okay. I just don’t want you to think it’s because of you,” you say, gaze lifting to his eyes. They’re looking at you like you’re made of porcelain. He scoots a little closer to you on the couch and lightly brushes a stray piece of hair behind your ear. His palm settles on your cheek.

“We can take it slow, yeah?” Clark offers. You perk up, a little surprised. After all this, he still likes you. He still wants to try with you. The realization makes you ache. You nod, anyway.

Slow is perfect.

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The air outside has started to go cold, summer finally fading away into a brisk autumn. You’ve five more dates with Clark now under your belt. It’s slowly getting easier, less scary though you can’t deny that your brain continues to do risk assessments over each new romantic gesture.

He brings you a new assortment of flowers each time. The newest, a golden arrangement featuring sunflowers and dahlias, sits in the usual spot on your kitchen table. The sun reflects off the petals through the window.

Clark’s at your apartment again in a handknit sweater his Ma made him, sat at the table and warming his hands with a cup of cocoa. Speaking of..

“My Ma is visiting this weekend,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“And she’d…like to meet you.”

The world seems to still, your body going with it. You blink at him, lips parting and closing.

“Oh!”

Clark rushes his words out, sensing the rising panic in your chest.

“You don’t have to, I know we’re taking it slow and this is definitely, probably not even remotely close to that. But I’ve talked about you so much she won’t stop asking about you, even before this started. It’s only if you want to.”

Your heart picks up at the image in your head of Clark including you in his updates to his Ma. It makes you burn from the inside, a sweetness pooling in your veins. He talks about you. The pendulum swings back and forth in your head as you consider it.

“Okay,” you say. Clark raises an eyebrow at you.

“You’re sure?” When you nod, he beams. He gets up from his seat and comes over to press a kiss against the top of your head. His excitement is sweet to witness. “I’ll call and let her know.”

On Sunday, you go over to Clark’s for dinner.

You shift nervously outside the door to his apartment. Your fingers are stiff from the brisk air outside and from the tight grip you have on the flowers you picked up on the way over. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, willing your body to still.

Then, you lift your fist and knock it against his door. You’re wiping your palm against the front of your pants when he answers the door. His smile is blinding.

“Hi,” he steps aside to let you in. The door closes behind you and he dips his head to kiss your cheek in greeting as you’re toeing off your shoes. “You look nice.”

“Hi,” You smile, nerves still going haywire beneath your skin. “Thanks.”

“Clark? Is she here?” You can hear her voice from the kitchen and you glance at Clark, grip tightening on the small bouquet in your hand. You’re a little nervous that it's not as nice as it could be. Clark presses a hand against the small of your back and you remember to breathe.

He leads you the short distance to the kitchen in lieu of a response. As soon as she sees you, her eyes light up. You smile nervously at her and give a small wave of your hand.

“Ma, this is-” Clark starts to say, but he’s quickly cut off.

“You must be, y/n!” Her accent is thick as honey and it warms your heart.

“Hi,” you hope your voice doesn’t sound as nervous as you feel. “These are for you, Mrs. Kent.”

You hold out the flowers to her and she takes them with a soft audible aw. Then she’s pulling you into a hug and saying, “call me Martha.”

It takes you a beat to huge her back. You can’t remember the last time you’ve been hugged like this. Different from how Clark hugs you, different from your own mother’s hugs. This one has a specific air of home to it that’s overwhelming.

You look at Clark over her shoulder who looks extra smiley. When she pulls back, she looks at the flowers again. Then she turns to Clark who already has a hand extended to take them and go put them in water.

“Clark has told me so much about you,” she says. A hand, weathered and gentle from age touches your cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than he described.”

“Ma,” Clark says, from the kitchen sink. You smile, loving that boyish part of him that still gets embarrassed when his mom shares something she probably shouldn’t. Martha tsks and angles herself slightly to look at him, her hand falling away.

“I’m serious, Clark.” She turns to you and lowers her voice a smidge. “He’s always talking about you, it's hard to get him to stop. I knew I had to meet the girl he’s so sweet on from the second he mentioned you.”

You can feel your skin start to flush. Your eyes catch onto Clark who’s arranging the flowers in the vase and setting them on his own kitchen table.

“You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over,” she says almost conspiratorially. Your body softens, something distantly familiar coursing through your veins. Clark catches your eye and smiles at you and it leaves you a little dizzy.

When the food is ready, the two of them fall into a rhythm, bringing dishes to the table. Watching the two of them interact, you can tell where Clark gets it from. His mannerisms and certain words and phrases in his vernacular.

Clark pulls out both yours and Martha’s chairs when you sit to eat. The food is delicious and you make a note to ask Martha for recipes when the night ends.

It’s as easy to talk to her as it is Clark. She asks questions about you and your job and your family. And she also asks about you and Clark. How you met and when you started “going steady” as she puts it. You’re particularly fond of the stories she shares about Clark when he was little. Even more fond of the red blush that covers his cheeks at the more embarrassing ones.

In the back of your mind though you can’t get Martha’s words out of your head.

You’re the only girl he’s ever been like this over.

It unnerves you slightly. And at the same time, you wonder how you could even begin to describe how much it means to you to have his Ma treat you so kind and warm. Like you’re already part of the family. Your mind starts to analyze a risk assessment, a voice in the back of your mind poking and prodding and whispering that something this good has to come down.

Clark reaches for your hand at the table and gives it a quick squeeze, momentarily pulling you out of your spiral. You look at him with a soft smile, ever grateful and surprised that he can read you so well.

At the end of the night, Martha hugs you tight again and you soak it in.

“It was so good to meet you, dear,” she says, pulling back from the hug. Her hands hold onto your forearms.

“You too,” you smile and she gives your arms a squeeze. She looks at Clark, who’s holding your purse for you in his hand.

“You make sure she gets home safe, Clark.”

Clark lips twitch. “I know, Ma. I always do.”

He’s true to his words, walks you safely home and all the way to your door like he always does. You linger outside the door until you’re toeing the line of inviting him in. He kisses you goodnight, soft and sweet, his hand cradling your jaw and yours pressed against his chest.

It quiets your brain enough for you to get to bed but when you wake up the next morning, it’s racing immediately again. You’re distracted during the work day and no matter how much you try, you can’t get it to stop. A steady downward spiral.

Clark comes home with you after work. You’re unusually quiet on the walk to your apartment and through dinner–leftovers from the night before that Martha insisted you take home with you.

