yuuzuforia - Tumblr blog

yuuzuforia · 4 days ago

Text

You Promised

Part 2

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+ MDNI, best friends brother trope, Best Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst & Yearning, Mutual Pining, forced proximity, face sitting, piv, creampie, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cozy Domestic Moments, Clark Kent is the most romantic dork alive

word count: 17k

Summary: Things are different now, even if no one says it out loud. In the months that follow, friendship teeters on something more—quiet glances, unspoken truths, the ache of everything left unsaid. Lines blur. Boundaries slip. And what started as closeness begins to feel like something neither of you can ignore anymore. But when feelings deepen, so does the fear: of hurting someone else, of risking what you have, of wanting too much. As the seasons change, so does everything else. What was once a quiet comfort grows into something tender, risky, and impossibly real. And love—patient, persistent love—waits for both of you to stop pretending you don’t feel it. Part 1 | Series Masterlist

notes – not proofread

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

Six months. That’s how long it’s been since Clark and Lois ended things, since you stood beside him on that rooftop and said nothing while the city breathed beneath you. Since the rain settled between your shoulders and your ribs, and you learned just how quiet heartbreak can be in someone like him.

Now… things feel normal again. Mostly. You’ve returned to the easy rhythm of shared dinners and half-watched movies, inside jokes and friendly texts that sometimes come too late at night to feel entirely casual. The three of you—Clark, Kara, and you—still orbit each other like you always have. And when it’s just you and him, it’s good. Warm. Familiar. A constellation you know by heart.

But sometimes—God, sometimes—you catch yourself watching him when he’s not looking. The way he tips his head back to laugh, teeth flashing. The way his fingers brush yours when he hands you a mug. The way his shirt rides up when he stretches, revealing the soft dip of skin just above his waistband. And every time, it feels like a bruise blooming under your ribs because he’s not yours. He never was.

You tell yourself you’re fine with that. You’ve gotten good at it—this quiet, practiced ache. Smiling when he brings you soup. Letting your heartbeat even out when he leans a little too close to show you something on his phone. You know his cologne now. The scent clings to your throw pillows days after he leaves.

He’s healing. And you—you’re trying not to hope for more than what’s already too much. You’ve built a friendship strong enough to survive everything except maybe the truth. So you don’t speak it. Not when he wipes a smudge of sauce from your cheek. Not when you fall asleep beside him during a movie and wake up tucked into the crook of his arm. Not even when Kara elbows you with a smirk and says, “You two need separate couches.”

Instead, you pretend. You carry it quietly. This not-quite-love, this not-quite-mine.

It starts like any other night. Clark’s on your couch—slouched into the corner cushion like he’s trying to fold all six feet and change of himself into something smaller, quieter. Like maybe if he doesn’t take up space, he won’t give himself away.

The bowl of popcorn rests between you, long forgotten. Just crumbs now. Just excuses. You’d let him pick the movie—some softly-lit indie flick with a haunting score and very little dialogue. He claimed it “looked interesting,” but you’re certain he hasn’t looked at the screen once.

You, also, have been watching him.

The TV throws light across his face in shifting waves—blue, then gold, then the deep violet of dusk. It paints his jawline, catches in the frames of his glasses, softens the stubborn set of his brow. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. But you can feel his gaze—quiet, steady, unraveling you. Every time the screen goes dim, it’s there. On you.

You shift slightly, stretching your legs under the pretense of getting more comfortable. Your toes nudge against his thigh. He doesn’t give much of a reaction, so you let them rest there. Light. Familiar. Maybe a little braver than you mean.

It’s a rhythm you’ve known for months now—this hush between you. The not-quite silence. The not-quite distance. His hand moves, absent at first. A casual drift downward, fingertips grazing your ankle. You expect it to retreat the way it usually does when he accidentally touches you. It doesn’t. Instead, he traces.

Slow circles. One after the other. Featherlight. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he presses any harder.

Your breath catches and it doesn’t recover. You keep your eyes on the flickering shapes on the screen, but the dialogue warps in your ears, blurring before finally dissolving. You can’t hear the story over your pulse. Can’t follow the plot over the drag of his knuckles against your skin, the warmth of his palm curled loosely near your heel.

You tell yourself not to react. That this is nothing. That Clark is like this—with everyone. Sweet. Gentle. Kind. But you’ve seen how he pulls back from the world. How careful he is with his touch. And you've been around long enough to see what it means when he doesn’t pull back.

And he’s not pulling back.

You shift again, but this time it’s too sudden. The blanket slips from your shoulders, pooling in your lap. Cool air brushes your skin. So does his gaze.

He stills. The movie flickers to black. The room holds its breath.

You turn toward him. Eyes wide, your lips parted. You don’t know what you’re about to say—just that it’s burning up your throat. But the credits start to roll, and the moment shatters like glass underfoot.

Clark exhales slowly, like he’s remembering how. “I should go,” he says, voice low. Rough around the edges. Like gravel in honey.

You nod before you can stop yourself. It’s the wrong answer, and you know it. You want to say: Don’t.You want to ask: Do you feel it too?You want to reach out. Catch his sleeve. Anchor him to you and never let go just like you have since you were 17.

But instead, you sit there, heart thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

He stands, running a hand through his hair. His glasses catch the dim light of your lamp. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Silence blooms in the space he leaves behind—wide and echoing.

You press your fingers to your ankle. The spot still tingles, as if his touch branded you. You try to hold it there. Try to remember the way it felt—like being seen. Like being chosen. Like maybe, just maybe, you were both on the verge of something you were too scared to name.

But the warmth is fading and the night stretches long ahead.

You hear the landing before you see him. A low gust of wind rattles the panes. The soft thud of boots against your balcony floor. Not a crash. Not a heroic landing. Just Clark. Quiet. Measured. Bone-deep tired Clark.

When you draw the sliding glass door open, he’s already there—his silhouette framed in silver, the moonlight catching on the curve of the gold “S” at his chest. His cape stirs behind him in the breeze, edges frayed, one side clinging to a shoulder that looks like it barely made it out of something alive.

And he does look alive—but barely.

There’s blood at the corner of his mouth, smudged into stubble at his jaw. A cut just above his brow, still pink with healing skin. His knuckles are raw and cracked, one hand flexing like he’s not sure it’s real. The shoulder seam of his suit is burned through—charred black with something molten and cruel.

You step forward into the cool night air. “You okay?” It’s stupid. Useless. A question you already know the answer to.

“Yeah,” he lies, voice raw and low and unconvincing.

You don’t call him out. Don’t make him explain. You just nod—small and quiet—and disappear inside for a moment. When you return, you’re holding two mugs. Cocoa. A little too hot. You burned your tongue on it once trying to calm him down after an earthquake off the coast. It worked. He said it was the first time he smiled in a week.

He’s sitting now, sunk into your rusted balcony chair like he’s folded himself into a smaller version of who he’s supposed to be. His shoulders are slumped. His cape is draped over the side, edges brushing the cement. His head is tipped back against the night sky, like he’s asking it a question it’ll never answer.

You offer the mug. He doesn’t say thank you. He just takes it—slowly, carefully, like it might disappear. Like maybe you might disappear if he blinks too long.

The silence that follows is different from the kind you used to know. It isn’t awkward. It isn’t unfamiliar. But it aches.

You sit beside him, the metal of your chair groaning under the shift. Your knees almost brush. You pretend they don’t. Pretend the jasmine tea on your skin and the smoke still clinging to his doesn’t mix in the air between you like something intimate.

Your pinky grazes his—light, unthinking. He laces his over yours like a reflex. It’s not the first time he’s touched you. But it feels like a secret.

The city murmurs beneath your feet. Headlights like lightning bugs blur past below. Sirens rise and fade. Somewhere, a car door slams. Someone laughs too loud. But none of it touches the quiet pressed between you now.

There’s heat pouring off him. He runs too warm. You’ve always said that. But tonight it’s worse. More intense. Like his body hasn’t caught up to his mind—like whatever fire he flew through is still licking at his skin.

You glance at him through the fringe of your lashes. He looks like a painting of himself—still and ruined and too beautiful for how much pain you know he’s in. You loved him at seventeen. You love him still.

You’re not sure now if you’ll ever say it. You still have never even said it out loud. Not once. Not to friends or family. Not even to yourself. You feel like if you ever do say it, even a whisper of it, that it will make it’s way to him. Or worse. To Kara. Because you were always Kara’s. Not like that, but in a way that felt final. Because you couldn’t risk being another fracture in his already-cracked heart. Because it was easier to be his friend than to lose him trying to be something more.

But nights like this make it impossible to ignore. Your pinky is still laced with his. Your heartbeat is in your ears. You close your eyes for a moment and let yourself want. Let yourself imagine what it would feel like to turn to him and say, Please. Just this once. Let me have you. Let yourself imagine him leaning in. That mouth—split at the corner—kissing you like he’s dreamed of it too. You’ve seen him smile. You’ve seen him bleed. But you’ve never seen him love, not up close. Not personally. Only from afar.

And god, you want it. You want him.

Eventually, he stands. Sets the mug on your railing with gentle fingers that tremble like fault lines. His eyes scan the skyline like he’s searching for something he’ll never find. Then he turns back to you. One hand rubs the back of his neck—a nervous tic, sweet and boyish and old as time. He swallows hard.

“I don’t like hiding from you,” he says. The words knock something loose in your chest.

You don’t ask what he means. Not because you don’t want to know. But because you do. Because if you ask, you’ll want more than he’s ready to give.

So you just nod. And he does too. And then he’s gone—up, up, and out of sight, a red blur against the stars. You’re left alone on the balcony. One empty mug in your hand. The faint echo of warmth along your pinky finger.

You sit in the chair he left behind. You press your knees together to stop the shaking. You whisper the truth you can’t say aloud.

I don’t want you to hide from me, either.

But he’s already gone.

And the ache is still here.

Kara’s playlist is too loud. Someone started with Beyoncé but now it’s swung into space disco remixes, and no one seems to know how or why. There’s popcorn in the couch cushions. Someone definitely spilled soda near the balcony door and tried to cover it with a throw pillow. The smell of strawberry lip gloss and garlic knots is competing for dominance.

It’s chaos. But it’s your chaos. The kind that tastes like comfort and found family and a too-small apartment lit by string lights and laughter.

You’re standing on a stool, trying to tape up a curling “WELCOME, BITCHES” banner that Kara printed on the wrong sized paper, when he walks in late. Clark.

“Hey, loser,” Kara calls, tossing him a plastic cup with suspicious pink punch already in it. “Took you long enough. I almost started showing incriminating pictures.”

“I brought pie,” he says, holding it up like a peace offering.

You snort. “You’re forgiven. But only because it smells like apples and childhood joy.”

He grins and steps in to set the pie down. You go back to fighting with the banner but the tape gives up again, the edge peeling as you try to stick it higher. You huff. Stretch. Swear under your breath.

And then Clark’s behind you. “Need a hand?” he asks, already reaching.

He goes for the roll of streamers on the counter beside you, and his hand grazes yours. Just a little. Just enough that your skin buzzes like it’s picked up a signal from another planet. Neither of you move. Not right away.

You swear the air shifts. His breath catches a strand of hair by your cheek. The stool wobbles. Your heart does too.

He clears his throat and steps back, but not before his fingers linger a little longer than they need to. When he walks away, your knees try not to buckle. Kara, from across the room, yells, “If you fall off that stool and die, I’m bringing you back just to kill you again!”

Later, during charades, things only get worse. Clark’s too competitive. Kara’s worse. You’re unhinged. You flail through what was supposed to be a jellyfish but has apparently come off as a haunted windmill. Clark guesses “hot air balloon.” Kara screams, “That’s what you got from that?!”

“You try doing jellyfish with elbows!” you shout back, laughing too hard to breathe.

You lose the round. Clark leans in, close enough to make your brain skip a few vital steps. “Next time,” he murmurs, voice brushing your ear, “I’m making you mime Superman.”

You turn your head, accidentally too fast, and now you’re face to face. His grin is all boyish trouble. Your pulse forgets how to behave.

“Pretty sure I’d nail it,” you whisper.

“I know you would,” he says, not blinking.

Your cheeks flush. Kara throws a mini pretzel at his head and yells, “Stop flirting with my human, bitch!”

“She’s not yours,” Clark grumbles—but he’s still smiling.

“She’s my constant,” Kara says proudly, then adds the Kryptonian word that sounds like wind and velvet: aorish. “You don’t get to make goo-goo eyes at my aorish unless you plan on dying early by my hand. Or worse. Krypto’s stank breath.” At her words, Krypto launches into the room, tackling Clark and slobbering across his face.

You shriek-laugh and try to throw a pillow at her, but she’s already flying over the couch.

Cleanup comes too soon after. You’re half-distracted, helping Kara gather solo cups and leftover napkins while Jimmy’s recounting some horrendous date where a woman tried to use him for his press pass. Kara keeps yelling “RED FLAG” every time he says something mildly out of pocket.

You crouch down to grab your keys from under the coffee table—and Clark beats you to it. His hand curls around the keyring. Yours lands on top of his. The contact is warm. Still. Too quiet. His thumb brushes yours once, and it makes your stomach twist in that stupid, lovely way.

You murmur “thanks,” barely louder than the music, and he’s already looking at you like he heard it with his entire soul.

Later, you catch him watching again—just a flicker of a glance while you’re laughing at Jimmy’s story. Your head’s on Kara’s shoulder, your cheeks sore from smiling. Clark’s smile falters for just a second, but it doesn’t fade entirely.

He doesn’t look away right away either. And neither do you. Eventually, though, you both do. Because that’s the game you play.

You, Kara, and the human-shaped sun that keeps orbiting closer. Close enough to warm you. Close enough to burn.

It starts with you at his apartment. Not the first time. Not even the tenth. But tonight… tonight feels different. The air hums warmer somehow. Thicker. Like something unspoken is steeping in the space between you.

You’re curled up on his couch, barefoot and tucked into one of his throw blankets—one you’ve used before, worn soft from too many nights exactly like this. The lamp hums low. Jazz crackles softly from the old radio on the counter. There’s cinnamon in the air, steeping in the pot he brewed without asking, and a half-shared bowl of popcorn between you.

Kara was supposed to come. She bailed last minute.

“Sorry, babe got dragged to a 3-moon rager on Almerac 🚀 if I don’t survive the afterparty, tell Clark he’s still a little bitch. enjoy your weird little movie night (my human forever. don’t forget it.).”

She added three alien emojis and a kiss.

So it’s just you and Clark now. Which isn’t new. And shouldn’t matter. Except it does.

You follow him into the kitchen when he offers to top off your cocoa—because you always do. Some part of you always drifts toward him, magnetic and automatic, like your gravity reorients around wherever he’s standing.

You reach for the whipped cream at the same time he slides the mug toward you. It wobbles. Sloshes. Hot liquid spills down your front in a narrow arc, turning your soft t-shirt translucent where it clings to your skin.

You gasp. “Shit—sorry—hot—ouch.”

He’s already in front of you. Clark sets the mug down, gentle but quick, and grabs a dish towel from the counter, brushing your hand aside so he can check your wrist.

“Hey, hey—let me see,” he murmurs, voice low with worry. His thumb presses softly against your skin, checking for red. For burn. For anything worse than embarrassment. “You’re fine,” he says after a beat, and the way his brow furrows makes your chest twist. “But you’re soaked.”

You glance down. The shirt clings. Every line of your bra outlined. Your skin flushed from heat, or maybe something else. Maybe him.

Clark sees it. There’s no way he doesn’t. His gaze dips for half a second—and then his whole face goes pink. Bright pink. He jerks his eyes to the ceiling like it personally offended him. Like staring at the drywall might erase the image already burned behind his eyelids.

“I—I’ll get you something,” he blurts, already halfway out of the kitchen, one hand scrubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to file away the memory with friction alone. “Just hang on, I’ve got—um—yeah.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling. It’s not mean that he turned away so quickly. It’s just… him.

A moment later, he returns and tosses you something soft—navy blue and worn, caught at the wrists and frayed a little at the collar. His hoodie.

You pull it on in the other room, stripping your soaked shirt and bra, without thinking. The hoodie swallows you. The sleeves fall past your hands. The hem brushes your thighs. It’s warm and heavy and carries the scent of him deep in the fibers—clean laundry and cedar and maybe a little coffee. The faintest trace of something sunlit and faraway, like the clouds he flies through still clung to it.

You run your palms down your arms.