You clear the table of dishes and Clark helps you wash up. When the two of you go to sit on your couch, Clark sits first and holds out a hand.

“C’mere,” he says, all but pulling you to sit in his lap, though really you might as well be straddling him. For the first time all day, the chatter in your brain starts to dim. “What’s wrong? You’ve been unusually quiet all day.”

You look down at your hands in your lap and shrug. You’re not sure how to phrase it even if you tried.

“It’s..nothing. It’s silly,” you finally say, still refusing to look at him.

“Hey,” his voice is a soft caress against your skin, gentle like his fingers that tilt your cheek so you look at him. “It’s just me. You can tell me.”

Your gaze roves his face, stars in your eyes. Clark pushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek like a feather. His eyes haven’t once strayed from yours.

A shiver runs down your spine and you try not to squirm. It’s still new being seen like this. Like he’s looking right through you, straight into the messy walls of your subconscious. You swallow, your mouth dry and the words hang in a lump in your throat.

“Just..when I met your mom yesterday,” you can feel the sting of tears behind your eyes, feeling a little silly. Clark’s looking at you, so tenderly it squeezes your heart in your chest. “She hugged me. Like really hugged me.”

The corner of his mouth twitches and something shimmers in his eyes as he scans your face. One hand rubs against your arm and his thumb on the other spreads a tear across the apple of your cheek as he wipes it away.

“Honey, that’s a good thing. Yeah?”

“I-” You close your eyes and take a deep breath, nodding though your shoulders inch up towards your ears. “Yeah. Yes. I dunno, it just…”

Your shoulders drop on an exhale and your eyes flutter open and latch onto his. Clark looks at you with quiet reassurance. His fingertips trail against the skin of your arms featherlight while he waits for you to finish your thought.

“It felt like home,” your voice is so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Clark's eyes seem to soften even more than they already were. The corners of your mouth twitch into a small smile. You look away to wipe at your eyes, damp fingertips coming to rest along the side of his neck. “Been a while since I’ve had that.”

Your eyes lock back on his. Something familiar is swirling in his eyes, your breath getting stuck in your throat for the briefest of moments. Your heart starts to play a symphony against your ribcage. Clark’s hands have migrated to the small of your back.

“You’re starting to feel like home,” he says. Your fingers against his neck can feel the timbre of his voice. There’s a rush of warmth that covers you from head to toe. It’s dizzying enough to leave you a little nauseous, though there’s a fleeting thought that wonders if it’s because his words feel like a euphemism for the L word.

Despite the onslaught of emotion you feel, your lips start to curl into a giddy smile just as Clark leans in to kiss you. His lips slot against yours, slow and sure and it’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Your smile gets kissed away but the giddiness doesn’t fade.

His hands on your back pull you closer towards him and your thumbs press against his jawline. Your body feels like it’s starting to liquify in his arms as you melt against him. You pull back and Clark steals one more lingering kiss from you. It elicits another soft smile.

You don’t open your eyes right away, breathing in deep through your nose as you press your forehead against his. His thumbs rub circles against your back and his nose nudges yours. You blink your eyes open and lean back enough to look at him fully.

You run a hand through the mess of curls on his head, eyes as soft as the edges of your smile. Clark’s looking at you like you hung the moon. The simplest of thoughts pops into your head. A flash of fear shocks your body. You push the feeling down and away, locking it up deep in the gooey center of your heart.

But you can’t lock away the thought that races around your brain like a news headline.

You’re a thousand percent, without a doubt, in love with Clark Kent.

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It’s an almost difficult realization for you in the coming days. The familiar dip in your stomach, a pull on your heart, like passing by an old friend in the grocery store. Things are safe with Clark, you’re safe with Clark. But it doesn’t quell the stutter of fear in the beat of your heart that’s been opening itself back to love.

You can’t help it but you do the best thing you know how. You pull away even though it’s twisting your heart into knots. A part of you hopes that he’ll break things off if you push hard enough. Maybe it’ll hurt less that way.

Because what if you love him too much, too hard that he slips away? In your head, it’s better to withdraw now and first before he ever gets the chance to. Logically, you know it’s unlike Clark but you can’t help it. You’re not feeling very rational right now. Common sense has seemed to fly right out the window.

Clark feels utterly confused. You keep things about the same at work but the second you get home, he can feel you pulling away. You stop answering his calls. You don’t let him kiss you, barely let him hold your hand.

He goes into fix-it mode, trying to retrace his steps and figure out if maybe he did something but he comes up short. He tries talking to you about it but you shrug it off, insisting everything is fine when he can clearly tell it’s not.

He decides that maybe you just need a day or two to yourself and he acquiesces, giving you the space that he thinks you need. When he does, you think maybe he’s finally pulling away too and even though it makes you ache, you think it’s for the best.

But when space doesn’t work and you still won’t talk he knows something is really wrong. In his head, he makes a loose plan. He’ll get you to talk to him somehow, if anything to just get some kind of closure if you’ve decided this isn’t something you want to pursue with him anymore. The thought makes him ache but he has to know.

A couple weekends after dinner with his mom, you’re in your apartment staring at the wilted flowers on your kitchen table, wondering if you should maybe get rid of them. But that feels like getting rid of Clark somehow and you can’t bring yourself to do either of those things.

There’s a knock on your door and your heart knows it’s him before you do. You open the door and there he stands. His nose is pink from the cold and there’s a sadness so heavy in his eyes it stabs at the tender bits of your heart.

“We need to talk,” he says, and then at the last second, “please.”

You don’t say anything, just step aside to make room for him to come in. You close the door behind him with a click.

“What’s going on?” he asks as soon as you turn around. You fold your arms, hugging them to you like some kind of armor.

“What do you mean?” you try to play a little dumb and Clark huffs. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him anything close to angry.

“You know what I mean. It’s what I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me about for weeks.” he sounds the slightest bit exasperated. “You won’t talk to me outside of work anymore. You won’t let me close enough to do much of anything. You’ve stopped returning my calls. It’s like you’ve completely pulled away.”

He sounds hurt more than anything.

“Did I do something? What happened?”

You close your eyes and sigh. “No Clark, you didn’t do anything. Nothing…happened.”

“Then why. Why are you pulling away?”

“Maybe we’re just better as friends!” you burst out, arms falling to your sides. “We were moving too fast. Maybe it’s just…easier if we just go back to being friends. Nothing more.”

“Don’t do that,” he says and you blink at him. Your eyebrows furrow.