When you come back, he’s staring. Not with hunger. Not with shame. Just… stunned. Awed. Like he wasn’t expecting it to feel like this. Like seeing you in his clothes has rearranged something quietly permanent inside him and he doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

His gaze dips again—your bare legs, the way the hoodie hangs loose around your collarbone—and then he snaps it back up to your face, a little horrified with himself.

“I’ll give it back,” you say, voice soft. You mean for it to be casual. It doesn’t land that way.

His answer comes too fast. “Keep it.”

You blink.

He fidgets. Rubs the back of his neck again. “It, um… it looks better on you.”

You look at him then. Really letting yourself take in this moment. At the pink in his cheeks, the way he can’t quite meet your eyes, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to say more and doesn’t know how. And for one stupid second, one slow, suspended beat—you think he might kiss you.

He doesn’t.

You don’t sleep that night. Not because the hoodie is scratchy. It isn’t. Not because it’s too warm. It’s not. But because it’s his. And it smells like him. And feels like him. And your fingers twist the cuffs into knots while your mind plays the same game it’s been playing for years—what if. What if you said something. What if he kissed you back. What if he wants you the way you want him—quiet and burning and always.

You curl tighter beneath the covers, hoodie pulled to your chin, your pulse loud against the quiet.

He gave it to you. He looked at you. He lingered.

And even if you never wear it again, tonight it’s yours. He’s not. But it is.

And somehow, that’s almost worse.

Kara calls it “just a little thing,” which of course means a full spread of drinks, snacks, and at least three rooftop speakers synced to some chaotic indie-pop playlist you’re sure she pulled from an alien DJ database.

You take your time getting ready. Not for Clark. Except maybe just a little for Clark, especially after all of the moments you’ve shared recently.

The dress isn’t scandalous. Not really. It just… fits. Hugs the places you sometimes forget you have. The hem brushes mid-thigh, and the neckline dips just enough to catch the breeze. Your lip gloss glints. Your eyes are lined sharp. You look good—and it feels dangerous.

You arrive fashionably late with a bottle of wine and a warning grin. Kara beams when she sees you.

Clark? He sees you and forgets how to speak.

You catch it in the way his jaw ticks. The way his mouth parts—like he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it. He’s mid-conversation with Jimmy and Lois, but his eyes track you like a second gravitational pull just settled into the party.

The party hums in the distance—low bass vibrating through the floor, laughter echoing off the walls, Kara’s playlist bouncing between alien electro-pop and something vaguely French. The rooftop glows with string lights and mischief, but down here, in the kitchen, everything feels quieter. Closer. Warmer.

You’re leaning against the counter, feigning interest in the wine bottles Kara left half-labeled and slightly warm. The glass in your hand is only half-full, but your pulse is drunk on something else entirely. You haven’t seen Clark in a while—not since you walked in and his entire world stopped turning.

You still feel it. The shift. The silence that bloomed in his throat when he saw you. So when he appears now—quiet as a sigh, big frame folding into the space beside you like he belongs there—you don’t jump. You just feel the air change again. Charged. Electric.

He’s behind you. Close. And when he reaches for the corkscrew near your wrist, the back of his hand brushes your arm.

You don’t move. Neither does he. “Thought you might’ve left,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse. “Didn’t see you for a while.”

You sip your wine. Let your shoulder barely lean into his chest. “Thought you were avoiding me.”

A beat. Then, just behind your ear, “No. Just needed a second.”

You smile, slow and wicked. “Dangerous thing to admit, Kent.”

He exhales like you winded him. And maybe you did. His hand grazes your hip—barely. Maybe accidental. Maybe not. You don’t ask. You don’t look at him. Not yet. Too scared of what you might do. The glass in your hand tilts slightly as your body leans back into the edge of his, just enough to make him inhale sharply.

“You look nice,” he says, quiet and wrecked and reverent.

You tilt your head, lazy and slow. “You’ve seen me look better. And worse.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, and his breath fans against your jaw. “But this… this is different.”

You finally look at him. God. His tie is loose. His curls are damp from sweat or maybe the shower or maybe just the heat you’ve both been generating since you walked into this room. His eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown wide, lips parted. You can smell him. Warm spice and fresh linen. That impossible smell that always clings to your skin when he hugs you too long. That smell that makes you ache.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, wine catching behind your teeth.

He’s smiling now, slow and amused, but his voice is hushed and tight when he says, “You’re the one looking at me like that.”

You shift slightly, heel lifting from the floor, knee brushing his. “You started it.”

“Did I?” His hand is still on the counter, but his fingers twitch like they want to move. Like they want to reach for your waist. Your hand. Your face.

Your dress shifts with the motion, fabric sliding along your thighs. His eyes follow. Then flick back to your mouth.

You both hover there.

One breath away from ruin.

“Okay, human disaster and kryptonian wet blanket, are you done eye fucking or can I grab the damn corkscrew?”

You jolt like you’ve been caught red-handed. Kara stands in the doorway, bottle in hand, one brow arched in cosmic judgment. She doesn’t say anything else. Just grabs the corkscrew, mutters something about “horny tension fog,” and disappears again.

You and Clark are frozen. You can feel the heat still lingering between you, burning at the edge of something that nearly happened.

“I should…” you start.

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair, breathless. “Me too.”

Neither of you moves. And the wine? Still unopened. Because nothing in this room is half as intoxicating as the way he looked at you just now.

And the worst part? You know he’ll do it again.

You’re three cocktails in and glowing.

The bar is dim and low-ceilinged, strung up with mismatched lights and pulsing with a rhythm that’s too slow to dance to but too heady to ignore. Kara dragged you out—literally. Something about needing to touch grass, socialize, wear something besides “her idiot cousins” sweatshirt. (You didn’t tell her you wore it to bed three nights in a row. She’d probably smell it on you anyway.)

She looks unreal, all legs and leather and Kryptonian confidence. You’re no slouch either. The dress is tight, shimmery. Bronze against your skin, short enough to be daring, and clinging in all the right places. You hadn’t meant to flirt with anyone tonight. Hadn’t meant to drink this much, either.

But Clark texted you twenty minutes ago.

Just a simple:

“Get home safe. Call me if you need anything.”

And now you’re spiraling.

Kara’s in the bathroom. You’re left alone with your half-melted drink, the throb of bass, and the dangerous heat pooling behind your ribcage. You’re flushed. Reckless. And when you open your phone, his name is right there.

You hit call. He picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

“Mmm,” you purr, low and syrupy. “Clarkie.”

He stills. You can hear it. That little intake of breath, the sharp silence of him trying to recalibrate. “Are you okay?” he asks—voice warm, careful, threaded with concern.

“Better now,” you say. You lean back in the booth, letting your head fall against the velvet. Your knees part slightly. It’s instinct more than invitation. “What are you doing?”

“I… I was reading.”

You hum. “Boring.”

His chuckle is soft. Nervous. “What are you doing?”

You twist the straw in your drink. “Thinking about you.”

A beat.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, but it’s gentle. Amused. Like he already knows.

“Not drunk. Tipsy,” you say, swinging your feet. “Warm. Kinda floaty. Like you and Kara can do. I think you’d like it.”

“You should probably drink some water.”

You pout, even though he can’t see it. “I’d rather drink you.” The silence on the other end goes nuclear. You grin. “Too much?”

Clark’s voice comes back low. Rough and stuttering. “Are you flirting with me right now?”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“…No.”

You freeze. The heat spikes. “Oh.”

“I mean,” he fumbles, suddenly breathless, “I just—if it’s the alcohol talking then–”

“It’s not.” You cut him off, curling your legs up beneath you, cheeks burning. “It’s not.”

He exhales like he’s holding the weight of a planet. “You’re killing me.”

You toy with the hem of your dress, voice going soft. “You haven’t seen what I’m wearing yet.”

Another silence. Heavy. Threaded with something that feels like hunger.

“I bet you look beautiful,” he says, finally. Quiet and reverent. “You always do.”

Your chest tightens. He’s not teasing anymore.

“Clark,” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I wish you were here.”

“I do too.”

And for a second, it’s not about the flirting or the dress or the heat between your thighs. It’s about the way he says it. Like he means it. Like he aches. You hear the bathroom door swing open. Kara returns with a smirk and two waters, her heels clicking against the floor.

You straighten, heart racing. “I should go.”

“Okay,” he says. “Text me when you get home?”

“Only if you promise to answer.”

“I always do.”

You hang up.

But your hands are still trembling when you slip your phone back into your clutch. You stare at your reflection in the bar mirror—flushed, lips glossed, skin glowing—and you think: God, I want him to see me like this.

It starts stupidly. It’s late. You’re half-under a blanket, legs tangled, the overhead light off and your bedside lamp flickering gold. Your phone’s at 12%. Kara is texting from a rooftop party on Jupiter’s fifth moon like she’s just down the street.

KARA: hot date saturday?? don’t be boring. wear something slutty. something war-criminal adjacent. make him weep.

You snort into your pillow, thumb already hovering over the reply button as you pull open your dresser drawer. You rifle past cotton and lace and one sports bra that should’ve been retired in 2019. Then—something bright catches your eye.

Sheer violet. Gauzy. Ridiculous.

You’d bought it with Kara after one too many pink cocktails and a dare to “embrace your villain arc.” There are tiny embroidered stars scattered across the mesh. You’ve never worn it. The tag is still on.

You hold it up to the mirror and laugh.

YOU: like this?? or too much for a potential one-night stand???

No reply yet. Just your reflection—messy hair, flushed cheeks, tank top sliding off one shoulder. And then—because you’re a menace, and Kara brings out the worst in you—you put it on.

It clings. Barely-there mesh, soft and indecent. The hem kisses the tops of your thighs. The neckline dips scandalously low. Your skin catches in the golden light like it’s lit from the inside.

You tug your hair over one shoulder. Bite your lip. Lift your phone.

The mirror catches everything—your bare legs, the stretch of your hips, the curve of your stomach. You stand crooked, one hip cocked, wrist soft where it grazes your thigh. You look tired. A little chaotic. But kind of… beautiful. Like you’ve peeled back something tender and let it live.

You’re not pouting. Not exactly. But your mouth curls at the corners like you’re daring someone to say something unhinged. Like you know.

You take the picture. Flash off. No filter.

Spicy, not explicit. Funny. Bold enough to make Kara wheeze-laugh. Honest enough that your heart is already racing.

You hit send.

And then—

No.

No no no no no.

Your blood turns to static. You freeze, thumb hovering like it might rewind time. You stare at the screen.

Sent to: Clark Kent

You don’t breathe. For three full seconds, you don’t exist. Then you scream into your pillow, roll off the bed, and slam your knee into the nightstand like it owes you money.

You scramble for your phone with shaking hands and immediately send:

YOU: IGNORE THAT OMG. YOU: I meant to send it to Kara. PLEASE ignore it. I’m dying. I’m already dead.

You chuck your phone to the other side of the bed like it’s radioactive and collapse into the mattress. Your face burns. Your soul exits your body. Every muscle tenses like the universe might swallow you whole if you stay very, very still.

And the worst part? The worst part is that just last week—on that stupid tipsy night out—you’d thought: God, I want him to see me like this.

But not like this. Not this. Not LIKE THIS FUCK.

You bury your face in your arm. Your whole body is vibrating. Three minutes crawl by. Your heart’s still trying to break through your ribcage when your phone buzzes.

You lift your head. Slowly. Like you’re about to read your own death certificate.

CLARK: That color looks beautiful on you.

The air leaves your lungs.

Another buzz.

CLARK: Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. Please ignore me.

You sit up, motionless, drowning in sheer violet and shame.

Your chest is molten. Your fingers twitch. And still—another message:

CLARK: We’re still okay, right?

You stare at the screen, light blooming against your skin, blinking back heat that has nothing to do with embarrassment anymore.

Because something is shifting. Because you read those words, and you feel it—how long he looked at it. How careful his voice is in text, even now. How the apology sounds like it hurt to write. Like he wanted to say more.

You don’t reply.

Not yet.

Because something inside you is splitting wide open—dangerous and tender—and even though you’re spiraling, half-naked, and panicked beyond reason, you know one thing with stupid, terrifying clarity:

He didn’t look away. He looked—and he wanted.

And somewhere across the city, Clark is flat on his back in bed, phone facedown on his chest, hand over his eyes, whispering your name into the dark like he’s only ever meant to say it once.

Like it’s a secret too big to keep quiet anymore.

You don’t see him for days.

Not on purpose, at first. You’re just… busy. Meetings. Errands. You say yes to brunch invites you’d normally ignore. You linger in bookstores with your phone on silent. You fold laundry at half-speed just to keep your hands from reaching for your phone. And when it finally does buzz with his name, you turn it face down.

It’s not that you’re ashamed.

It’s that you’re afraid you aren’t.

The image lives in your brain like a pulse. The sheer lace. The way your body looked—your face visible, your stance confident, flirty, that soft arch of your spine like a dare. The thought that he saw it. That he liked it.

That he said so.

And now everything feels fragile. The edges of your friendship too sharp. The space between you—too charged.

When Kara invites you both to her midweek trivia night at the bar, you arrive early and plant yourself between her and Jimmy like a defensive wall. Clark shows up twenty minutes in, windswept and flushed from some rescue you don’t ask about. He scans the table. Sees you. Hesitates.

You don’t look up.

You pretend not to notice when he slides onto the stool directly across. Pretend you don’t feel the weight of his gaze every time you take a sip of your drink. You laugh too loud at Jimmy’s jokes. You high-five Kara for a question about Star Trek that you definitely Googled under the table.

When Clark finally speaks, it’s not to you. “Didn’t know you liked espresso martinis now,” he says to no one in particular, eyes flicking to the half-drunk cocktail in your hand.

You shrug. “People change.” It’s cruel. You know it. But you’re unraveling.

Later, when you leave, he follows you outside—quiet, cautious. The streetlight flickers overhead, painting him gold and shadow.

“You don’t have to avoid me,” he says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You cross your arms, shoulders tight. “Didn’t I?”

There’s a beat of silence. Wind stirring fallen leaves at your feet.

“You looked beautiful,” he says again, softer this time. “And I shouldn’t have said anything. I just—” He falters. “It was a moment. That’s all. If you want to forget it, we can.”

You nod, throat tight. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”

But neither of you forgets. And when Kara texts the group chat about a winter cabin weekend—just the three of you—you nearly bail.

You almost say no.

But something in you aches to be seen by him again. And maybe something in him hopes you’ll let him.

The storm hits hard. Not sudden—but sure. Fat flakes tumbling sideways like they have somewhere to be, the sky a quiet, smothering gray. Kara shrugs it off when you arrive—says something about solar flares and a delay in the jet stream. You don’t ask what that means. She tosses you a knit beanie and tells you to relax.

The cabin creaks like it’s breathing. There’s cocoa in the air, pine needles on the floor, and a fireplace that makes everything glow too warmly. It should be cozy.

It isn’t. Not with him here. Not after what you sent. After what he said. You haven’t talked about it. Not directly since the bar. You’ve barely talked at all. Every time you look at Clark, you remember how quickly he typed that color looks beautiful on you. You remember how quickly he apologized. How slowly you’ve been breathing ever since.

Kara disappears early the second night. Something about checking a storm system on the edge of the solar system, and a very dramatic “Don’t touch my snacks” before she vanishes in a blur of wind and snow.

It’s just you and Clark now. The snow taps at the windows like it wants in. The fire pops, low and rhythmic, casting orange shadows that stretch tall across the walls. Your phone’s been dead since sundown. His sits untouched on the kitchen counter. No one’s talking. Not really.

Just the occasional creak of old pine settling. The soft scrape of his thumb along the edge of his mug. He hasn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. You’re curled on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, a blanket draped over your knees. He’s at the far end, posture loose but eyes bright behind his glasses. Tracking you.

You both pretend you’re not watching each other. You both fail. The glow of the fire glances off the slope of his cheek. Off the exposed skin of his forearms—sleeves rolled again, because of course they are. There’s a pink flush at his throat from earlier, when the heat kicked back on and he’d insisted on hauling more firewood inside even though you told him not to.

“You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.

You nod, but it’s half a shrug. “Bit of a surreal day.”

His mouth curves. “Yeah.”

By the time the pipes groan and rattle into silence, the chill in the second bedroom is impossible to ignore.

You try cranking the knob on the old radiator. Nothing. Not even a hiss. You run the tap and only a sputter answers. Clark checks the crawl space, comes back shaking his head, snow clinging to his sleeves.

“Frozen solid,” he says. “Looks like the storm hit the line harder than we thought.” You glance toward the second bedroom. Then the clock. It’s after midnight. Kara’s still off-planet, unreachable. No way to get a plumber. No one to trade with. You bite your lip.

“You can take the bed,” you say finally, tugging your sweater tighter around you. “I don’t mind the couch.”

He gives you a look. Gentle, but firm. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

You shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like your stomach isn’t suddenly tight and fluttering. “We could… split it.”

His brow lifts.

“I mean,” You gesture vaguely. “It’s a queen. And it’s just for tonight. We’re both adults. It’s not weird.” Clark says nothing.

You clear your throat. “Remember that bus ride to Keystone? We shared a blanket and headphones. And I drooled on your shoulder. This is basically the same. Just with fewer rest stops.”

That gets a smile. Small. Real. “Top sheet wall?” he asks softly.

Your pulse skips. “Obviously.”

He nods, and you both start moving without another word. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you haven’t been dreaming about his shoulder, his warmth, his closeness for years.

You turn off the overhead light. Crawl under one side of the covers. He follows a beat later, careful, his body a respectful distance away. Still, the mattress dips under his weight. The room holds its breath. So do you.

The sheets are too cold at first. Then too hot. His body radiates warmth like a second hearth behind you, even though he’s lying stiffly on his side of the bed, hands folded across his chest like a knight in a tomb.

You don’t speak. Not for hours. You don’t sleep, either. At 2:04 a.m., your voice breaks the silence. Quiet. Careful.

“Did you mean it?”

He shifts. Barely. “Mean what?”

You swallow. Look up at the ceiling like it might have the answer. “That color. On me.”

The silence stretches long enough that you think maybe he’s asleep. “I think,” he says slowly, like he’s peeling the truth out of himself, “you’d look good in anything.” A pause. Then softer. “Or nothing.”

Your whole body goes still. The air between you charges. Hums. You turn just enough to see the outline of his face in the firelight’s dying glow. He’s already watching you.

The kiss barely happens. It’s not frantic. Not hungry. Not planned. Just breath. Then a brush of lips that almost misses. Like a secret exhaled. He pulls back first. Breath caught somewhere in his throat. His hand curls in the sheet between you. Yours stays frozen near his chest, not quite touching.

You don’t speak again. You lie there, wide-eyed, heart aching. Because it wasn’t funny now. It hadn’t been funny in years. And somewhere, buried beneath the rising tide of want, your oldest promise claws its way to the surface.

Kara.

You don’t bring it up. But you don’t move closer, either. You fall asleep not in his arms, but in the wide, shivering space between what you want and what you were told not to want.

And Clark? Clark stays exactly where he is. Afraid to reach for you. Afraid not to.

You wake to warmth. Not just the kind from flannel sheets or the too-small cabin heater rattling behind the wall, but him—his arm draped around your waist, his hand splayed at your lower back like it belongs there. Your nose is tucked against the cotton of his t-shirt. His legs are tangled with yours, the press of his thigh warm and steady between both of yours.

He’s already awake. You know because his fingers are moving—slow, rhythmic circles at the base of your spine. Not intentional, maybe. Absent-minded. But intimate. Gentle. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

You stay still. Eyes closed. Breathing shallow. Because the moment you move, this stops being safety and slips back into reality. Eventually, he shifts. Loosens his grip. You peel yourself out of the bed with an apology you don’t say, and he doesn’t ask for one.

Kara gets back by noon. Her boots stomp snow across the porch. She barrels in with coffee and sass, laughing about the barista she threatened at the gas station for spelling her name “Carrot.” She’s loud. Bright. And so, so perceptive.

Her eyes flick to you, then Clark. You’re across the room from each other. Too across. She slows mid-sentence.

“You guys good?” she asks, too casually.

“Totally,” you chirp.

Clark clears his throat. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t press. Not yet. But her head tilts. Just slightly. You can feel it—something beginning to tighten.

That night, Kara claims the good couch and queues up old episodes of Chopped. You linger by the woodpile. Clark joins you in silence.

The cabin creaks around you. The snow’s returned—softer this time, quieter.

“You okay?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, eventually, he says, “I’ve wanted you for years.” It slips out like breath, like steam off the mug in his hands. Quiet and bare.

Your whole body stills. “You never said anything,” you whisper.

He looks at you—really, truly looks. And god, he’s beautiful in the dark. Shadows caught at his jaw, eyes glassy with something half-wrecked, half-relieved.

“Because you were Kara’s,” he says. “Not like that—I know. But you were her safe person. Her only person for a long time. I didn’t want to take that away. I didn’t want to mess you two up.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches to brush his thumb beneath your eye. And then you kiss him again. This time, there’s no careful distance. No trembling boundary. You wrap your arms around his neck and he pulls you in with the full weight of someone who’s wanted this too long. His hands cradle your jaw. Yours fist in the fabric of his shirt. You kiss like it’s the only way to speak.

And when he kisses you again—really kisses you, out there in the cold with the scent of cedar and snow around you—you let him. You let yourself. His hands are rough from the woodpile but cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You grip the front of his jacket like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. When he backs you up against the side of the cabin, when your breath fogs the air between you and your bodies press close to stay warm, you stop pretending it’s not love.

You stop pretending it was ever just friendship.

You’re the first to slip out of the room.

The cabin is dim, lit only by the soft flicker of the TV and the dying glow of the fire. Kara’s curled up on the couch under three blankets, arms crossed over her chest like she’s mid-debate even in sleep. You tiptoe around the creaky floorboards, pretending everything’s normal, pretending you’re not still wearing the same socks he peeled off you hours ago. When you sit beside her, you try to look casual. Tuck your legs up, hug a pillow. She doesn’t stir.

Clark comes out ten minutes later. Hair damp from the shower. He glances at you once—just once—before easing onto the other couch, dropping the remote between his knees like it’s something to focus on.

You don’t speak. You just watch whatever’s playing. Some nature documentary about volcanoes. Something slow and low-toned. Kara shifts once, mutters something about magma, and goes still again. The silence stretches long.

Eventually, you say you’re tired. Stand. Stretch like it’s nothing. Like your body doesn’t still hum from his hands, from the way he said your name with his mouth full of need.

You move through the hallway like a ghost. Crawl back into the too-soft guest bed and curl toward the wall. It’s ten minutes before the door creaks open again.

The mattress dips behind you. You don’t turn. Not right away. But you feel him. Every inch. The hesitation in his breath. The way the air shifts before his body moves. He reaches slow, deliberate—like he’s giving you time to stop him. When his arm slides around your waist, you let out the softest sound. Not quite a gasp. Not quite a sigh.

His palm splays over your stomach, warm even through the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. Your shirt that’s really his. It smells like firewood and detergent and him. Your breath catches.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, voice like gravel and silk.

“You’re warm,” you breathe back, but it’s barely a tease.

His chest presses to your spine. Solid. Familiar. Maddening. Then his nose brushes just under your ear—barely a graze—but your whole body tightens like he kissed you there.

“You always do that,” you whisper.

He hums low. “Do what?”

“Find the place that ruins me.”

His hand tenses against your stomach. “I’m not trying to ruin you,” he says, voice rougher now. Closer. “Okay, well maybe not completely.” His lips ghost the shell of your ear. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel whole.”

That breaks you. You turn—slow, aching—and face him. He’s so close. You can smell the soap on his jaw. See the firelight lingering in his eyes. You don’t say a word.

You kiss him. Soft, at first. Barely-there. Like testing the edge of something you know you shouldn’t touch. But then he sighs into your mouth—like he’s been waiting for it. His hand finds your hip. Fingers flex, then drag up under your shirt, tracing the small of your back with reverent, possessive heat.

You gasp. He catches it with his mouth. Kisses you deeper. His leg slides between yours. You feel him—already hard, already aching—and you can’t help the whimper that slips out when he rolls his hips, just once, like he can’t help it either.

“Clark,” you whisper.

He pulls back, breath heavy. “Say stop and I will.”

You don’t. You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him back to you. His hand roams. Slow. Searching. Worshipful. Every touch says I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you. He kisses your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw like he’s afraid it’s a dream.

And when he finally settles over you, the weight of him familiar and new all at once, you think: This is real. This is dangerous. And I don’t want to let go.

It starts small. A brush of fingers when no one’s looking. His hand settling too long on your back when passing behind you in the cabin kitchen. You leaning against him on the couch a moment too long after Kara’s fallen asleep.

Then there’s the moment in the hallway—his thumb brushing your cheekbone just as you say goodnight, both of you lingering like it might turn into something more.

And once, while Kara’s out fetching more firewood, you’re pressed up against the cold wall by the back door, his mouth hot against your throat, his hands gripping your hips like he can’t believe you’re real.

“I can’t stop,” he says into your skin.

You kiss him like you don’t want him to.

The cabin ends. You return to Metropolis. You’re still flushed from the cold when you push open your apartment door. Your boots are wet. Your scarf itches.

You’re not fully shocked when you open the door and he’s already there. Clark is standing in your living room, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and burning with everything you didn’t let yourself want back at the cabin. He turns when you close the door behind you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

He must have flown. Must’ve phased through the glass wall of your balcony like he’s done only once before—years ago, to save your life. Now he’s here for something else entirely.

“I didn’t want to wait,” he says softly.

He kisses you before you can say his name. It’s not soft. It’s full-bodied, bracing—like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally let go. His mouth crashes into yours with a hunger that leaves your knees unsteady. One of his hands comes up to cradle your cheek, the other sliding into your hair. His touch is trembling but firm, like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t touch all of you.

Your fingers knot in the collar of his coat. You kiss him back with everything you’ve never said. Your bag hits the floor with a muffled thud. Your coat is shoved from your shoulders, caught briefly at the crook of your elbows before falling to the hardwood. He lifts you before your shoes are even off, and you wrap around him like it’s instinct—legs cinched at his waist, arms locked around his neck.

“Clark,” you giggle, breathless, lips brushing his as your noses bump and teeth scrape. He grins against your mouth, wide and helpless. His dimples are beautiful as ever. You feel him smiling. You feel everything—his arms straining to hold you closer, the quake in his chest, the quiet exhale that sounds like relief.

But when your heel digs into the small of his back and your bodies press together just right—something shifts. The air thins. He walks you to the bedroom in three smooth strides, steady as stone but gentle—like you’re something fragile, sacred. You feel the press of his heartbeat against your ribs the whole way.

He lays you down on your bed with excruciating care, like placing a holy relic on an altar. The room glows dim with citylight through the blinds—just enough to catch the sweep of his eyes as they travel over you, awestruck. He swallows. You’ve never seen him look at anyone like this.

He reaches for the hem of your sweater with two fingers, knuckles grazing your skin. His voice is hoarse, unsteady. “Can I…?”

You nod and it’s like time slows. He undresses you like it hurts. Like each layer is a ribbon he’s unspooling from a gift he never believed he’d be allowed to open. His touch is reverent, calloused thumbs brushing over your sides as he peels fabric from skin. The soft drag of your bra strap down your arm makes you shiver. He hesitates at your hips, breath stalling, before easing your underwear down your thighs.

When you’re finally bare beneath him, he just looks. Breathes. His hand trails from your ribs to your stomach, thumb stroking a slow circle over your hip. You’re shaking, goosebumps rising wherever his skin touches yours.

“You’re so…” He trails off, eyes locked to your chest, your throat, your mouth. His voice breaks like a promise. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

You whisper back, “You’ve always been good to me.”

“I’ve always wanted to be good to you,” he murmurs, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to say it.

And then his mouth is on your collarbone. His nose brushes the slope of your chest. His lips graze the underside of your breast. Each kiss is slow. Deliberate. Like a vow. Like he’s saying I see you. I worship you. I’m here.

When he finally settles between your legs, breath warm and hands steady despite the way his whole body shakes—you don’t stop him.

Your thighs tremble beneath his palms. He pauses just long enough to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then your hip. Then your stomach.

When he lifts his head, his eyes are dark, wide. His voice is barely a whisper against your skin as he whispers, “Tell me you want this.”

Your hands thread into his hair, gently pulling. “I need this,” you breathe. “I need you.”

You lay back slowly, chest rising and falling as his hands smooth down your sides, steadying you. The sheets are cool beneath your skin, but his mouth is fire as he kisses the inside of your thigh again—closer this time. Your breath stutters. His grip tightens. And then he licks a stripe up your center, slow and unhurried, just enough pressure to make you jolt.

“Oh god—Clark!”

He groans against you. The vibration sinks into your bones. His hands hook behind your knees and spread you open, holding you like something cherished, like he wants to memorize this exact angle of you—shivering, panting, wrecked beneath his mouth.

He buries his face in you like he’s starving. And maybe he is. Maybe this is hunger, years deep. He licks like he means it. Like he’s missed you even though he’s never had you. Tongue thick and hot, curling just right, slow at first—but growing greedy when you arch your back and gasp his name again.

Your hands twist in his hair, thighs trembling against his shoulders. But then he pulls back. Your hips buck at the loss, whimpering without shame.

He breathes hard—voice shredded and low as he says, “Come here.”

You blink down at him. “Wha—?”

“Sit on my face,” he says, almost reverent. “Please.”

“Clark,” Your breath catches.

“Please.” His voice breaks a little as he cuts you off. “I’ve thought about it—so many times. I need to feel all of you.”

You climb up slowly, heart pounding, thighs shaky. He lies back and watches you with something close to awe, hands firm on your hips as you straddle him. You hover for half a second.

“Are you sure?”

His grip tightens. “Sweetheart,” he says, rough and wrecked, “please.”

You sink down gently. His moan is immediate and devastating—deep in his chest like it’s been caged there forever. His tongue finds you again, this time deeper, sloppier, messier than before. The angle makes it worse. Better. Too much. Not enough.

He’s insatiable. He groans again when you grind forward, hands bruising your hips to keep you there. You try to lift—he drags you back down, desperate.

“Clark—oh my god.”

He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you. Like he wants to burn the memory of anyone else from your body. He’s loud about it—grunting, humming, practically purring beneath you when you tug his hair and rock your hips just right. His nose presses right where you need it, and when his tongue dips and curls again you see stars. You cry out. Loud. Raw. He hums, pleased, like your pleasure is the only thing anchoring him to earth.

And when you come, you swear he pulls you into him—grinding your hips down as you sob through it, legs trembling so hard you nearly collapse. You fall forward, catching yourself on the headboard, chest heaving. He kisses the inside of your thigh like thanks.

You try to move off him. He pulls you back. “Not yet.”

“Clark?”

“I’m not done with you.” He kisses the inside of your thigh again, then again, until your legs twitch.

“Please,” you breathe, reaching down to tug gently at his hair. “I—I need you.”

He hums like he’s thinking about it. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind. Then he finally lets you go. His lips glisten. His cheeks are flushed. His voice is ragged when he murmurs, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

You do—slowly, still shaky, breath caught in your chest. You start to lie back, but he stops you.

“No,” he says softly, guiding you up onto your hands and knees instead. His hand skims down your spine, just his fingertips, so gentle it gives you chills. “Just like that.”

Your heart stutters. Behind you, he kneels, dragging his mouth along your shoulder, down your back, until his body blankets yours—hot and steady, fully clothed still, but you can feel the weight of him, the strength in every line of his body as he presses a kiss to the base of your neck. Then his hand slides between your legs again.

“Clark!” You jolt.

His other hand gently clamps over your mouth, leaning close until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Shhh,” he whispers.

You nod against his palm, gasping quietly. He kisses your shoulder. “That’s my girl.”

Then he teases you—relentlessly. Two fingers, slow and steady, curling inside you as his palm grinds against the spot that already has your hips jerking. You try to stay still. You try to be quiet. But the pleasure makes your eyes flutter, your body tighten. He doesn’t go fast—he goes deep, deliberate, drawing every sound you try not to make.

“You always get this wet for me?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. You whine behind his hand. He chuckles. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Clark, I’m—I’m so…,” You dig your nails into the sheets, trying to keep quiet, but the pressure builds too fast. His fingers are too skilled, the heel of his hand pressing right there.

His fingers slow to a stop. You whimper. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Not yet.”

“Please…” you whimper.

“Sweetheart,” he says, licking into the curve of your spine, “I’m trying to take my time. Don’t make me rush.”