“What? I’m not-” you pinch the bridge of your nose. Your words have started leaving you both so fast your sentences almost overlap. “Clark-”

“You’re quitting before things get tough. You can’t do that.”

“What? I’m not..I’m not quitting. God, Clark I-” your voice starts to break. “I’m trying to protect myself. I’m terrified.”

Clark’s shoulders soften. “Terrified?”

“Yes,” you say and now the words won’t stop spilling out of you. “I’m scared to death of…of this. Of you! Of us! Of…of all of it! I’m scared.”

Clark looks like a kicked puppy again.

“Me? Us?” his voice sounds so small and your heart twists. “Why?”

“Because I..” you’re almost panting. “Because I love you, Clark. I love you and it scares me because I never wanted to fall in love again. I never wanted to risk the pain of losing someone again. I didn’t want to risk the possibility of things ending just like they did with Ben three years ago.

And then I met you and I just knew if anyone would change my mind it would be you. The thought of being loved by you scared me and at the same time I was scared by how much I wanted that. And I tried not to but falling in love with you was the easiest thing for me to do.”

You’re not sure when you started crying or when Clark got close enough to be able to wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He looks pained at the sight of your tears but beneath that is a joy so vibrant it almost glows.

“Hey, hey, hey,” his voice is a soft melody in your ears. “I love you, too.”

It doesn’t sound as scary to you when he says it outloud. You sniffle, unable to fight the smile that spreads across your face. It’s teary and you’ve got a sudden worry that your nose is running.

“You do? Even still?”

Clark lets out a soft laugh and nods, wiping away fresh tears that have fallen over your cheeks. “Yeah, honey, I do. Even still.”

“It’s an awful lot of work,” you say. Through a wet laugh, “I’m a mess, clearly.”

“No it’s not. Not for me. Not when it’s you.”

The look in his eyes is so intense and serious, you’ve no choice but to believe him. Your heart soars. You sniffle again, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your shoulders. Your fingers curl themselves into the fabric of the sweatshirt he’s wearing.

“Are you gonna kiss me or not?” you tease and it pulls a smile out of Clark. He presses his lips to yours, so tender and soft, it leaves you melting like that ice cream cone he bought you what seems like a lifetime ago.

Love this go around feels familiar, but it’s different, better even in all the right ways. It’s like returning from a lifelong journey and sinking into a hug.

It feels like coming home.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

as usual, tagging some people who might be interested (if not u can ignore) & those who asked hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @almightyellie @katsu28 @sanguineterrain @anonymouse1807 @superemobitch @manicandobsessive @clonesdserveb3tter @lalameors @celestialend @claudiwithachanceof @pessimisticmoon @clarkstwin @cupid4prez

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willow-is-a-nerd · 3 days ago

Text

oh, your love is sunlight

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: you were fine drawing in greyscale, until superman started showing up on your fire escape like sunlight in human form. suddenly, colour began finding its way back into every part of your life. tags: love at first sight, lover boy!superman (he invented yearning idc), artist!reader (more of a metaphor than a plot point), you get saved by superman but it’s quick, falling in love with without knowing his real identity warning(s): suggestive content (no smut), you get buried under a building for a sec, you get a concussion and tiny head wound, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader word count: 7.8k note: i’m back with another song-inspired superman fic!! this time based on sunlight by hozier, which i feel justified in using given that he’s literally solar powered 😌☀️

masterlist

You used to think that golden hour was a myth, something only photographers chased and poets romanticised. But Metropolis was different in August. The sunlight lingered, stretching long and low across the skyline, catching on glass and steel like it wanted to be remembered.

You sat on your fire escape, knees drawn up, and your sketchbook balanced precariously in your lap. You’d always been fascinated by monochrome sketches, the way simple lines and shades of grey could capture so much. Colour, you decided long ago, was a luxury you didn’t need.

Your fingers were smudged with graphite, but the page was mostly blank.

Superman landed a few feet away, quiet as a sigh.

You didn’t startle. You never did anymore.

Instead, you shifted over, making room for him as he adjusted his cape and sat down beside you, careful as always. You could feel the air shift as he settled, like gravity remembering itself.

“I figured you’d be up here,” Superman said, the warmth in his voice settling over you like the last light of day. The sound seemed to vibrate just beneath your skin. You felt a shiver run through you, quick and light, but you didn’t let it show.

“I figured you’d come and find me,” you answered, letting an easy smile tug at your mouth.

You looked up from your sketchbook and your heart hitched.

Superman’s face was all clean lines and impossible symmetry—like someone had drawn him with perfect intent. His jaw was strong, but not unkind, balanced by the slight softness around his mouth, where the colour settled in a gentle pink. His hair, dark and wind-swept from flight, curled just slightly above his brow, like even the sky didn’t want to let him go.

But it was his eyes that held you still: clear blue and startling in the dusk, like a patch of summer sky had settled into them and stayed. The light caught them in ways that didn’t feel entirely natural.

Superman didn’t glow, exactly. It was subtler than that.

He absorbed the light around him, like it belonged to him, and then gave it back. It clung to the high points of his face, softened at his throat and temples, bled golden into the deep blue of his suit. He looked like he’d stepped out of the sun itself.

You didn’t know if it was the hour or the way he always seemed to arrive at the cusp of it, but something in you responded every time. It was as if your body recognised his light before your mind did. Like you were meant to bask in it.

“You’re getting predictable,” Superman teased, resting his arms on the railing with a quiet clink of something solid against metal. “Should I start bringing snacks?”

“If you brought snacks, I’d never leave,” you said, giving him a wry look.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Pretty sure there’s a strict no-picnics-on-fire-escapes policy in the Metropolis city code. Article Five, Section Twelve, right after the clause about not feeding pigeons hot dogs.”

“Hey, that was one time,” you joked, even though you’d never so much as tried to feed a pigeon.

Familiar with your banter, Superman quipped, “One time too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

If someone had told you a few months ago that you’d be exchanging jokes with Superman almost every night, you would have called them crazy. And yet here you were.

“Maybe you’re the one who’s getting predictable,” you shot back softly. “You’re the superhero. I thought you’d have something more interesting to do on a Friday night.”

He gave a shrug—one that somehow managed to look self-effacing, even though his shoulders could probably carry the sky. “Some of us like routine,” Superman said. “Besides, you’re a pretty good Friday night.”

Then he shifted slightly, settling onto the narrow fire escape. Despite the awkward fit, his body language was open and relaxed. He leaned back, arms loose, head tilted just enough to catch the last light.

His comfort didn’t come just from the sun setting above him. It also came from being here with you.

You watched the sun catch the side of his face. Since getting to know him better, you had come to the conclusion that there was something different in the way light moved around him. You thought the sun was just a little slower to let him go than other people.

To distract yourself, you glanced back down at your sketchbook. Still blank.

Superman knew you too well. His eyes followed, his brow lifting just slightly with quiet notice. “You haven’t drawn anything,” he observed.

“Not yet.”

Superman glanced at you sideways, his voice gentle, easy. “Is that a creative choice, or a mood?”

You rolled a red pencil between your fingers and shrugged. “Both, maybe?”

“What about your latest piece? How’s it coming along?”

You hesitated, then flipped the sketchbook around to show him the incomplete drawing of a building collapsing—just like it had at Metropolis University half a year ago—coming undone like a ball of yarn.

“No progress,” you lamented.

Superman made a sound, half-laugh and half-sigh, low and warm in his throat. “I know the feeling.” His voice was a little rough around the edges tonight.

“Bad day?” you asked, your brows pinched just slightly.

He shifted beside you, the fire escape creaking faintly beneath his weight. Superman’s gaze swept out over the horizon. His voice was quieter now, soft enough that it felt like it belonged just to you.

“The city never really sleeps,” he declared. “Neither do I, sometimes.”

You nodded. “I can’t even imagine.”

Superman turned to you. “How about you? What’s going through your mind tonight?”

You brushed your fingers over the pencil again. “I don’t know. I used to like shadows and shading, but these days I’ve been drawn to colour, for the first time since I was a little kid.”

“You always liked greyscale,” Superman recalled. “You said it was honest.”

You blinked, though you shouldn’t have been surprised that he remembered. Superman remembered everything you said, even the details that most people would deem inconsequential.

You caught the last of the sunlight flickering over his defined cheekbone, painting gold onto skin that already held so much warmth.

“It felt safer,” you confessed. “Easier. But you’re making me reconsider.”

Superman reached out, fingers brushing yours as he shifted closer. Your hand moved almost on its own, tracing the curve of his shoulder, the way his red cape folded near his collarbone, the light pooling beneath his jaw. The red pencil stayed steady in your fingers.

Like you often did on nights like these, you reached up and smoothed the one errant curl that had fallen onto his forehead, brushing it back into place with the rest. Superman’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he didn’t move. You lingered just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips before your hand drifted down, flattening the edge of his cape where it creased at his shoulder.

“I haven’t used red in years,” you admitted softly. The implied, and I haven’t wanted to, not until I met you, dangled between you.

The softness in Superman’s stare made the edges of his usually steady expression blur. His eyes dropped to the pencil resting between your fingers, the deep, rusted red of it sitting pretty against your skin.

For a moment, you wondered what your face looked like reflected in his eyes, and whether he could see the colour steeping back into you.

“Is that new?” Superman prompted, nudging his head towards the red pencil.

You shook your head, your heartbeat in your ears. “Old. Just forgotten.”

The line of Superman’s mouth thawed into something gentler than anything you were used to seeing from him in public. “I’m glad you remembered it.”

You didn’t answer.

There were too many things you hadn’t admitted—not to your friends, not to your professors, not even to yourself. Not about the way your chest tightened whenever you saw Superman above the city. Not about how you’d started feeling the urge to use colour around the same time you met him. Not about what that might mean.

The sun dipped lower, and you swore you could see it sinking into him. His body absorbed the light like it belonged to him.

The colours of the sunset around you faded.

Superman didn’t say goodbye when he left. He never did. But you always felt the shift in the air, the way the warmth lingered just a little longer before it slipped away.

And when you looked down, the red pencil was still burning—like it had touched the sun and remembered how to glow.

Six months ago

The first time you met Superman, you were pinned under a science building at Metropolis University. It was a structural collapse—sudden, loud, and courtesy of a low-level alien threat. You were walking back from a foreign language class and hadn’t even seen Metropolis’s hero fight the extraterrestrial.

It was silent when you came to. Not peaceful, just eerily quiet.

Dust hung thick in the air, filtering the sky into a flat, formless grey. One of your legs was trapped beneath something heavy, and even though you couldn’t move, that was the worst of it. You didn’t feel any pain, just a persistent pressure.

And a terrible headache, but that was probably just a concussion.

It was dark, just rubble and smoke. Sunlight tried to pour through a fractured wall but didn’t quite reach you. Everything felt far away, like you were underwater, or dreaming.

Then a shape moved through the dust.

You didn’t see his face, not then. Just the outline of him, backlit and glowing—shoulders broad, red cape rippling in the ruined air. He stepped forward, and the light seemed to follow him.

Superman.

You might have been amazed to see him if you had the energy. But all you felt was a sudden warmth, spreading slowly through your chest like someone had struck a match inside you.

He knelt beside you. His eyes scanned you carefully, pausing on the wound at your temple where you were bleeding.

“Can you hear me?” Superman asked. “Can you tell me your name?”

You tried, but your mouth was too dry.

He murmured something reassuring. Checked your pulse with a touch so careful you barely felt it.

“It’s alright,” Superman said. “You’re okay. I’m getting you out of here.”

He moved the debris as if it weighed nothing. His hands glowed faintly golden where they touched the stone—or maybe that was just the sun catching on his skin.

You only remembered flashes: the sky starting to turn blue again, the shout of a paramedic nearby, the call of your name from a friend and classmate who recognised you.

Somewhere between paramedics lifting you onto a stretcher and checking your eyes, you whispered, “I want to go home.”

Then arms stronger than anything you had ever felt cradled you against his chest. You must have blacked out again, because the next thing you remembered was cool air against your face, and Superman’s voice asking gently, “Where do you live?”

He must have gotten the okay from the paramedics, because there was no way Superman would let you go home without getting checked first.

You blinked blearily, lifted a hand toward your building, and slurred your address and something about always leaving your fire escape unlocked.

Superman paused. “You really shouldn’t do that, it’s not safe.” It might have been a scolding if he hadn’t sounded so worried.

You didn’t answer.

Superman carried you up anyway—slow, like he didn’t want to jostle your head. The metal grates of your fire escape creaked under his red boots when he landed. Your fingers curled lightly into the symbol at his chest. You were too fatigued to let go.