You bury your face in the pillow with a muffled sob of frustration. Clark laughs—quiet, delighted—and shifts behind you. You feel the soft, hot press of him—finally bare, finally freed from his boxers, sliding through your folds with aching slowness but not quite entering. Just teasing. Just grinding.

“Clark.” You say, voice firm and laced with frustration.

“I’ve thought about this every night, pretty girl,” he says, breathless now. “How soft you’d feel. How warm. How you’d sound.” You arch your back. He groans. “You’re perfect.”

Then, finally—finally—he pushes in. The stretch is slow. Careful but so deep. Your jaw falls open. He fills you like he’s meant to be there, like he was made for this—for you—and for a second, neither of you moves.

“Tell me if I’m too much.” His voice trembles. You reach for his hand where it braces next to your head. You squeeze it.

“I want all of you,” you whisper. He moves. Long, deep strokes—no rush, just steady, aching friction that has your thighs shaking and your fingers clawing for purchase. He holds your hips like they’re precious, leans forward to mouth kisses into your shoulder, your neck. You squeeze around him and he groans again—this time into your skin.

“I’m not gonna last,” he admits, panting. “Not with you like this. Not after—gosh—after waiting this long.”

You push back into him. “Then don’t, Kent.”

He stills. Just for a moment. Just long enough to kiss the back of your neck and whisper, “You’re gonna be the end of me.” And then he starts moving again—faster this time, rhythm unraveling. Your breath catches, body tightening, and when you come again—hard and helpless—he spills inside you with a groan so soft you almost miss it.

You’re still trembling. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your breathing won’t even out. And your thighs—god, your thighs are shaking so bad you can’t tell where your body ends and his begins. Clark kisses the center of your spine, once, twice.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, too spent to speak. Still inside you, he shifts—slowly, gently, his hands skating down your sides like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. Then he slips out of you with a low groan and gathers you close, wrapping you in his arms like it’s instinct. You’re a mess between your legs. You can feel it—his spend, your slick, the ache where he stretched you open so perfectly—but Clark just kisses your shoulder again and holds you tighter.

He doesn’t let go. Not when you twitch. Not when you flinch from how sensitive you are. Not when your breath catches and your throat tightens.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, rolling you gently onto your back. “Let me take care of you.”

Your lashes flutter as you open your eyes. The room’s still dark, lit only by the lamplight's soft orange flicker. You let out a breathy laugh, and he brushes your cheek with his knuckles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he’s up—slipping on his boxers, tugging his shirt over his head as he pads quietly to the bathroom. You hear the soft clink of water in the sink. Cabinets. A towel. He returns with warm hands and a clean cloth, kneels beside the bed, and nudges your thighs open again with so much gentleness it makes your chest ache.

“I’ve got you,” he says, soothing, soft. You whimper at the first swipe, not from pain but from how careful he is. He kisses your knee.

“You always this gentle?” you murmur.

His eyes find yours. There’s something heavy in them. Something endless. “Only with you.”

You swallow hard. You think, don’t say something you can’t take back. But he’s already setting the cloth aside. Crawling back into bed. Pulling the blankets up over both of you as he curls behind you again. His body is so warm. His hand settles on your stomach. You pull it closer.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he whispers. His breath fans your shoulder. “You don’t even know.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer. Instead, you shift until your back fits to his chest again. Until his legs tangle with yours. Until you feel like you’re part of him. Like you’ve always been part of him.

He wraps both arms around you now. Holds you like he’ll never let go. And for the first time in your life, you fall asleep in his arms—not as his friend, not as his maybe, not as the girl he’s always looked at like a secret he can’t say out loud. But as his. His warmth, his gravity, his everything.

In the morning, sunlight pushes through the thin curtains and Clark… Clark is looking at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. His hair is a mess. His shirt is gone. His eyes are soft and sleepy, but the second he realizes you’re awake, he smiles. Not the charming, polite one he gives the rest of the world.

Yours.

He reaches for you. Pulls you into his chest again. And when you close your eyes, wrapped in his arms, you almost believe the world will let you keep this. Even if you don’t know for how long.

Two months. Maybe more. You don’t mark it in your calendar. You don’t let yourself count. But it’s there—buried in the back of your mind. It happens in stolen hours. Quiet mornings. Long nights.

You get good at pretending. Kara comes over and Clark sits on the opposite end of the couch like he didn’t just spend the night wrapped around you. He’s careful. He’s gentle. He never lets his hand brush yours for too long, never lets his gaze linger unless your head is turned. But you feel it. All of it. The shift. The ache. The want that never quite lets up.

You think maybe he does too. It’s in the way he sends you playlists again. Not as often. But they’re more curated now. Less chaotic pop-punk, more soft, strange indie tracks that make your chest hurt if you listen too closely. It’s in the way he always brings you the first cup of coffee, never mind if you’re at your place or his.

And in the way his lips find the base of your throat like second nature, every night you fall asleep wrapped in him.

You’re standing barefoot in the middle of your apartment, folding laundry straight from the dryer. The hum of the machine still buzzes faintly behind you, rhythmic and warm. A soft heap of clean clothes sits on the couch beside you—yours and his, mixed together the way they always seem to be lately.

You pull a shirt from the pile—gray, worn at the collar, familiar. You press it to your nose without thinking. It smells like cedarwood and something brighter—like warm cotton left too long in the sun. Clark. It smells like Clark.

You hesitate for a breath, then fold it carefully, smoothing your hands over the fabric before setting it on top of your own sweaters. No lines between yours and his anymore. Not really.

Your phone buzzes once. A text. You glance over.

From Clark: “Might swing by. Cold front’s rolling in.”

You don’t respond. He’ll come either way.

Later that night, the air outside turns sharp and glassy. Wind slips under the windows like a whisper. You wake to the soft click of the balcony door—and there he is. Solid. Quiet. A little flushed from flight. His hoodie clings damp from the fog. His cheeks are pink. His smile, small.

He doesn’t knock anymore. Doesn’t have to. You see the faint outline of his palm on the glass as he closes it behind him. A smudge. One of many.

“Didn’t want you to get cold or be hungry. You get extra cranky when you do,” he murmurs, setting the bag of takeout on your kitchen counter. His sleeves are still damp from the mist, hoodie clinging to his forearms as he shakes off the chill.

You turn to thank him—and freeze. He’s holding something out toward you. Small. Familiar. A single brass key, looped onto a ring with a miniature Kansas license plate charm.

“Clark…” Your breath catches.

He doesn’t meet your eyes right away. His ears are pink. Just presses it gently into your palm and curls your fingers around it with his own. His touch is warm. Steady.

“In case I’m not home,” he says softly. “Or if you ever just… want to be there.”

You stare down at the key between your fingers. It’s warm from his pocket. Solid. Real. A beat passes before you find your voice. “You’re giving me a key to your place?”

He finally looks at you then—cheeks pink, lashes damp from the fog, eyes unbearably soft. “I wanted you to know there’s no part of my life you’re not welcome in.”

Something inside your chest folds in on itself. He presses a kiss to your forehead before you can say anything else—his lips tender, lingering just a second too long. His fingers trail through your hair, settling at the nape of your neck like they’ve always belonged there. And maybe they have.

You cling to the paper bag just to keep from falling apart. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say you’re welcome. Just brushes his thumb across your wrist and smiles like he’s been waiting years to give you this.

You don’t realize what day it is until he’s knocking on your door—hair still wet from a recent flight, cheeks pink from the chill, and holding a bouquet so large it looks like he robbed a botanical garden.

“Happy two months and fourteen days,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink. “What?”

He grins. Shy, proud. Dimple-deep and boyish. “Since the cabin,” he says. “Technically since 2:14 a.m., if we’re being precise.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again. “You counted?”

Clark shrugs, bashful but beaming. “I had help,” he says, tapping his temple. “Super-memory.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t plan on keeping count,” he says, cheeks pink. “But day one was kind of… unforgettable.”

You blink at him, caught between laughter and disbelief. “Clark this is… so sweet.”

He steps closer. “You love that I’m like this.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“Does that mean I get to take you on your surprise date?”

You eye him warily. “You’re not going to fly me somewhere illegal, are you?”

“No international laws will be broken tonight,” he promises, solemn. “But I did make a reservation.”

The elevator opens to soft music and the smell of rosemary and lemon zest. You step out into a rooftop garden draped in string lights and blooming with late-summer jasmine. Golden lanterns sway in the evening breeze. The sky above is streaked with lavender and rose, and tucked beneath it all—between terracotta planters and the faint clink of glasses—is a table for two.

Linen-covered. Candlelit. Your name written in Clark’s neatest, most careful print on a folded card beside your plate. He pulls out your chair.

The waiter arrives with your favorite drink before you even glance at the menu.

“You didn’t,” you whisper, breath fogging the edge of your glass.

He grins, sitting across from you, tie slightly loose, hair mussed like he’d flown here fast but fixed it in the stairwell. “Superman might’ve called in a few favors.”

You look at him—really look—and your heart does that stupid, dangerous flutter again. Clark, trying not to smile too wide. Clark, watching you like nothing else in the world matters. Clark, with glasses fogging faintly in the candlelight as he refills your drink like it’s second nature.

“So,” you say, twirling your straw. “You memorized the night we first hooked up.”

He shifts in his seat, cheeks flushing again. “I memorized… a lot of things about you.”

“Oh yeah?”

Clark meets your eyes—and suddenly he’s not shy or fumbling. He’s steady. Honest. Lit from within. “I know the face you make when you’re pretending not to cry at movies,” he says. “And the sound you make when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes.”

“Clark Kent.”

“I know you hate when your socks fall down in your boots. I know you chew your thumb when you’re anxious. And I know you look at me like I hung the moon, even though all I’ve ever done is love you.”

Silence hums between you. Even the city seems to lean in.

“You said that like it was nothing,” you breathe.

“I meant it like it was everything, sweetheart.”

After dessert—after he insists on paying and you have to physically stop him from tipping the waiter an entire rent check—you walk hand-in-hand back toward the elevator.

The night air is cool against your cheeks. His jacket is warm around your shoulders. He brushes your fingers with his thumb, like he can’t stop touching you. Like he’s still surprised you’re here.

At the stairwell door, he pulls you close and kisses you—slow, deliberate, his palm warm against your waist. “Happy two months and fourteen days, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair.

Your breath catches. You press your forehead to his. “Here’s to all the days after.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. Clark doesn’t say anything at first—just watches as you kick off your shoes and shrug his jacket from your shoulders. It still smells like him. That crisp, clean scent of cedar and something sweeter, like warmth after rain.

You drape it over the back of a chair and look over your shoulder. He’s standing there in the entryway, shirt a little wrinkled now, cheeks still pink from the cool air and maybe from how much you stared at him all night.

“You’re staring,” you say softly.

“I know,” he says. “Can’t help it.”

Your laugh is quiet. You pad into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on out of habit. “Tea or cocoa?”

“Surprise me,” he murmurs, leaning in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He always looks like he’s trying to make himself smaller in spaces like this, like the ceiling might forget he’s 6’4” if he slouches enough.

You glance at him sideways as you reach for the mugs. “How did I ever think you were subtle?”

He grins. “I was subtle.”

“Clark, you have phased through my balcony before.”

“You were asleep,” he says, as if that excuses everything.

You hum in your throat, pouring the water once it boils. He moves before you can hand him his mug—crosses the kitchen in three easy steps and takes it from your hands, fingers brushing yours. That’s all it takes now. A brush of fingers. A look. It used to be longing. Now it’s real.

You sit together on the couch, legs tucked under you, your knees bumping his. He leans into your side, stretching one arm along the back of the couch so you can curl into his chest. The city hums outside the window, but in here, it’s quiet. Still.

He reads the label on the tea bag. “I don’t know how to pronounce this,” he mutters.

“Good,” you say, smiling. “Means you’re learning.”

He chuckles, setting the mug down and tugging you closer. “You’re my favorite thing to learn.”

You hide your face in his chest and pretend not to melt. You sit like that for a long time. Not talking. Just warm. Just together. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask anything of you. Eventually, your eyes grow heavy. He notices before you do, nudges your shoulder gently.

“Come on,” he says. “Bed.”

“I was so comfortable,” you mumble.

He stands, then scoops you up bridal-style with no warning, grinning as you squeak.

“Clark!”

“You said you were comfortable. I’m preserving that.”

He carries you down the hall, flicks the lights off with a puff of wind as he passes. In your bedroom, he sets you down and helps you out of your dress like he’s unwrapping something precious.

There’s no rush. No tension. Just fingers trailing down your spine, his voice soft in your ear as he murmurs, “You looked so beautiful tonight.”

You change into an old t-shirt and climb into bed. He follows, pulling you close the moment you settle. Your head finds the space beneath his jaw. His hand strokes your back lazily, long fingers drawing circles against the thin fabric of your shirt.

“Happy anniversary,” you whisper into his skin.

He hums. “We should do this again sometime.”

You smile. “What, fall in love?”

“I meant the rooftop dinner,” he teases. Then adds, quieter, “But yeah. That too. Only with each other though, don’t get any ideas.”

You never meant to let it stretch this long. You’d told yourself it would be temporary. A passing thing. Something small and selfish to keep the ache at bay. A product of proximity and too many years spent pretending not to want him. You promised yourself it would stay easy—just a kiss, maybe. Just one night. Just something soft to remember when the quiet got too loud.

But simple is not a word that fits Clark Kent. Not when he touches you like the world begins and ends in your breath. Not when he looks at you like you’re a mystery he’s never quite solved—but wants to spend forever trying.

And not when every brush of his hand feels like a truth you’re not ready to say aloud.

You tried, at first, to say it didn’t mean anything. You rehearsed the excuses—heat of the moment, too many glasses of wine, a bad habit waiting to be broken. You told yourself you could handle it. That it was only a body craving a body. That love had nothing to do with it.

But then he touched you like you were made of galaxies. Like every sigh and scar and stretch mark was sacred. Like he wanted to memorize every constellation mapped across your skin with the pads of his fingers.

And in those moments—when he was beneath you, or above you, or holding your hips like you might disappear if he let go—you forgot how to lie. You forgot how to pretend he wasn’t everything you’d ever wanted.

You forgot the promise you made when you were seventeen.

Don’t fall in love with my cousin, Kara had said. Her voice teasing, but not quite light. Promise me, okay?

And you had. Because back then it felt easy. Back then he was just the boy with too-big hands and too-kind eyes and an annoying habit of standing too close.

But now he’s gravity. He’s warmth. He’s the night sky and the pull in your chest and the reason you can’t sleep. And you—you’ve broken your promise to the first person you loved.

You haven’t told her. You haven’t said a word. And that silence is beginning to bloom into guilt.

Every time you see Kara’s name on your phone, something sharp lodges under your ribs. Every time she nudges you about someone else, every time she grins like she still believes you’re her constant—you feel the weight of it.

Because you haven’t been honest. Not with her. Not with yourself.

You keep thinking: I’ll tell her.When it’s certain. When it’s real. When I know what this is. But it already is, isn’t it?

It’s real in the way he breathes your name like a prayer. It’s real in the way you ache for him the second he leaves. It’s real in the way your bodies fit like puzzle pieces you didn’t know you were missing.

You never meant to let it stretch this long.

But he’s in your bed like he belongs there. And his hoodie is still folded on your chair. And every time you look at him, your mouth forgets how to pretend.

And maybe it’s too late now to go back to simple.

Maybe it never was.

It’s morning now. Soft and slow and late enough that the world has started spinning again outside, but you haven’t quite let it in. The windows are fogged over from the radiator heat. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet. You’re moving slowly, stretching into your shirt as Clark watches you from the bed.

His hair is still mussed from sleep. The sheet is half-draped across his hips, half-forgotten in a heap beneath his knees. His arm is bent beneath his head, propping him up. His eyes are heavy-lidded and lazy, the softest he ever looks—like you’re the only thing worth waking up for. They’re warm and heavy-lidded in that way that always makes you feel like he’s memorizing you.

Not Superman. Not even Clark Kent. Just the man who holds you when you cry. The one who shows up. The one who never really stopped.

You’re too aware of him. Of the soft rasp of linen when he shifts. Of the way your pulse flutters beneath your collarbone as you catch your reflection in the mirror—flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised mouth, the faintest crescent mark on your shoulder where he lost control for just a second last night.

You pretend not to notice. But he’s been doing that more lately—watching you like you’re something tender he can’t touch too hard. It should make you feel safe. Whole. But the longer this goes, the more you feel it fray.