He laid you gently on the couch inside. The blanket he pulled over you had been left crumpled over the armrest the night before by your best friend. He hoped its familiarity would ease some of the day’s wreckage.

Superman hesitated, just for a moment. He wasn’t supposed to linger after someone was safe, not once the danger had passed. But he crouched beside you and checked your pulse again, just to be sure. He brushed the hair from your forehead, revealing the band-aid the paramedics pressed over your cleaned wound.

His hand stilled there, fingers resting lightly against your temple. Something in his chest ached; sudden and sharp and human.

You didn’t remember much, only that when you opened your eyes later, the light outside your windows was golden. And your chest felt warm, like something small had caught fire there.

A couple of nights later, you couldn’t sleep.

You planned to sleep before the sun even went down to capitalise on the fact that you needed rest, but you couldn’t.

According to the note Superman left you, the paramedics had told you to take it easy, let the concussion settle, which you had. Mostly. But that night, just as the sun began setting, the stillness of your bedroom was too quiet, the air too stale. So you’d crept up to the fire escape with a mug of hot cocoa, the steam soft and curling as it caught the breeze.

You perched with your favourite blanket, crossed your legs, and watched the city glow below.

This high up, in this quieter part of the city where university housing clustered under decades-old brickwork, the skyline appeared as if the sunset had dyed it pink and gold.

You liked the way the evening air nipped at your skin, how the mug kept your hands warm. It was the first time you’d been outside since the building fell, and Superman reached out and pulled you into the sunlight.

You didn’t feel the subtle ripple in the air. Superman landed silently, but you still flinched in surprise. Most of the cocoa sloshed out of your mug, and you mourned the loss of it with a quiet gasp.

He raised both hands in a silent gesture of apology as he slowed his approach.

“Sorry,” Superman said quickly. His voice was almost as delicate as you remembered it being when he saved you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” you assured him, then blinked. “Um, hi.”

Superman raised a hand in a small wave, a sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. And there they were—devastating dimples you hadn’t known he had, deep and boyish. A warm, open grin that reached his eyes.

One perfect black curl had fallen loose from the rest, trailing down onto his forehead, and you had the sudden, silly urge to reach up and brush it back.

You gaped at Superman, stunned, your breath caught before you could form a word. It was the first time you’d seen him clearly and not in dust and silhouette, or in a memory softened by dizziness and daylight.

Superman stood tall, his cape fluttering behind him. His suit was slightly more muted than you’d expected, deep sky blue with bright reds and golds, as if it were designed to shimmer when the light hit just right.

You found yourself cataloguing him the way you might study a figure for a life drawing class. The sweep of his jaw, the balance of his features, the way his eyes, so vividly blue they almost glowed, tilted slightly downward as if he were always on the verge of concern.

Superman didn’t look real. More like something sculpted, idealised, rendered in impossible light. And yet he was standing there, shoulders hunched like he didn’t want to take up too much space.

As human as anyone you had ever met.

You kept trying to find a flaw that would make him easier to look at, but he didn’t seem to have one. There was a softness to him that felt at odds with the weight of his legend.

You couldn’t stop staring. And Superman looked right back.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” he said after a moment. “I’ve been checking in.”

You swallowed, trying to get your voice back. “Checking in?” you echoed.

Superman nodded. “Discreetly.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t want to intrude.”

Something about the earnest way he said it made your stomach turn. You tucked your legs under yourself and blinked, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I didn’t think you made house calls,” you commented. “I thought you just rescued people and flew away.”

Superman’s smile was a little sheepish. “I usually do.” He glanced down at his boots, trying not to fidget. When he looked back up, his eyes lingered on yours only briefly before flicking to the side again. “This was different.”

Different.

You weren’t sure what he meant, but you nodded anyway.

“How are you holding up?”

You shifted your mug in your hands, the ceramic cool against your palms since its contents were emptied when he startled you.

“Better, I think,” you admitted after a pause. “The concussion made everything feel foggy for a while, like the whole world was muffled.” You glanced down at your blanket-draped knees, then back at the superhero. “But the headaches are easing now. I’ve been sleeping more. Or at least trying to.”

Superman nodded, his gaze almost cautious. His hands rested lightly on the fire escape railing, but you could see the way his fingers curled—like he was holding himself back from reaching for you.

“And the rest of it?” he asked gently. “Any anxiety, or panic attacks? Aftershocks like that can take time to develop.”

Superman’s expression wasn’t clinical; it was vulnerable and concerned. It struck you, in that small, quiet second, that this wasn’t some routine check-in. He cared. Not as an obligation. Not as Superman. Just as someone who had carried you out of the rubble and stayed.

Your voice dipped. “Sometimes. I still jump when something falls too loud. Or when I hear sirens. And I’ve been having dreams, or, I guess, nightmares. They’re not bad, but they make me feel like I’m back under that rubble.”

Superman listened like every word mattered.

“But I think,” you continued, “I felt safe once you were there. When I saw you, I stopped panicking.”

His gaze was steady in a way that felt real. You couldn’t believe he was a superhero, not at that moment. If anything, he just seemed deeply, comfortingly normal.

“You stayed. I remember that. Everyone else had to keep moving, but you stayed with me.”

Superman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. There was a faint crease between his brows, like he wasn’t used to hearing what came after the rescue.

“I’m just glad I got there in time,” he said, his voice quieter than before. Then he looked down and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a sheepish gesture that made something flicker and fold inside your chest.

You hesitated, then said softly, “I’m glad, too. Thank you.” Your eyes met his, steady and sincere. “I saw on the news later that I was barely under there for four minutes. Without you, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

Superman shook his head, almost dismissively, but there was something humble in the way he spoke. “I just did what I had to. What anyone would have done, really.”

You smiled. “No, you did more. I would’ve been much worse off if you hadn’t gotten me out so fast. You saved my life.”

For a short moment, the city fell away. There were no sirens, no wind, nothing but the soft hum of Metropolis evening traffic. The sky above the rooftops had faded to pink and violet, losing its golden sunset gleam.

The last trace of the sun lingered at Superman’s shoulder, and you thought that he looked like he belonged in light. Like sunlight had created the shape of him and breathed him into being.

Then his gaze dropped down, and his brows lifted again, this time with a hint of curiosity and something almost amused. “Did I make you spill that?”

You blinked, suddenly aware of the dark stain spreading over your blanket: your spilt cup of cocoa, its warmth soaked slowly into the fabric.