You’re buttoning your shirt, fingers a little slower than usual. There’s a silence between you. Not heavy, but fragile.

“Maybe I’m just the girl who always loved you.” You say, breaking that silence. Your words come out soft, half-teasing, but your voice wobbles at the end. Clark lifts his head. You don’t meet his eyes. You fiddle with the last button and force a laugh. “Safe bet, right?”

You expect him to chuckle. To shrug it off. To say something deflective and warm and perfectly noncommittal. But he doesn’t. You hear him move instead—sheet rustling, feet on the floor. And then he’s behind you. Close enough to feel. His palm doesn’t land on your waist. Doesn’t even brush your shoulder. But his presence hums against your back like heat. Like static. Like something holy trying not to burn. He lifts a hand slowly. Gathers a strand of your hair between his fingers.

“You are not the safe bet.” His voice is quiet. You go still. He steps a fraction closer. The warmth of him radiating across your spine, not touching, not quite—but there. “You were the risk,” he says. “You still are.”

You don’t breathe. Not for a second. Maybe longer. Your heart thrums behind your ribs like it wants to be heard. Like it’s been waiting for someone to say that for years and now that he has, you don’t know what to do with it.

You turn slightly. Just enough to glance at his reflection in the mirror. He looks open. Raw. Like every version of himself is standing in the same space at once—the boy from the porch roof, the man who held your face like it was precious, the secret you’ve kept curled behind your teeth for too long.

And just for a moment, you forget the promise. The lines you swore you wouldn’t cross. The girlhood vow that feels so distant now, but never quite faded.

You lean back against him. Not a kiss. Not quite. But his hand finds your waist anyway, and his lips skim your temple.

You let your eyes close. You let yourself want it. Just for a second. And then you pull away. Because the secret is getting harder to keep. And love like this—love you don’t name—is only going to hurt the longer it stays quiet.

It starts with the little things. Kara’s not stupid. She wasn’t born yesterday. She’s fought gods, stared down planetary collapse, and once pieced together a global blackmail ring based entirely on tone shifts in text messages.

She notices when Clark flakes on game night three weeks in a row. She notices when you come over to movie marathons already changed into pajamas, instead of pulling them from your bag like usual.

And she notices—sharpest of all—when Clark, Mister I-Have-A-Sixth-Sense-for-Feelings, stops offering her the first slice of pie. He offers it to you now. Without thinking. Without blinking. Like muscle memory.

Kara doesn’t say anything right away. But she watches. You feel her eyes on you during trivia nights, when you and Clark share some blink-and-you-miss-it look after a joke lands. She frowns when you answer his questions before he even finishes asking them. When you take your coffee to go with his lid on accident and he doesn’t correct you.

You try to act normal. Try to play the same games and wear the same smile and curl the same way into the corner of the couch that you always have.

But it’s not the same. Because sometimes, late at night when Clark’s fingertips drag across your spine in your bed, or when he murmurs something soft and private against your temple just before he phases through the window to leave, you forget this is still a secret.

And secrets don’t hold up forever.

The glow from the window stretches long across the bed, a ribbon of moonlight tracing the edge of Clark’s jaw where it rests against your temple. You’re curled into him, limbs tangled, bare skin warm beneath the sheets—still humming from the hours that led to now. Kisses that lingered. Laughter that melted. The kind of quiet only found in the arms of someone who knows how to hold all of you.

His hand moves slowly up and down your back. Thoughtful. Steady. Like he’s grounding you. Like he knows something’s coming.

Because it is.

You both feel it—rising, inevitable. A question you’ve dodged for years. Slipped past in hallways. Swallowed between hugs. Skirted around with “not yet” and “maybe one day.” But there’s nothing left to hide behind tonight. No shadows, no distance. Just breath. Just truth.

“How do we tell her?” you whisper.

Clark is silent for a long moment. His thumb draws a slow, trembling circle between your shoulder blades. Then stills. “I’ve been thinking about it,” he says finally, voice low and raw. “I just… I don’t want to hurt her.”

You swallow. “Me either.”

“She deserves to know. To hear it from us. Not to catch us. Not to wonder.”

“She’ll be mad,” you murmur. “Or worse—she won’t be. And I won’t know how to live with that either.”

His chest lifts beneath your cheek, then sinks again. Like it’s carrying too much. “She loves you,” he says. “Always has. I think that’s why I… why I never let myself—why I waited. Because you were hers first.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light. “I wasn’t hers,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he whispers. “But you were her safe person. I didn’t want to be the reason anything about that changed.”

Your throat tightens. You take a breath that shakes on the way in. “I made her a promise,” you say. “When I was seventeen.”

Clark’s brows furrow. He waits.

“She asked me not to fall in love with you,” you continue. “I think she meant it as a joke. Sort of. But she said it with this look on her face… like she needed me to mean it back. And I did. I promised.” You blink, staring over his shoulder—at the window, the stars beyond. The weight of it still sits heavy on your chest. Still matters.

“She crash-landed into my backyard when I was fifteen, Clark,” you murmur. “She was scared and loud and weird and brilliant and more than anyone could hold. And she chose me. I was the first person she trusted. And she was the first one I loved outside of my family. That meant everything to me. She meant everything to me. And at seventeen, that promise felt like the most important thing I’d ever said.”

He brushes a hand through your hair, gentle. Quiet.

“I don’t want to break it,” you say. “Even if she’s forgotten. Even if she’d laugh about it now. I don’t want to be the person who betrayed that little girl. I don’t want to lose her.”

“You won’t,” he says softly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know her,” Clark replies. “Better than almost anyone. And I know how much she loves you. Still. Nothing about that changes just because we… found each other.”

You blink back something hot in your eyes.

“She might get loud,” he adds, half-smiling. “She might swear at me in six languages and call me a dumbass and fly away for a few days. But she’ll come back. Because you’re her home too.”

You let out a small, broken sound. “I don’t know how to tell her.”

“We’ll tell her together,” he says. “Carefully. Honestly. When you’re ready. I’ll follow your lead.”

You nod, barely. But the words still weigh heavy behind your ribs. Because it’s not just a promise you’re breaking—it’s years. Of waiting. Of wondering. Of almosts and not-yets. You think of every moment you held back because of her. Every time you told yourself no. Every time you saw him and thought, not mine. And now, he is—and the cost of that feels almost unbearable.

You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, the air thick between you, the silence nearly holy.

Clark’s voice comes again, low and certain. “I’ll wait,” he says. And it doesn’t sound like a promise.

It sounds like he already has.

There’s a knock on your front door three weeks later. That’s what started this argument. Kara’s voice filters through the apartment—bright and casual, teasing like always. Clark’s hand slips from your waist like you burned him. You flinch too. The moment folds in on itself, collapsing under the weight of everything unspoken.

She doesn’t stay long—just a quick drop-off, a joke about how tired you both look, then she's gone in a gust of wind and sunshine. But when the door clicks shut behind her, something shifts.

The silence stretches. Chafes.

You pull your sweatshirt tighter and say, too quietly, “You don’t have to act like you don’t know me.”

Clark’s head snaps up. “What?”

“You dropped me like I was radioactive the second she walked in.”

He blinks. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” you say, sharper now, cutting off his words. “And I get it. She’s your cousin. I’m your—what, secret?”

His face twists. “You’re not a secret.”

“Sure feels like one.”

“You think I want this?” he says suddenly, and it knocks the breath from your lungs—not the words, but the weight of them. The tremble.

You go still.

Clark steps back like he needs the space to breathe. His jaw is tight, his voice ragged. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for you? How long I’ve wanted this? I told you before. I’ve had to pretend for years that I didn’t feel anything because I didn’t want to make things weird. I didn’t want to hurt Kara. I didn’t want to scare you away.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He barrels on. “And now I finally get to have you—finally—and you look at me like I’m the one keeping us in the dark?”

“I am in the dark!” you snap. “Because I can’t stop thinking about Kara either. She was scared and lost and mine. She trusted me. I told you I promised.”

Clark’s breath hitches. You don’t stop.

“I take my word seriously, Clark. Especially with her. Dating you like this is fine as long as it… as long as I remind myself it’s not that deep. I told her I wouldn’t fall for you.”

He steps forward, heat rising from every inch of him. “Well, you did.” He snaps, voice cracking in frustration. “You think I haven’t noticed?” His voice shakes. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at me when you think no one’s watching? The way your hands shake when you button my shirt, the way you never say my name when you’re about to come—like if you do, it makes it real?”

Your heart slams in your chest.

“I love you,” he says, low and fierce. “I’ve been in love with you since I was eighteen and you called me a farm boy with a savior complex. I have tried to be patient. I’ve tried to respect your promise. But I’m done pretending this is just some quiet little thing we keep behind closed doors.”

You stare at him, shaking.

“Say it,” he demands, not unkind. “Say you don’t love me and I’ll back off. I’ll let you go. But if you do—if you do—then I’m done playing ghost in your life.”

Your mouth parts. Your vision blurs.

“I tried not to,” you whisper.

He’s absolutely still.

“I tried so hard not to fall in love with you. For her. For me. For everything I thought I owed the people I love.” You’re crying now, angry and helpless. “But it didn’t work. Because I did. I fell in love with you anyway. And now I don’t know how to stop.”

Clark exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “I don’t want you to stop,” he says. “I want you to choose me. Out loud. In the light.”

You surge toward him. He catches you like gravity does—fast, unthinking. Your mouths crash together like it’s the only way to breathe. Like everything you said has to be sealed in a kiss or it might kill you both.

And when you finally pull back, panting and trembling, his hands still cupping your face, he says it again. “I love you. I always have.”

You don’t say it back yet. But you don’t have to.

He knows.

The confession still echoes in the room when the lock clicks. You and Clark barely have time to move apart. Not fully—just enough for the air to rush back in between you, still buzzing with the charge of everything said and unsaid. Your lips are swollen. His hands fall from your face like they’re afraid to be caught. And you both turn just as the door swings open.

Kara steps into the apartment, damp from the rain, a six-pack dangling from one hand, her phone clutched in the other.

“I forgot my charger—” she starts, then freezes.

You see her register the scene. Your flushed cheeks. Clark’s parted lips. The uneven breath between you. Her gaze drops to your joined hands. The silence is instant. Cracking.

Kara blinks. Then again. Her voice, when it comes, is far too quiet. “Oh.”

Your stomach turns. “Kara—”

Her expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t twist or crumble or ignite. It just stillifies, as if every part of her has gone cold in an instant. She sets the charger and drinks on the counter with a soft thunk.

“I should’ve known,” she says, to no one in particular. “I’m not stupid.”

“No one said you were,” Clark says gently.

Kara’s mouth twitches. She doesn’t look at him. “But you didn’t say anything either, did you?”

“Kara—please,” you say, stepping forward.

She turns to you now, and the look in her eyes nearly undoes you. Not angry. Not surprised. Just wounded. The quiet kind. The worst kind. “You promised,” she whispers. “You were seventeen. I asked you not to fall in love with him, and you promised.”

“I know,” you choke out. “God, I know—”

Clark steps closer, but you can feel him hesitating. Letting you lead. Your voice breaks again. “I was a kid, and I thought it was a joke, but you weren’t joking and I should’ve known that. You were scared and raw and new to this world and I was the first thing that felt safe to you. I know what I was to you.”

Kara exhales. Her arms fold over her chest. Her hair drips slowly down her hoodie, her eyes sharp. “So when did I stop being that?”

You flinch. “You didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is louder now, cutting. “I would’ve been mad. I wanted to be mad. But then I would have been okay because it’s you. And that idiot. That’s what best friends do. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

“Because I was scared,” you cry. “Scared of breaking something that’s been mine for half my life. You’re the first person I loved that wasn’t family. And that promise—back then—it felt like everything. Like it mattered more than anything else.”

“It did,” she says, soft again. “It mattered to me, too.”

Clark speaks then, voice low but steady. “You didn’t lose her, Kara. You never did.”

Kara’s gaze flicks to him. “It’s not about losing. It’s about being left behind.”

“No one left you,” you say quickly. “I was trying so hard not to hurt you I ended up hurting you anyway.”

A beat. Then another. Kara moves toward the table slowly, like her limbs are heavy. She picks up the six-pack and starts placing the cans in the fridge, one by one. She doesn’t look at either of you.

“I made you promise because I was selfish,” she murmurs. “Because I was scared of losing the only real thing I had on this planet. And I thought if I made you promise, I could freeze everything exactly how it was.”

You swallow, but your voice shakes when you speak. “I never wanted to choose between you.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says, finally turning back around. Her expression is softer now. Resigned. “I don’t want to be what keeps you from something good.”

Clark steps closer. “This is more than good.”

You don’t say anything. Not yet. Because your chest still aches. Because you still haven’t said it back.

Kara notices. Of course she does. She always has. Her gaze darts between you and Clark, her brow furrowing like she’s piecing something together.

“I walked in on something, didn’t I?” she asks carefully.

Clark’s jaw ticks.

You breathe out. “He told me he loves me.”

Kara tilts her head. “And?”

“I didn’t say it back.”

You say it like a confession. Like penance. You stare at the floor, at the water trailing off Kara’s boots, at the shape of your guilt.

“I wanted to,” you whisper. “But I couldn’t say it until I told you the truth.”

Something breaks in Kara’s face then—not anger, not betrayal. Just grief, melting into understanding. Her eyes shine.

She crosses the room and wraps her arms around you before you can stop her. You blink into her shoulder, breath catching.

“I’m still mad,” she mutters. “But I also get it. You’re both emotionally stunted bitches who thought not talking about it would somehow protect me.”

Clark coughs. “It seemed safer.”

Kara pulls back just enough to look at you. “Promise me this—if you’re gonna do this for real, don’t lie to me again. Don’t hide.”

You nod, tears brimming. “I promise.”

She holds out a hand to Clark. He takes it. She squeezes. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Never,” he says, no hesitation.

Kara exhales through her nose. “Great. Now somebody order takeout. I’m emotionally compromised and I want dumplings. And I’m opening your expensive tequila.”

You and Clark exchange a stunned, teary glance. You both let out matching half-laughs. And when he pulls you in again, this time—he doesn’t let go.

“You can date,” Kara says, fork mid-air. “But don’t be weird about it.”

You blink. “Define weird.”

She points at you with her fork. “Like… giggling. Or doing that creepy forehead-touch thing. Or floating.”

Clark, sitting beside you on the couch, suppresses a laugh. You elbow him. “You literally float.”

“Not when we’re kissing,” he defends, holding up his hands. “Anymore.” He adds, sheepishly.

Kara gags, dramatically. “Nope. Regret. Immediate regret.”

But it’s not real disapproval in her voice. Not anymore. She’s adjusting. She’s teasing. She’s giving you the space to be happy—on your own terms. Even if it comes with ground rules and gagging noises.

Things don’t change overnight. At first, you and Clark are awkward in the daylight. You hover in doorways. Brush fingers, then flinch back like you’ve been caught. You almost miss the secret. The thrill of it. The breathless weight of a truth held between only two people.

But the real thing? The real thing is better. It’s Clark waiting outside your building on Sunday mornings, two coffees in hand—yours with the vanilla oat milk he always pretends not to like.

It’s his glasses on your nightstand and your fuzzy socks in his dresser drawer. It’s grocery lists. Inside jokes. Toothbrushes lined up beside each other like they’ve always belonged that way.

And still—sometimes—you forget. You forget you’re allowed to touch him when other people are looking.

The first time he reaches for your hand in public, just casually, just because, your breath hiccups in your chest. Clark notices. He gives your hand a light squeeze, not looking at you—just humming something low and content under his breath as you walk together through the farmer’s market, your fingers interlocked. It shouldn’t feel revolutionary. But it does.

One night, wrapped in the quiet warmth of your apartment—bare feet on cold kitchen tile, Clark behind you, arms looped loosely around your waist as you dry the dishes—you ask, “When did you know?”

His breath stills against your neck. You wait. Finally, he says, “That first day. At the farm.”

You blink. “What?”

“I was hauling firewood. You were helping Kara with the garden and came over with your arms full of tomatoes. You were all sunburnt and sweaty and annoyed about something—probably Kara—but you looked at me and smiled anyway. I was pretty sure I saw stars.”

You don’t breathe.

“You were seventeen. I remember thinking…” He stops. Swallows. “I remember thinking it wasn’t fair. That someone could look at me like that and not even know.”

Your heart kicks.