“Oh.” You gave a small, sheepish laugh. “Yeah. A little. I wasn’t expecting to see you—or anyone, really—on my fire escape tonight.”

Superman’s eyes flickered with genuine apology, his voice lowering. “I’m sorry about that.”

You shook your head, already pushing yourself up. “It’s okay,” you said quickly, a flutter of awkwardness settling in your stomach. “I’ll make another and, um—I could make you one too, if you want.”

His eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, gleaming in surprise. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” you cut in, voice firmer than you felt. “But I want to.” Your lips curved in a teasing grin. “Maybe then we can call it even?”

You watched Superman closely as he shifted his weight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. The way the fading sunlight caught the strands of his hair made them look like a halo you wanted to reach out and touch, or capture in paint.

It felt ridiculous, but you found yourself imagining what it would be like to try to translate the warmth you felt from Superman into something you could hold.

When you returned from your kitchen, you carried two mismatched mugs, steam rising in lazy spirals that caught the last glow of daylight. You held one out to the superhero on your fire escape.

“I added marshmallows,” you said, your voice gentle but steady.

Superman accepted the mug with both hands. The porcelain looked almost comically small, cradled between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked up at you then, stared warm and steady, and just beamed.

It wasn’t the kind of smile you saw on magazine covers or in news headlines. It was quieter, sparkling a gentle heat somewhere in your chest.

You settled back down and invited him to take the seat beside you. Superman took a careful sip of cocoa, then winced at the heat. Tried again, slower this time. You laughed softly into your own mug, thoroughly charmed.

A tiny flame bloomed inside you, threatening to grow into something warm enough to burn.

You took a slow sip of your cocoa, the rich sweetness grounding you in the fading light. The quiet between you felt easy, but you couldn’t shake the pull to know more.

“So,” you began, voice soft and a little hesitant, “what’s it really like? Having all that responsibility. Saving people, carrying the weight of the city? And the whole planet, sometimes.”

Superman blinked, as if the question caught him off guard, and then looked out toward the skyline.

“It’s… a privilege,” he said, after a pause. “Mostly. It’s what I was made for. Makes me feel human, like I’m a part of something bigger. Sometimes it’s just helping someone cross the street, or fixing a roof after a storm.” Superman glanced at you, a hesitant little laugh bubbling from his lips. “And occasionally making house calls to people’s fire escapes.”

You grinned, and he seemed quietly pleased with himself.

“Does it ever feel like it’s too much?” you asked.

Superman got more comfortable on the fire escape, and you shared your blanket without him having to ask. His eyes flicked down to his cocoa, and he plucked a marshmallow from the surface, popping it into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, once he swallowed. “But those moments are rare. I guess I crave stillness more than most people might expect. It’s in those quiet in-between moments that I feel most like myself.”

You let your gaze drift to the soft glow of the city, blending with the comforting weight of Superman’s presence beside you. “Kind of like right now,” you offered, your voice almost a whisper.

He turned toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a genuine smile. “Exactly like right now.” Superman’s eyes caught the last of the sunset, and you saw a flicker of relief on his face.

You shifted a little closer, enough to feel the edge of his arm against yours through the blanket.

“Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you?” you asked, words slipping out before you could stop them. “Like a moth to a flame?”

Superman’s eyes flickered with something intense beneath the calm. His smile faded, replaced by something more fervent.

“More than I probably should,” he said, voice low. “But I keep flying toward it anyway.”

Superman never knocked or let you know he was coming. He just landed on your fire escape and made himself at home.

You got used to the sound of it—the faint ripple in the wind, like the shift of a wing or the rustle of fabric. Sometimes you heard it when you were already reaching for the window, like you’d felt him coming. Other times, you’d turn and see him there, silhouetted against the early evening sky, just waiting.

Always waiting for you.

In the six months you’d known him, Superman never asked to come inside. But sometimes he stayed on the fire escape or the roof. Just close enough to talk.

He didn’t share much about himself. But you learned to watch him closely—how his shoulders dipped slightly when he was tired, how his jaw set when something troubled him. You discovered that he didn’t talk unless he meant to, and that his eyes could be impossibly calm even when the world was spinning around him.

One morning, just before dawn, you stood beside him on the roof of your apartment building. The air was still, clinging to the last chill of night, and Superman was silent beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, forearms resting on the parapet.

He always seemed more human when he stood like that, like the sky was a place he visited, not where he belonged.

You glanced sideways and caught the faint mark on Superman’s cheek—a shadowed bruise, purpling against his skin.

By the time the first edge of sunrise crested over the horizon, you saw the colour begin to lift from the bruise, healing as gold spilt across his face. His lashes caught the light, and his whole body seemed to exhale.

You stared. “You heal like that?” you whispered.

Superman nodded once, still looking forward. “I get my powers from the yellow sun,” he explained.

You tilted your head. “You told me that before,” you said slowly, the memory surfacing like something from a dream. “After the building collapsed.”

He turned toward you, eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “Yes, I did.”

“You said, ‘The sun always makes me feel better.’” The words rose in your throat like they’d been waiting the whole time.

Superman grinned then, all teeth and bright blue eyes. “Yeah. That sounds like me. It’s a bit dramatic, but I stand by it.” You let out a quiet chuckle. “Though I should clarify, it’s mostly ultraviolet radiation, technically. Very romantic.”

You huffed another laugh, but before you could reply, he turned a little more toward you, the humour softening in his eyes. “But also, you,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

You jolted. “What?”

“The sun heals me,” Superman repeated, this time with a shrug so casual it was almost bashful. “And so do you.”

There was a beat of quiet before you let out a small, startled giggle. “I’m nothing like the sun.”

“You are to me,” Superman said. He snuck a glance your way, unsure if he had said too much.

You raised your eyebrows, half smiling.

His gaze dropped to his hands, a little flustered. “I mean, I’m the one who can fly and shoot lasers out of my eyes,” Superman teased. “I feel like I’m allowed to stretch the metaphor.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s corny, but things get quieter when I see you. I feel like I can breathe easier.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. You reached out and let your fingers meet his. Superman didn’t pull away. He curled his hand gently around yours, his palm warm and steady, holding you with quiet care. It was a touch you were familiar with by now.

“Ultraviolet radiation,” you echoed softly, tugging your joined hands in a quiet invitation.

Superman nodded. Then, in one smooth, easy motion, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in like gravity had finally given up pretending.

“Healing properties,” he murmured, voice low near your ear. “Very effective.”

Your head rested against his chest as Superman gathered you closer, like you weighed nothing at all. Your body folded into his without protest. And still, he held you like he couldn’t believe you’d actually let him.

Superman was warm. Not just body heat, but warm like the morning itself.

He gave a soft breath of a laugh. “You should probably come with a warning label.”

You tilted your head, not moving from the comfort of his chest. “Oh yeah? What would it say?”

“Caution: May cause accelerated heart rate, spontaneous honesty, and temporary flight.”

You let out a quiet laugh into Superman’s collarbone. “Temporary flight?”

“Well, you are kind of sweeping me off my feet here.” Superman grinned as your laugh deepened, his arms tightening just slightly like he wanted to memorise the sound. “Side effects may include goofy behaviour, emotional vulnerability, and excessive metaphors.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “I think I can live with that.”

Neither of you moved until the rooftops turned gold.

When the sun fully blanketed Metropolis, you asked, “Do you have a real name?”

Superman paused. The wind stirred his dark curls. You could see the sunlight touching his hair, gold glinting at his temple like a halo.

“I do,” he said eventually.

You waited. Superman didn’t offer more. You nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly.

Trying to keep your voice gentle, you whispered, “Okay.”

You loved him like this, in the light, with your body encircled by his. You loved the way he watched the sunrise, like it healed him. You loved the heat in his voice when he said your name.

But you didn’t know where Superman went when he left you. You knew he had another life, somewhere beyond the skies and the city. A version that woke up, dressed in ordinary clothes, talked to people on the street, and had a name that wasn’t Superman.

You didn’t ask again, but the question lingered. Because you were falling in love with someone who felt like the sun, and half of him still lived in shadow.

You started painting again. You told yourself it had nothing to do with Superman, but the colours said otherwise. Warm reds. Quiet golds. The occasional streak of blue you couldn’t seem to keep out of the frame. You painted the horizon the way it looked from your roof when he sat beside you—lit by something more than just sunlight.

It was nearly midnight, and the lamplight spilt across your apartment floor in quiet gold. You’d left the window cracked open just in case, even though you told yourself you were only airing out the smell of oil paint.

When Superman landed on the fire escape, his steps were slower than usual. He moved like he was made of something heavier than muscle, like the weight of the day hadn’t left him yet.

You opened the window all the way, stepping back to let him in. “Rough night?”

Superman didn’t answer right away. He ducked inside your apartment, his boots soundless against the floor. When his eyes found you, they were slow and tired. Not the kind of tiredness that came from a long day of work, but the kind that settled in your bones. The kind even sleep couldn’t cure.

You both sank to the floor, shoulders brushing. Superman reached for your hand before either of you said a word, like muscle memory. His fingers wrapped around yours and held on. He rubbed his thumb along the back of your hand, leaving slow, warm traces over the dried paint smudges.

Red, blue, yellow.

Superman noticed. You saw it in the flicker of a smile blooming on his face. He didn’t ask why you chose those colours; he didn’t have to. Your fingers curled around his, matching his pressure.

“You’re still covered in paint,” Superman murmured, voice more adoring than usual.

“I haven’t been able to stop lately,” you replied. After a pause, you added, “It’s kind of weird, actually. Almost like I can’t help but think in colour now.”

His hand tightened around yours just a little. It was like your confession was more than he deserved; it both steadied him and split him open.

Superman turned, eyes half-lidded but still painfully blue. “I shouldn’t keep doing this,” he said finally, hoarse. “Coming back here, letting myself forget about the rest of the world for a while…”

You turned your head, just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. “But you do.”

His smile was faint, barely there, but genuine. “You make it hard to stay away,” he argued.

Then Superman turned fully toward you, and everything in his posture affirmed his admission. One of his hands rose to cradle your head, adoring, almost aching with attentiveness. His forehead met yours. The closeness wasn’t new, but tonight it felt like a held breath.

The silence returned, and it didn’t push against your chest like it used to.

Your free hand hovered just above his chest, paint-smudged fingers trembling. You remember asking him the night he first visited you: Do you ever feel drawn to something that might burn you? Like a moth to a flame? You wanted to touch him. You didn’t.

You shifted your fingers a little closer, almost close enough to touch the emblem on Superman’s suit.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you. “Are you warm?” he asked softly.

You paused. “Why?”

Superman’s eyes flicked upward, toward the soft yellow glow of the lamp overhead. “Even in the dark,” he murmured, “you feel like daybreak.”

Your breath caught, not from surprise, but from recognition.

Superman lifted his hand—the one still cradling the back of your head—and guided your fingers the rest of the way, placing your palm over the crest on his chest. The warmth of him seeped into your skin and spread outward, curling through your arms, your ribs, your lungs.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as though he felt it too. When he opened them again, he looked a little dazed.

Superman leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away. Your foreheads touched, and you felt the brush of his lips as they hovered—his final act of restraint.

He whispered your name, and then you kissed him.

Not hesitant. Not sweet. Not polite. Something in you gave way, something you’d kept sealed for too long. The contact wasn’t sharp or urgent; it was complete.

The moment his lips touched yours, every tether gave way.

You kissed Superman like you’d been waiting forever, and he kissed you like he couldn’t believe you’d let him.

His hand rose to your face, thumb sweeping your cheekbone. The other found your lower back, pulling you in until every point of contact felt like ignition. Heat curled through you, low and insistent. The kiss deepened.

You didn’t realise how breathless you were until you had to stop. You pulled back an inch, lips still grazing his.

“I don’t want to fall too fast,” you whispered.

Superman exhaled like he understood too well, almost like he wanted to say, me too, but couldn’t bear the sound of it. His hand stayed at your cheek, the other drawing slow, grounding circles against the bare skin of your back under your shirt.

He couldn’t make himself let go.

“Then fall slowly,” Superman begged. “But please don’t stop.”

He kissed you again.

It was dizzying. Your breath caught in the back of your throat as your hands rose to tangle in his hair, fingertips threading through the soft dark strands. His mouth claimed yours with a hunger that didn’t quite match the quiet of the room.

Superman’s hands cradled your jaw, but there was no caution in the way he kissed you. He tilted your chin up, drew you closer, and kissed you like he couldn’t bear to hold back a second longer.

His thumb stroked down your throat gently as your lips parted for him, and he kissed you deeper.