“You didn’t even see me,” he adds with a crooked smile. “Not really. But I saw you. And I knew. Right then.”

“You never said anything.” You stare at him.

“I couldn’t,” he murmurs. “You were still figuring everything out. And I… I knew I’d wait. Because you deserved the wait.”

He kisses your temple. Lingers there, breath warm and steady against your skin, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. His nose brushes the edge of your hairline. His hand curls more tightly around your waist.

You close your eyes and for a moment, everything quiets—like the world is holding its breath with you. Your voice barely breaks above a whisper. “I love you.”

He doesn’t move, but you feel the exhale. Soft. Shaky. It’s the kind of breath that says everything without sound. Like he’s been holding it for years. Like letting it go now might undo him.

Your words are the key he’s been too afraid to turn. His hand tightens at your hip. Then, quietly—like a vow, he whispers, “I love you, too.”

You blink, and his eyes are already on yours. Blue and burning and unbelievably tender. He cradles your jaw like you might shatter from the weight of it. Like saying it wasn’t enough—he needs to show it too.

And when he kisses you, it isn’t desperate. It’s reverent. His mouth moves against yours like a prayer, like an answer, like everything he’s never let himself say. Fingers splayed at your back, pulling you into his chest, the world outside falling away. You feel the shift when he picks you up—carrying you with a quiet kind of urgency, like worship, like need—and lays you gently against the sheets.

Clothes are shed between kisses. Breaths shared. Nothing rushed. Just skin and skin and years of ache unraveling one careful touch at a time. It’s slow. Deep. Intimate.

His voice is low in your ear, gentle as dusk. “You just tell me what you need, sweetheart. I’ll give you everything.”

Your breath hitches. Fingers curling into his shoulder. “I need you,” you whisper, honest and aching. “All of you.”

He presses his forehead to yours. “Then you’ve got me. Always.”

Later, with your legs tangled and his forehead pressed to yours, he says it again. “I love you,” he murmurs. “I think I always have.”

And when you close your eyes, his arms still around you, it finally feels like home.

Later that week, you’re at Kara’s place. Pizza. Movie night. Her new villain-obsessed girlfriend is passed out halfway through Pacific Rim, snoring on Kara’s shoulder. You’re curled up on the floor, Clark at your side, both of you laughing quietly about a line delivery that made absolutely no sense.

Kara throws a pillow at your heads. “You’re disgusting,” she says.

Clark raises an eyebrow. “What did I do?”

Kara shrugs. “Nothing. It’s just gross how happy you are.”

You grin. “Aww, are you jealous?”

She ignores you. Then—offhand, like it’s nothing—she says, “He flinches when he hugs people. You’re the only one he doesn’t pull back from.”

“What?” You go still.

Kara shrugs again, eyes still on the screen. “You didn’t notice?”

You look at Clark. He won’t meet your eyes. Your voice is quieter now. “Is that true?”

He says nothing. Just threads his fingers through yours and squeezes. You don’t need the answer spoken aloud.

This is real. It’s quiet. Simple. Messy sometimes. But it’s yours. And after all the waiting, the wishing, the aching—

It’s finally allowed to be.

tags: @wattpaduser200 @pasoque-blog @dansunflowers @jasontoddswhitestreak @scarhead05 @beeandthescreen @mrs-cactus69 @yiiiikesmish @sandyscorner @karacaroldanvers @ficklepicklefandoms @faisting @itsdarchik @bangtanevermore @similarlsyo @mydcmasterlistblog @unclearblur @tiffysdeath @xoxovlayla @jujubes888 @intoanothermind @whoreyzontal @Innysnts @littleshwt @naireadstoomuch @harleycao @summertime-pills @mickey-mouse-crackhouse1902 @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @ghostreadersthings @sarapixieelliott08 @sweeterthan13 @possiblyafangirl @acciosherlockholmes @yuuzuforia @goodbyetuesday @claudiwithachanceof @kittyblahhh3000 @qardasngan @serendididy @containswithout @cielito--lindo @justkeepingitpeachy @analuizabiravg @laelara3 @imsuperawkward @kissmxcheek @slowbutterflies @stargazsblog @lettucel0ver @selfishlycalculatingvisitor @kayla-rose15

#no one move no one talk to me #im literally in love with him like HRGGHHRGGHHHHRGFHHR #wow #love is real and if im not finding love like this im out #oh clark kent u beautiful man…..#sorry op im like sobbing from how pretty this is SBSJDJSNDJS

668 notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 5 days ago

Text

me lately

#AKSHUALLY….yeah……

2K notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 5 days ago

Text

Demi STOP

#why am i crying why am i CRYING SO HARD FJSBDKSNDKS #ok to be honest i didnt like that direction but i get it its whatevs #im not complaining if superman has a harem bc ill beg to join #dont get me started on supergirl 🤠🫶#this post is rlly funny with context DBDBDJSDNJSXNNX

13K notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 6 days ago

Text

Ruined

clark kent x reader

t/w: sex pollen trope, Explicit Sexual Content (18+; mdni; multiple detailed scenes), overstim, desperate/rough sex, soft!dom clark, Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Possessiveness summary: After a LuthorCorp lab exposes Clark to an experimental mist, he tries to fight the heat clawing through him—but you don’t let him. You take everything he gives you. And when the storm breaks, you pull him back from the edge—still aching, still open, still his. 8.4k words

The LuthorCorp lab is colder than it should be.

That’s the first thing you notice—how the cold clings to your skin, thin and wet like a film you can’t shake. The air stinks of scorched wire and industrial rot, the metallic tang so thick it coats the back of your throat. Something must’ve ruptured. You step carefully, boots crunching faintly over shattered glass and blackened debris, flashlight beam cutting through the hazy dark. The light catches on warped metal shelves and sparking control panels, some still twitching with electricity like nerves misfiring after death. The walls bear the scars of something big—blunt force trauma, panels torn clean off, a ventilation shaft caved in like it had been punched by a truck. Or someone stronger.

Clark–Superman right now– steps in behind you, and the temperature dips again—though whether it’s from the lab’s broken systems or the way his presence seems to alter gravity, you’re not sure. He’s close enough to you that you can feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze, the electricity that always seems to crackle around him like storm static.

“You didn’t hear that?” you ask, eyes on the melted vent near the server bank.

He doesn’t answer right away. You hear the subtle scrape of his boots as he moves forward, careful but purposeful. His hand is pressed to an earpiece that connects him back to the Justice Gang. Then, low and tight, “No. But comms have been static since we came in.” His voice sounds wrong. Frayed at the edges. Not panicked—but compressed. Like he’s holding something in with both hands.

Your eyes cut to him, studying the way his jaw flexes. The tendon there jumps. His brow is furrowed hard enough to cast shadows over his eyes. You file it away—Clark doesn’t tense like that unless something’s really wrong.

The two of you move deeper into the wreckage. You’re good at this dance by now: quiet, efficient, side by side. You’ve always worked well together. Sometimes too well. The air between you has always carried a charge, something you’ve trained yourself not to look at directly. He’s always been a little too steady. A little too aware of you. You’re not proud of the way your stomach tightens when he gets close, but you’ve learned to live with it. To ignore it.

Until now.

He slows without warning. One sharp breath in. Then he lifts an arm and shoves it across your body, forearm firm against your ribs, stopping you cold.

You tense. “What?”

That’s when you hear it. A hiss—low, insidious—coming from behind the server rack. A sharp click, and then a spreading shimmer, green and iridescent, like powdered glass in sunlight.

It doesn’t explode. It blooms. A slow-motion detonation of mist, sparkling and cool. You barely have time to yank Clark’s sleeve, trying to pull him back, when it rolls over both of you like fog. It clings to your skin. Cold, but not icy—tingling, like mint or menthol or static electricity crawling up your arms. It vanishes just as quickly as it arrived.

Clark coughs once, short and startled. He shakes his head, hand to his temple. “I’m fine,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “It’s fine.”

But it isn’t. You know that look he’s wearing as he turns away from you.

But you have no idea how not okay everything in him is about to become.

Your apartment is quiet when you return—too quiet. The sound of the door shutting echoes through the entryway like it doesn’t belong here. Clark brushes past you without a word, shoulder brushing yours in a way that leaves heat in its wake. You pause, frowning as he yanks off his coat, having changed back into normal clothes in the van, and lets it fall to the back of the couch with less care than usual.

His shirt sticks to him. Darkened at the chest and spine, completely sweat drenched.

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask from the kitchenette, watching him warily. “That mist—whatever it was—Lex doesn’t exactly follow OSHA regulations.”

“I said I’m fine.” His voice is clipped, snapped off at the root in a way you haven’t heard from him unless he’s worked up in an argument. He drags a trembling hand down his face. His knuckles are pale from the pressure.

When he finally turns to face you, your breath catches. His pupils have blown wide—black swallowing blue, save for the thinnest outer ring of color. His skin is pink, not just flushed but fevered—cheeks, throat, even the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in hard, shallow bursts. And his voice—when he speaks again, it’s lower, thicker, like it’s being pulled from somewhere deeper.

“Just… give me a second.” His hand lifts, a silent plea. “Please. Just… stay there. Don’t come closer.”

You go still.

He pivots away fast, faster than necessary, as though the sight of you is something sharp. His back is broad and tense, muscles twitching beneath the cling of his damp shirt. He grips the windowsill, hard, and the old wood groans. The room smells suddenly warmer. Earthy. Like something alive is cooking under his skin.

“Clark.”

“I said—” He bites it off. Another breath. Too short. Too fast.

You take a careful step forward. The sound of it is barely audible.

He still flinches. “Don’t,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”

“Clark, you’re scaring me.”

“I know.” His head bows. His shoulders shake once, violently.

Then, quieter, he adds, “I think it’s affecting me.”

Your stomach drops. “The mist?”

He nods, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the floor. “My temperature’s spiking. My hearing’s off. Everything’s too loud. I can hear your pulse from here. I can smell your shampoo. Your skin.”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “What does that mean?”

His grip tightens on the sill until a crack splits through the wood beneath his palm. “It means,” he rasps, “if you come any closer right now, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

The room holds its breath. You do, too.

His voice, when it returns, is barely there. “I don’t know what it is. But I’m reacting to you.”

The words drop between you like a match into oil. You stare at his silhouette—so steady, so still, except for the way his body trembles. Not from weakness. From restraint. Every inch of him pulled tight like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. He won’t look at you. Not because he’s ashamed—but because he’s frightened of what he’ll do if he does. And still, somehow, he’s trying to protect you.

That’s when you realize how bad it is.

You step back, just once. A single retreat. He exhales like it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe in minutes.

But you don’t leave.

You won’t.

Because something else is brewing beneath the fear. Something bigger than him. Bigger than this room.

Desire. Desperation. The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your teeth. The kind that makes your knees weak and your palms sweat and your body ache. It radiates off of him like heat. Like sunlight in a closed room. Like a tidal wave held back by one splintering dam.

You don’t touch him. Not yet. But just as you move one foot forward, as if to take a step towards him, the world seems to move twice as fast.

The door to your guest room slams before you even register that he’s moved.

Not walked—vanished. A rush of wind tears through the living room, ruffling your shirt, tossing a magazine from the coffee table. The curtain flutters against the window as if something huge just passed through it. You blink once, twice, and then hear it: a door at the end of the hallway slamming shut. A lock turning. Then another. A scraping sound—heavy, dragging—furniture being shoved into place.

You sit there for a second, frozen on the couch.

The stillness after his absence feels louder than anything else. The room hums with the echo of his body heat, like he left part of himself behind in the static. The silence thickens. It stretches around you like a second skin.

And you don’t know what to do.

He could have flown away. Through the wall, the roof, the earth. He didn’t.

He chose to stay.

And for a minute, you just let yourself sit with what that means. What you want to do with that. The ache in your chest, the need to help him, to soothe him, is practically overwhelming.

So. you stand. The wood floor feels cool under your bare feet as you cross the living room. Your heart thuds in your throat. It’s quiet in the hall, except for a faint, rhythmic creak—footsteps. Pacing. Uneven. Too fast. You reach the guest room and try the handle.

Locked.

Your palm presses to the frame. “Clark?”

Nothing.

Then, faintly, his voice calls through the door. “Don’t.” He says, but it comes out broken.

You rest your forehead against the wood. “You’re not okay.”

“No.” His voice cracks like a fault line. “No, I’m really not.”

“Then let me help.”

There’s a beat of silence. You can hear him breathing—ragged, not shallow, just strained, like every inhale is a battle.

“I don’t think I want help.” That lands with a weight you weren’t ready for. Not cold. Not cruel. Just true. His voice curls around the word want like it hurts him to say it.

You grip the doorknob, knowing he could tear it off its hinges in one second flat—and he hasn’t.

“Clark. Open the door or I’ll break it down.”

A sound punches through the silence. Not speech. A groan. Low, ragged, helpless. Then a sudden thunk as his fist meets the wall, followed by another scrape of wood dragging across the floor. You picture the dresser wedged against the frame, a barricade built by a man who could level a mountain—and who’s terrified of you.

“You have to go,” he snarls, voice cracking into something feral. “Please. I can’t—I can’t trust myself right now. I’d leave if I could but I can’t. My body won’t let me.”

You lay your hand flat against the door, thumb brushing the trim.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You wait. Count six full heartbeats. Yours. Maybe his too.

The lock clicks.

Then the barricade moves. Slowly. A soft grinding against the floorboards. You hear the sharp exhale he lets out through clenched teeth, like just touching the furniture costs him. The door creaks open an inch.

Then two.

Enough for you to slip inside.

He stands in the middle of the room, shoulders bared in the lamplight. The dresser is still half-dragged across the entrance, skewed at an angle. The air smells like salt and skin and lightning, like too many nights without rest. The overhead light is off—only the bedside lamp glows amber behind him, casting long shadows across the walls.

He’s not looking at you. It’s like he can’t.

His chest rises and falls like he’s been drowning for hours and just surfaced. Sweat drips down his temple. His curls are soaked and stuck to his forehead. His hands tremble at his sides, clenched so tight the skin across his knuckles has split—tiny crescents of blood bloom along his palms.

His eyes, when they flicker toward you for just a second, are nearly black.

He’s shaking.

He presses himself back against the far wall like he’s trying to phase into it. Both hands flatten against the drywall as if he could anchor himself there, stop his body from flying toward you like gravity itself can’t hold him anymore.

And he’s hard.

Painfully, visibly so. The outline of his cock strains against the front of his pants, thick and high and unyielding. His thighs tremble. A low vibration hums through the floorboards beneath your feet—the foundation quakes. The wall beside his hand spiders with a hairline crack.

You whisper, “Clark.”

His eyes snap shut. “Don’t say my name,” he grits out, voice shredded. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it.” The words are spit out, angry but desperate. “Because it makes it worse. Because I can hear every breath you take and smell your skin and all I want to do is—” he swallows hard, “—is bend you over that bed and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

You flinch.

So does he.

“Oh my God,” he whispers, voice wrecked and horrified. “I didn’t mean to say that. I don’t– I don’t talk like that. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

He lifts off the floor slightly. Not fully—just the heels. Just enough to hover. He touches back down with a soft thud that feels louder than a gunshot. “I can’t stop shaking,” he says, more to himself than to you. “It’s not just my body. It’s everything. You’re too loud. You smell like soap and skin and heat. I’m trying to block it out, I swear—I am—but your heartbeat’s been pounding in my head since we walked into the damn apartment and I can’t breathe.”

You take a step toward him. He twitches violently, shoulder bumping the light switch. The lamp dims, bathing the room in a low amber flicker. The wall behind him cracks—again. Not from contact. But from restraint.

“Don’t touch me,” he begs. “Please. I need—God, I need you, but I can’t. I can’t.”

“I trust you,” you say, low and steady.

His laugh is hollow. Cracked in half. “You shouldn’t.”

You reach for him anyway. Slow. Palms up. He groans—a sound that comes from his chest, not his mouth. The kind of sound a man makes when he’s just barely still in control of himself.

“Tell me it’s okay,” he says, suddenly. Desperate. Like he didn’t mean to say it but couldn’t stop. “Tell me it’s okay and I’ll give you everything. Just say the word and I swear to God, I’ll make you feel so good you forget this started as a mistake.”

“Clark—”

“I wasn’t supposed to want you like this.” His voice breaks completely as he cuts you off. His head drops between his shoulders. “You were supposed to be safe from me.”

Your hand hovers near his wrist. Close enough that the heat of him pulses against your skin. “I’m not scared of you.”

His breath shudders. His arms tense against the wall. “You really should be.”

“I’m not.”

There is a beat of silence before he finally turns to look at you. He stands there, drinking you in. You feel yourself grow wet just looking back at him. It is perhaps the single most intimate moment of your life.

His expression is wrecked. Eyes red-rimmed and glassy. Lips parted, trembling. Sweat trails down his temple, catches on the curve of his jaw. His hands twitch at his sides, opening and closing like he doesn’t know whether to grab you or fall to his knees.

“I can hear your heart,” he whispers, like it hurts to say. “Even when I’m not with you. It’s always calling me back to you.” Then, in a barely audible whisper he says, “Please. This is the last time I can ask. Please go.”

But he doesn’t want you to. Not really. It’s in the way his gaze drops to your lips. In the way his arms flinch toward you and freeze halfway, fists clenching to stop himself. In the way his whole body screams stay even as his mouth begs you to leave.

You step into his space. He doesn’t stop you.

“I trust you.” You say it again—not softer, not hesitant. Steady and solid, like a vow.

And something in him breaks.

You feel it before you see it. The air pressure shifts—dense, electric. Like a storm cell cracking open in the room. Heat rolls off his skin in waves, not warmth but fever, a suffocating kind of intensity that licks across your face and neck, makes the fine hairs on your arms rise. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling like they’re already memorizing the feel of your skin.

His breath catches—sharp, uneven. Then his eyes meet yours.

And he lunges.

His mouth crashes into yours in a blur of heat and need and raw, wild hunger. You barely have time to inhale before his kiss swallows the sound whole. His lips are hot, parted, wet with need, and his breath tastes like ozone, like thunder about to strike. One hand fists in your shirt, dragging you up into him so hard your toes leave the floor. The other anchors behind your neck, fingers trembling as he cradles you close like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or devour you.

This isn’t a kiss. It’s possession.

His chest slams against yours, soaked through with sweat, the cotton of his shirt damp and clinging. You feel the frantic rhythm of his heart punching against your sternum like it’s trying to beat out of his body and into yours. His muscles shake with restraint, with need—his whole body vibrating like he’s holding back the force of his name.

Then your back hits the wall.

Not rough—just inevitable. Like gravity gave up. Like your body simply belongs there now, pinned beneath his.

The breath leaves your lungs in a stuttered gasp, but he doesn’t slow. His mouth drags down—your jaw, your throat, the hollow beneath your ear. He groans low, the sound half-growl, half-prayer, and licks a stripe up the side of your neck. The wet heat of his tongue makes you jerk, and he chases the motion with a low moan, hips grinding forward.

You feel the full, brutal outline of his cock—straining in his jeans, thick and heavy and burning. It presses against your stomach like a warning. Like a promise. The denim between you is too much, but not enough, and he thrusts again, groaning as he ruts against you like he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I—I can’t,” he gasps, voice cracking apart. His forehead drops to your shoulder, the heat of his breath pouring across your collarbone. “Tell me to stop. Please. I need you to tell me to stop.”

You don’t. You bury your hands in his hair—hot, damp, wild—and tug him back up to your mouth. He stumbles into the kiss with a whimper, and it breaks something in him.

“Oh my God,” he chokes. “You smell like everything I’ve ever wanted. You feel like—fuck, baby, I can’t think. You’re everywhere. You’re—God.”

He hoists you up. No struggle. No hesitation. Your feet leave the ground like you never needed them to begin with, and your legs wrap around his waist on instinct. The moment your core presses against the thick line of his cock, both of you gasp. The sound he makes—wrecked, guttural—rips through you like lightning.

“Please,” he moans into your neck. “Please—just once—let me inside you. I need it—I need to come inside you. Just once. I swear I’ll—God, sweetheart, please.”

Your hands are already between your bodies, fumbling for his belt. The metal buckle clinks in the quiet, your fingers moving too fast, too clumsy, but he doesn’t stop you. His breath hits your cheek in hot, broken pants, and he presses his forehead to yours as you work the button free.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, voice rough and frayed. “You have to be mine.”

You slide your hand into his jeans.

He bucks. His cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and glistening, and so heavy in your hand you feel your mouth water. The skin is hot, pulsing, the tip leaking—dripping—and you can’t stop staring. He’s gorgeous. Desperate. And glowing. Not just metaphorically. His skin glows faintly gold, his body flushed all over. Sweat beads at his hairline. His chest heaves like he’s run from the ends of the earth, and his pupils are bottomless. He looks down at you like he’s watching a miracle, mouth parted, chest rising and falling in stuttered, helpless bursts.

“Don’t,” he begs, eyes on your mouth as you sink to your knees. “Don’t do this. You don’t understand—if you put your mouth on me, I’ll—I’ll lose it.”

You do it anyway. You take him into your mouth—slow, steady, savoring the first taste of him. Salt and skin and something electric. Something other. The second your tongue swirls around the tip, he levitates.

You feel it. The floor falls away. Just a few inches. Just enough for the tips of your fingers to barely brush his thighs unless you reach. You steady yourself with one hand on his hip and suck him deeper.

He moans. Not quiet. Not controlled. “Fuck—oh my God, baby, your mouth—your mouth was made for me.” His hands hover for a second, but the moment you swallow around him, they snap into your hair. Not rough—just anchored. Like he needs you to stay or he’ll lose his mind.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. “You’re gonna break me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs squeeze together at the sound. You moan around him—low, hungry—and he shudders violently. His thighs go rigid, his cock pulsing on your tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, voice breaking, hips twitching. “I can’t stop—fuck, I can’t.”

He comes. It hits like a wave crashing through him—hips jerking forward, a broken cry of your name tearing from his throat. His hands tighten in your hair as he spills down your throat in thick, hot pulses. You take it. Every drop. His whole body trembles. He says your name again—softer, reverent, worshipful. But when you pull back—wiping your mouth, heart still racing—he’s still hard. Still flushed. Still panting. Still needing.

You rise slowly, chest heaving. He meets you halfway. His kiss is filthier now—sloppier. Less like hunger, more like addiction. Like he needs your mouth open under his to breathe.

“Let me fuck you,” he begs, kissing along your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His hands are under your shirt now, rough palms skating over your sides, your ribs, your breasts. “Let me put it in. Please. I’ve wanted this—I’ve dreamed about this. Please.” His voice—God, it shakes with it. Raw. Broken.

You nod and he doesn't wait. You don’t make it to the bed–you crash to the floor together—needy, breathless, half-undressed and already gone.

Your back hits the floor, cool beneath your shoulder blades, the contrast shocking against the heat radiating off your skin. The carpet bites softly at your spine, grounding you just enough to remember where you are—who you’re with.

Clark stares down at you from the edge of the bed like he’s caught between gravity and godhood. Like he’s not sure whether to climb on top of you or fall to his knees and pray.

His chest rises and falls in stuttered, trembling gasps. His hair clings wet to his forehead, and his collar is dark with sweat. The vein in his neck pulses visibly, sharp and wild, like his body’s threatening to detonate under the weight of what he feels.

You sit up slowly, your fingers brushing the hem of his shirt. “Let me.”

He doesn’t speak—just nods, once, sharp, breathless. You peel the fabric upward, slow not to tease but to pace yourself—because even this feels like too much. Each inch of skin you reveal is flushed and golden, his body gleaming like he’s been sculpted from sunlight. His abs contract beneath your knuckles, trembling as you drag the shirt over his head and toss it aside. You place both palms flat against his chest. His skin is burning.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “You’re overheating.”

“I know.” His voice is strained, torn from the base of his throat. “Can’t cool down. Not when you’re—” He cuts himself off with a groan, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hands come to yours, locking them to his chest like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You move next, tugging off your top in one fluid motion. His eyes widen. He doesn’t blink. The second your skin is bare to him—your breasts rising with each breath, your ribs flushed with heat—Clark moans. A low, fractured sound, punched from somewhere deep in his gut.

“Oh gosh,” he breathes. “You’re—honey, you’re unreal.”

You take his hand and press it to your waist. He follows your lead, sliding his palm upward, the heel of it grazing beneath your breast. His thumb brushes the swell like he’s holding something sacred. You stand, shuck your pants and underwear in one smooth motion, and drop back onto the carpet—bare, open, heart hammering.

His eyes darken.

You spread your legs slowly, offering. Inviting. “Come here.”

He doesn’t move.

“Clark.”

His gaze snaps to yours. Dazed. Pleading. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, like confession. “Don’t deserve you.”

“Then earn me,” you say, steady and low. “Right now.”

It shatters him. He drops to his knees between your legs, big hands bracketing your thighs as he crawls over you. His body trembles, but the second your legs wrap around his waist and his cock grazes your inner thigh, the last of his restraint snaps like a live wire.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours. “Wanted you. For so long.”

He fists himself blindly, lines the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and pauses—barely. His eyes search yours, wide and unsteady, asking for more than permission.

You nod and he pushes in all at once. The stretch is intense. Sharp at first, then slow—molten—as he fills you. Thick, long, impossibly deep. You arch beneath him, breath vanishing from your chest like the wind’s been knocked out of you.

“Jesus—baby—you’re tight,” he chokes out, hips jerking. “I’m sorry, I’ll—I’ll go slow, I promise, I’ll…” He doesn’t move. Can’t. His cock is fully seated inside you, twitching, pulsing. He trembles like he’s trying to stay still while the earth shifts underneath him.

You clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping across sweat-slick muscle. “Look at me.”

He lifts his head and it wrecks you. His pupils are blown, lips parted, hair a mess of damp curls and desperation. He looks like he’s about to cry. Like he’s still not convinced this is real.

“You take me so well,” he whispers, awestruck. “You feel like… home. Like I’m supposed to be here.” Then he moves. The first thrust is measured—slow, grinding, a deep roll of his hips that lets you feel every ridge, every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

The second makes you gasp.

He buries his face in your neck. “I can’t hold back,” he pleads, voice breaking. “You’re too good—I need—fuck, I need you.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. “Then take me.”

He groans—a raw, desperate sound—and starts to move. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Over and over. He rolls into you with reverence and need, like each thrust might be the last. His cock drags across every aching part of you, hitting so deep you see stars. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—wet, rhythmic, intimate.

He keeps talking. Between thrusts, kisses, gasps.

“You feel like heaven.”

“You fit me so perfectly, sweetheart.”

“I think about this—I think about you—every fucking night.”

“I tried to go slow. I did. But I’ve never needed anything this bad.”

“Then stop trying,” you murmur as you pull his face to yours and kiss him—open, messy, breathless.

He shudders and lets go. His pace sharpens. Each thrust drives into you with heat, with purpose. The carpet burns the backs of your thighs, your spine arches, your hips lift to meet his, chasing the next stroke like it’s oxygen.

Your moans rise unchecked, curling into his mouth. Your nails rake down his back. You’re close—so close—and he feels it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips at your cheek. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come with me inside you.”

You do. You shatter. Your whole body clenches around him, high and sharp and unstoppable, and you sob his name into the hollow of his throat. He follows—hips snapping forward, cock pulsing as he groans your name into your skin. His cum fills you hot and thick, spilling deep, and he presses all his weight into you as he shakes through it.

But he doesn’t pull out. He can’t. He stays inside you, chest heaving, forehead pressed to your sternum. You feel him twitch. He’s still hard.

“Sweetheart,” he pants, barely audible. “I—I’m still—shit.”

“I know,” you breathe. And then—grinning, wrecked, smug—you cradle his jaw. “So do something about it.”

His head snaps up. His eyes—dark, gleaming, reverent—burn through you.

“You sure?”

“I’m not fragile.” You nod.

He groans. A real one. Guttural. Primal. Then he pulls out slowly. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, already clenching around nothing.

“Turn over,” he orders, voice wrecked. “Hands and knees, please baby.”

You do. Limbs trembling, thighs still soaked. You arch your back, push your hips up, and you know how you look—open, dripping, waiting. Clark swears behind you—low and violent.

“Fuck. Look at this. Still wet for me.” You feel his hand slide up the curve of your ass, spreading you gently. His palm burns against your skin. “Still begging,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Still mine.” He leans over you, mouth against your ear. “Say it,” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Clark—please.”

That’s all it takes.He thrusts back into you in one smooth, brutal stroke. You cry out, back arching, fists grabbing at the sheets as he fills you again, deeper this time. Different angle. New pressure. He grabs your hips, anchoring you as he starts to move—harder now, relentless.

The sound of your bodies colliding is obscene. The wet slide, the slap of skin, the thud of the bedframe against the wall. You swear you feel the room shake.

“You like that?” he growls. “Like being filled so deep you can’t breathe?”

You nod frantically, jaw slack. He grabs your hair—tugs gently—and your spine bows. “Whose is it? Tell me, please.”

“Yours.”

“Again.”

“Yours. Yours, Clark—fuck.”

He pounds into you, and you unravel—crying, shaking, babbling. He softens just a hair—fingers reaching down, finding your clit.

“Let me make you come again,” he murmurs, voice thick and tender. “Let me show you what it’s like when someone loves you while they do it.”

And you do. You come again—loud, broken, full-body. He holds you through it, kissing your spine, circling your clit until your vision whites out.

His hips stutter as he spills into you again. He tugs you tight to his body and for a minute, you just lay there and breathe one another in.

You don’t know how much time passes like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe a lifetime. You’re sprawled on the bed in the aftermath of the last round—body limp, flushed and twitching, lips kiss-bruised, neck painted with soft, blooming marks that still throb when the air brushes over them. Your thighs tremble around his waist. Your chest rises and falls in shallow, broken pulses.

And you’re still full of him. Clark hasn’t softened once. He’s still inside you, cock hard and throbbing, hips twitching in shallow, instinctive pulses like his body can’t stop—not when you’re slick and warm and wrecked beneath him. Not when you keep letting him. Not when you keep asking.

He pulls out slow this time. Almost tender. Kisses your temple, murmurs something soft that slips past your ears like steam. And then he lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you’re air and light and the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Your back never leaves the bed until he’s upright. Until he carries you across the room. Until your spine hits the cool wall.

You gasp.

He pins you there with reverence—his hands cradling your ass and lower back, your thighs wrapped around his hips, your toes curling against the heat of his skin. His forehead presses against yours, and for a moment, he’s still. His chest shakes with the effort of it.

You think he might kiss you. Might whisper something sacred. Instead, he thrusts back inside you—all at once.

You cry out. So does he. “Oh fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, cock dragging deep. “Still so tight. So full of me.”

Your head thumps back against the wall. Your hands scramble over his shoulders, his biceps, his hair—anywhere. Everywhere. His rhythm is already brutal, unrelenting, every thrust slamming up into you like he’s trying to make you feel it. Feel him.

“Clark—please.” You cry. You aren’t even sure what you’re begging him for at this point. You’re so full, so overstimulated, but so high on the pleasure he’s been drawing out of you that you just don’t care.

“Look at you,” he moans, hips snapping. “So pretty. All mine.”

You clutch tighter. He’s talking again—rambling, wrecked and breathless and barely coherent. “I dream about your pussy,” he gasps. “You know that? Wake up with my cock in my hand—pathetic—‘cause nothing feels like this. Nothing. It’s you. Only you.”

You clench down around him, and he snarls, teeth flashing at your throat, biting back restraint.

“Oh, you like that?” he pants. “Knowing I can’t sleep without you? That I jerk off thinking about this—about you—and it’s never enough?” He grinds deeper, dragging his cock against every swollen, sensitive part inside you. You cry out, legs locking harder around him.

“I could split you open,” he growls, words slurring with heat. “Fill you so deep you’d leak for days. You’d take it all, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?”

“Yes—yes, please.”

“You have,” he grits. “Already fucking have.” His pace sharpens. Your body jerks. The wall trembles with every slam of his hips, the entire world narrowing down to the stretch, the fullness, the delicious, dizzying ache.

“You feel like home,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like heaven. Fuck, I’m gonna come just from being inside you.”

And he does. His thrusts falter. He buries himself to the hilt, cock twitching, and he shudders as he spills—so deep it punches a gasp from your chest. He groans your name against your jaw, clutches your body tighter, holds you through it like if he lets go, he’ll fall through the earth.

You pulse around him, overstimulated and aching and trembling—but not finished. Not even close. You press your forehead to his, breath fogging between you.

“You still with me?” you whisper.