You made a sound against Superman’s mouth, faint and involuntary, and that was all it took. He lifted you, arms firm around your waist, lifting you to perch on the back of your sofa with a gentleness that barely contained the force behind it.

His body pressed into yours between your knees, solid and real and warm, and the world narrowed to the feel of his hands, the taste of his mouth, and the blazing heat of sunlight in the dark.

Superman held you like he didn’t trust the moment to endure, as if he might burn straight through you if he wasn’t careful.

At some point, he pulled back just far enough to catch his breath—though he kept his arms locked around you like he had no intention of letting go. His nose bumped carefully against yours. His smile was a little crooked.

“I should probably—uh—mention something,” Superman said, his voice low and a little sheepish.

You blinked, still catching your breath. “What?”

He hesitated, then blurted it out with the sort of rush you’d expect from someone confessing to a petty crime, not saving the world every week: “My name’s Clark.”

You stared at him, echoing, “Clark?”

“Clark Kent,” he added quickly, like maybe the full name would help. “I mean, technically Kal-El, if you want to get all Kryptonian about it, but that feels kind of formal right now, and—” He stopped himself, realising he was rambling, and gave you a lopsided grin. “Sorry. I just figured you should know who you’re kissing.”

You blinked again. Kiss-drunk, stunned, still slightly out of breath, and then a laugh burst out of you, bright and incredulous and full of joy.

“Oh my God,” you said, grinning so hard it actually hurt. “Of course, your name is Clark.”

He looked a little defensive, but mostly delighted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shook your head, still beaming. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark Kent.” The moment his real name left your lips, it sparked something in both of you—soft and giddy, like butterflies waking up all at once.

And Clark just stood there for a second, heart tripping over itself, arms full of the person he loved. He was totally, completely, unequivocally done for.

Because it was happening. This was real. You were warm against him—flushed and glowing and laughing like he’d just handed you the moon—and every single ridiculous, hopeless, too-big-for-his-own-good feeling he’d been carrying came surging up at once.

You thought he was perfect, Clark realised. You were smiling like that because of him. What should he do with his face? Where should he put his hands? Had breathing always been this difficult?

He’d flown through supernovas, stood inside hurricanes, and heard the heartbeat of the earth. None of it came close to this.

You felt like the yellow sun—no, better than that. Like Kansas in July, like his favourite meal made by Ma Kent, like home and comfort and every love song Clark had ever heard.

He couldn’t help it. He beamed. You caught the expression and softened instantly, eyes warm and open.

Clark looked like he was about to say something else, but you didn’t let him.

You kissed him, over and over, slow and then desperate. You kissed him until you didn’t know who had reached for whom first.

And it wasn’t a descent. It wasn’t dangerous. It was a surrender.

Strap the wings to me, you thought. Let it melt. Let it catch fire. If Clark Kent is the sun, then let me fly to him.

Because for once, this wasn’t the story of Icarus falling. It was the moment just before. The moment he left the ground. The moment the sky opened and everything turned to gold.

The front door creaked open with the quiet click of a key turning in the lock.

“You used the front door again,” you called without looking up, brush still in hand.

Clark stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his usual soft care. “Some people think using doors is polite,” he reminded you.

You glanced over your shoulder, letting your eyes linger on how good your boyfriend looked in his work clothes. “I kind of miss the dramatic entrances,” you admitted.

“Oh, you mean the part where I tripped on your curtain rod that one time?”

You grinned. “Exactly!”

Clark walked toward you, still in the button-down he always wore to work at The Daily Planet, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’d tugged it loose the second he left the newsroom. You were standing barefoot in your living room, a half-finished painting drying in front of you. Your fingers were smudged with gold and soft blue, and you wore one of Clark’s old Smallville football t-shirts, now covered in streaks of red, yellow, and cobalt.

Clark paused when he saw it. His brow softened, and something in his chest gave a quiet little tug. You looked like a memory he didn’t know he’d already made—sunlight and colour and home, all rolled into one.

“You know,” he said, brushing his knuckles lightly over the painted hem of his t-shirt, “you really bring out the primary colors in me.”

You snorted. “Wow. You’ve been waiting to use that one, haven’t you?”

He looked mock-offended. “That was off the cuff! I’m a journalist. We’re good with words.”

“Oh, you’re great with words,” you agreed, looping your arms around his shoulders. “Like the time you called me ‘a phenomenon of gravitational significance.’”

Clark beamed. “You are one.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your canvas. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Clark’s arms circled around your waist like this was what he’d been made to do. He fit against you like gravity, always had. “Whatcha painting?”

“You,” you said, not even a little shy.

He blinked. “Oh?” Clark knew you had been inspired to start painting again because of him—and you gravitated towards Superman’s colour palette more than anything else these days—but you had yet to actually paint him.

“I decided to bite the bullet and give it a try. Everything else I painted’s been alluding to this, you know? Light through clouds. Rooftops catching fire in the evening. The color the sky turns when someone you love walks through the door.”

Clark let out a quiet breath. He pressed a kiss to your head, exactly where your minor head wound had been the day he saved you.

“I think you’re my favorite subject,” you added, “even when you’re not wearing the cape.”

His smile widened. “I thought I was your favourite, especially when I’m not wearing the cape,” Clark teased. “Or, you know, wearing anything.”

You made a face like you were disappointed by the crude joke. “Oh, you’re impossible,” you scoffed, trying and failing to keep the laughter from your voice.

“Very likely,” Clark said, unperturbed by your response.

You leaned into him. He was so warm it made you ache. Your free hand reached up, paint-streaked fingers brushing through the hair at the nape of Clark’s neck.

He dipped his head toward you, and you met him halfway—lips parting in a kiss that was immediate and unthinking. It was the kind of kiss you gave someone you’d missed all day, the kind that left no room for doubt. Clark kissed you like he meant it, like he always meant it, one hand steady at your waist, the other slipping up your back until you were pressed against him, breathless.

When you finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, breathing in like he was trying to hold the moment inside him.

“You know,” you murmured, “you used to land on my balcony like you’d burn the whole sky behind you.”

Clark huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You never blinked.”

“It made me think you were the sun,” you said. “Too bright. Too far away.”

“I used to think the sun was something I could never touch,” Clark said quietly. “Something I had to chase, or carry, or be. But with you, I finally feel like I can stand still in it.”

You smiled at him, the way you used to when you saw him hovering outside your window, and said, soft and certain, “You’re still the sun, Clark. You just finally know what it feels like to be warmed by someone else.”

#YUP

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