His smile is shattered. Raw. Worshipful. “Barely,” he admits. Then, with a breathless laugh, “But I’m almost done.” He shifts you higher against the wall, your bodies never separating. His hips roll again. Slow. Deep. You whimper, overstimulated nerves lighting up again.

“I love the little sounds you’re making,” he pants, dragging his cock out almost to the tip before thrusting back in hard enough to make your ribs quake. “Can’t get enough of them. Can’t get enough of you.”

You cling to him. His hair. His shoulders. Your body slick where it meets his.

“You still want me?” he asks suddenly, voice cracking. “Even like this?”

You lift your hips into his, thighs flexing. “Always,” you breathe. “More.”

He makes a noise like prayer—like something sacred and shattered in one—and his mouth finds yours again, messy and bruising. “Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “There’s my good girl.”

His forehead presses to yours. His movements slow—not retreating, just deeper. More deliberate. His voice drops into your mouth like a secret he’s never told anyone else. “Let me do the work right now, hm?” he breathes, thumb stroking your hip. “Take my hands. Show me what you need.”

You guide one to your throat.

The other to your breast.

He groans so hard you feel it in your chest. His palm cradles your throat, thumb resting just beneath your jaw. The other cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

“Yeah,” he pants, voice unraveling. “This what you needed?”

You nod, choking on his name.

“You feel so perfect,” he says again, reverent. “I could die like this. Buried in you. Wouldn’t even care.”

You arch against him—your back to the wall, your chest to his hand, your body a livewire. He kisses your mouth, your cheeks, the tear trailing from your lashline. “Let me stay inside,” he whispers, voice broken. “Just for a second. Please. Don’t make me leave you yet.”

Your breath is stuttering. Your limbs tremble. Every inch of your skin is hot, marked, open. Clark is still inside you—barely moving, barely breathing. He cups your jaw with one trembling hand, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight.

You finally nod, lips brushing his. “I want that too.”

His hips twitch once, then still. He sinks deeper into the space you make for him, into the sweat-slick cradle of your body. His breath hitches, but not from lust this time—from something softer. Something more fragile.

You slide your fingers into his hair, and he exhales a long, shaky breath. The weight of him, the heat, the fullness—it settles into your bones like a lullaby. Like the storm is finally passing.

Eventually, his movements stop entirely. Just the press of his chest against yours. Just the way his hands cradle your body like you might vanish if he lets go.

It’s quiet when he wakes. Not just the silence of the room, but the silence inside him. The frenzy’s gone. No compulsion. No gnawing need.

Just… you.

You’re draped over him—cheek resting on his chest, fingers curled into the space just beneath his ribs, one bare leg hooked across his hip like your body knows where it belongs. You’re soft. Warm. Still tangled up in him. And he’s still inside you. Soft now. Nestled in your heat like his body couldn’t bear to part from yours even in sleep.

Clark doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare breathe. Because if he does, he might break the spell. You might vanish.

He shuts his eyes, tries to hold on—but it’s already unraveling. The memories crash down in waves. Your voice. Your tears. His hands. His mouth. The way he couldn’t stop. The way he didn’t want to.

He hadn’t just touched you—he’d taken. Let instinct rule. Let himself fall apart inside the one person he never wanted to hurt.

You gave him everything, and he—he tried to bury himself in it like penance. Guilt claws its way up his throat.

He doesn’t deserve to be here.

He doesn’t deserve you.

He starts to pull away.

Quietly. Slowly. A coward’s retreat.

But before he can fully untangle himself, your arm curls tighter around his waist. And then—softly, sleepily—you tug him back to you.

Clark blinks.

You’re pulling him into your chest now, arms wrapping around him from behind. He lets it happen. Lets you mold him into the cradle of your body, like you’re trying to tuck every broken piece back into place.

You press your lips to the slope of his shoulder. Then to the nape of his neck. And then just… hold him.

“I don’t understand how you’re still here,” he whispers after a long moment. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “I was—I wasn’t myself. I didn’t stop. I should’ve stopped.”

You kiss his spine. “You did stop. Every time I needed you to. Anytime I asked.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I said things I shouldn’t have. Touched you like—like I couldn’t help myself. Like I owned you.”

You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. “You didn’t own me,” you murmur. “You worshipped me.”

He’s quiet. Still trembling. You slide one hand down his arm, threading your fingers through his.

“Clark.” He turns his head slightly, just enough to see you out of the corner of his eye. “I know what it looked like last night,” you whisper. “But I wasn’t lost. I wasn’t swept away or powerless or broken. I wanted you.”

You kiss the curve of his jaw. “And I want you now.” His breath catches. You shift closer, pressing your body to his back, nuzzling your nose against his neck. “I want to show you how much,” you whisper. “Will you let me?”

He nods. Slowly. Like he doesn’t trust it, like he still thinks he’s dreaming. So you kiss him again—soft and sure—and ease him onto his back. His cheeks are pink already. His chest rising and falling in slow, careful breaths. You straddle his hips, guiding him to rest against the pillows. His hands hover at your thighs, not quite grabbing—still asking for permission.

You lace your fingers through his and kiss his knuckles. “Let me love you this time.”

He swallows, nodding. “Okay,” he says softly. “Please.”

You lean in and kiss his throat. His collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. You take your time. Let him feel it. Let him breathe in it. And when you finally reach down and guide him back inside you, he gasps like it’s the first time all over again.

“Oh,” he breathes. “You feel—you feel like heaven.”

You roll your hips slowly, easing him deeper with every rock of your body. His hands rise to your waist, holding gently. Reverently.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice trembling. “You always are, but like this—I don’t know how to look at you and survive it.”

You ride him like a promise. No rush. Just the slow ache of him filling you, the soft slick sound of your bodies moving together.

“You should see yourself right now,” he whispers, eyes wide, voice thick with wonder. His hands drag up your thighs.“You’re… breathtaking.”

You moan, letting your head tip back.

He groans softly, hands tightening slightly. “Every time you move like that,” he says, voice shaking, “it feels like you’re letting me have something I never thought I’d deserve.”

You gasp again—higher, needier—and he exhales like it’s knocking the wind out of him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful,” he murmurs. “You sound like you're mine.” His voice is reverent. Wrecked. And so full of love you almost fall apart from it.

“Please don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, Clark.”

His gaze burns into you. “I won’t,” he says, lifting his hips to meet yours. “I’d stay like this forever if you let me.”

And then you realize you’re floating. Just a few inches off the bed. Your knees suspended above the mattress, his body rising with yours, his grip gentle but sure.

“Clark,” you gasp, clenching around him. “You’re—oh my god—you’re floating.”

His eyes fly open, dazed. “I—oh shoot—I didn’t mean to.”

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, rocking harder now. “Please, Clark. I’m so close… please please please.”

His hands steady you. “Ride it out, sweetheart,” he says, voice soft and sure. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You whimper, mouth falling open, as he starts to move with you—slow and deep, guiding your hips in time with his.

“I love you,” he whispers, reverent. “I love you, and I’ve never felt anything like this. Never.”

The tension builds again—higher, sharper, brighter. You cry out as you come, your whole body locking down around him. He follows—groaning into your mouth, spilling inside you with a shudder. And for a long, perfect moment, you stay like that. Breathless. Floating. Loved.

You're both breathless and still tangled in each other. Still floating just a bit. And then—his body finally gives out. Not from exhaustion exactly, but from everything else. The overwhelming emotion. The quiet joy. The fact that—for once—he’s not holding back.

You sink together into the bed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and slow, uneven breathing. His arms wrap around you instinctively, one hand splayed protectively over the small of your back. You press your cheek to his chest, heart still hammering. For a moment, there’s only quiet.

“…I broke the bed, didn’t I?”

You lift your head. Glance around. The mattress is halfway off the frame. The headboard has a crack running straight down the middle. There’s a suspicious dent in the drywall to your right—and, is that a curtain rod on the floor?

You snort. “Technically,” you murmur, “I think the bed broke us.”

Clark groans and buries his face in your hair. “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I am! Look at this place—it looks like a tornado made out with a thunderstorm in here.”

You grin and glance down at his chest, where a vivid trail of nail marks curves along his pecs. “I think we did a little more than make out, Kent.”

Clark groans again. “You’re not helping.”

“You’re adorable when you spiral.”

“I rearranged the furniture with my ass.”

You giggle into his neck. “Okay, that part was impressive.”

He pulls back slightly, eyes soft but sheepish. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you whisper. “You were perfect.”

His gaze skims over your features like he’s searching for any sign of discomfort. You let him look. Let him catalogue the soft flush of your skin, the curve of your smile, the little hickeys scattered along your throat and shoulders like confessions.

Eventually, he exhales. Still cautious. Still Clark. “…I didn’t mean to float. Again.”

“I know.”

“I definitely didn’t mean to shatter the lamp.”

“I didn’t even like that lamp.”

His lips twitch. “You really okay?”

You press your forehead to his. “Clark. I’m great.”

“But your legs were shaking.”

“From happiness.”

He hides his face again, groaning into your shoulder. You feel the smile against your skin even as he tries to pretend he’s not grinning like an idiot. You comb your fingers gently through his hair, tugging just enough to make him peek back up at you.

“Hey.”

He hums, eyes half-lidded.

“You were gentle. You were sweet. You were amazing.”

“I—” He swallows. “I just… didn’t think I’d ever get to have this. With you. And now that I do—” His breath hitches. “I don’t want to do anything that could make you regret it.”

You kiss the tip of his nose. “I don’t.”

“Promise?”

You nod. “You’re mine. Floating furniture and all.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, burying you in the warmth of his chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath your ear. You both lay there, tangled and safe, legs twisted together beneath the wreckage of the sheets.

“…I should probably fix the drywall…” He says quietly, sheepishly

You laugh so hard you wheeze. He grins, cheeks flushed, and for a moment—everything is exactly as it should be.

Clark knocks. Not with superspeed. Not with X-ray vision scanning the walls. Not by floating outside your bedroom window like he has every night since. Just… knocks.

You hear it from the kitchen where you stand barefoot, sleep-mussed, one of his old flannels—clean now—hanging loose over your tank top. You wander to the door, unhurried, and open it to find him standing there on your front step like a prayer you didn’t know you’d been holding.

He’s in a navy sweater that clings a little too well to his arms, sleeves shoved to the elbow, curls damp from a shower. His glasses are slightly fogged from the early chill. His cheeks are pink, like he blushed on the way over and it never faded.

He’s holding a brown paper bag and a bouquet that’s half wildflowers, half… whatever he could reach in a field somewhere off Highway 6. It’s completely him. And completely yours.

You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t feel like phasing through the wall today?”

His mouth twitches. “Didn’t want to startle you.”

You arch a brow. “Clark. You’ve had me pinned to that wall.”

His ears go bright red.

You glance down at the bouquet. “What’s this?”

He clears his throat, shifts his weight, tries to smile like it’s casual. “Thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

“Just breakfast?”

“Breakfast and flowers.” He pauses, then adds, a little more nervous, “And maybe… a proper start.”

Your smile softens. “You already started.”

“I know. I just…” He shrugs helplessly. “I wanted this part to be normal. Not fevered. Not floating. Not…” His voice dips. “Not something I regret getting wrong.”

You reach out and take the bouquet from his hands. “You didn’t get anything wrong.”

His eyes flick to yours.

“I’m serious, Clark. You didn’t ruin me. You didn’t hurt me. You… loved me.” You step aside. “And I’d like for you to come in now. Preferably without apologizing again.”

He hesitates. Just for a beat. Then steps inside.

You trail him into the kitchen, watching as he unpacks the bag: coffee from that little corner café, real cream, strawberries, your favorite bagels. There’s a container of jam that definitely came from the farmer’s market.

You cock your head. “Is this a breakfast date?”

His hand stills. “Only if you want it to be.”

You cross the kitchen slowly, arms slipping around his waist from behind. He’s warm, soft, still a little damp from his shower. You press your cheek to the center of his back and feel him sigh. “I do,” you murmur. “Want it to be.”

He turns in your arms, eyes wide, glasses a little crooked. “You sure?”

You smile and reach up to fix them. “Clark. You’ve seen me naked, sobbing, laughing, riding you mid-air. I think we’re past the part where I pretend I don’t want you.”

A full flush blooms across his face. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs tracing the hem of your flannel. “I still can’t believe you want me,” he says quietly.

“I always did.”

His brow knits. “Even after everything? After what I said? What I did?”

You cup his jaw. “Clark. I wanted it because it was you. Every word you said—I heard all the love underneath. Even the parts you didn’t mean to say out loud.”

His eyes drop, and you nudge his chin gently back up.

“I see you. All of you. And I’m still here.”

His breath stutters. “You make me feel… human.”

You grin. “You make me feel like flying.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “I’m really glad I knocked.”

“Next time, bring more bagels,” you whisper. “And maybe some patching supplies.”

He groans. “I am going to fix the guest room.”

You hum. “Eventually.” Then you reach for the strawberries and say, sweetly, “Or… you could leave the wall dent. As a little trophy.”

He huffs a laugh. “What would we call it?”

You pop a berry into your mouth, then smile against his cheek. “The night Clark Kent lost his mind.”

He kisses you then—slow, deep, his hands warm against your waist like they never want to let go. When you break apart, he murmurs, “So… this is real?”

You nod. “This is real.”

And just before he can lean in again, you add, “But if you drop those bagels, I will find a way to toss you into the ceiling.”

He grins, teeth flashing. “That a promise?”

You smirk. “That’s a threat, Kent.”

He grabs the bagels with one hand and your waist with the other and kisses you like it’s breakfast, dinner, and a whole damn life in between.

#me when i hashtag need that want that

1K notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 6 days ago

Text

You Promised

part 1

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – Eventually 18+ MDNI, best friends brother trope, Best Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, Emotional Angst & Yearning, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Cozy Domestic Moments, Clark Kent is the most romantic dork alive

word count: 13k

Summary: When Kara Zor-El crash-landed into your life at fifteen, everything changed. She was bold, brilliant, and desperate for something real—and you were it. Her anchor. Her safe person. You’re also the girl who she made promise not to fall in love with him. But you did. You fell for Clark Kent with the kind of love that lingers quietly for years. A love built on late-night walks, inside jokes, and aching silences. A love you buried every time he dated someone else, every time you reminded yourself he wasn’t yours to want. Part 2 (Coming Thursday) Series Masterlist

notes – not proofread

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

You hear it before you see it.

A sound like the world cracking open—thick and low and splitting through the sky like God struck a match across the clouds. It rattles your bedroom windowpane. Makes your bedside lamp flicker. Your feet are already hitting the floor when the second boom echoes—closer this time, angrier. Less thunder, more impact.

You’re fifteen and barefoot and running out the back door with your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

The grass is wet beneath your soles, sharp with cold and half-mowed. Lightning pulses low and wide across the summer sky, casting your backyard in short, stuttering flashes. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you round the corner of the barn and see it.

Not a meteor.

Not a plane.

Not any human thing.

A crater, still smoking, carved deep into the earth like a wound. The soil around it glows faintly red, broken glass and splintered fence posts scattered like forgotten bones. At the center is a shape—small, curled, trembling.

A girl.

She’s crouched low and naked to the skin, hair wild and clinging to her face. Her shoulder blades twitch as if remembering wings. Her knees are drawn to her chest like she’s hiding something beneath them—something precious, something dangerous, you’re not sure. The air shimmers around her, heat-warped and unnatural, like the laws of physics haven’t caught up yet.

You don’t run. You should, but you don’t. Something ancient and impossible presses at the edge of your brain and tells you this isn’t real. That this is a dream or a movie or some freak cosmic joke.

But then she lifts her head. And her eyes—God, her eyes are glowing gold. Not yellow, not amber—gold like sun through honey. Gold like the last five minutes of daylight. Gold like danger.

“Are you okay?” You whisper, because what else is there to say to a thing (girl?) that fell out of the sky?

She flinches as the words leave you. Her lip is split, her hands curl into the dirt like she’s bracing for gravity to betray her again. She doesn’t speak, just stares, and you realize she’s scared. Not of you—but of herself. Of what she is. Of what she’s done. There’s a burn mark across her shoulder that’s still sizzling at the edges. Smoke threads from it, rising like steam from hell.

Sirens wail in the distance. A beat behind them, your dad’s voice is shouting your name from the porch. The light flips on, flooding the yard. A neighbor’s dog starts barking. The world is catching up to this moment, but you’re not ready to let it in.

You drop to your knees. “I won’t let them take you,” you say, because it’s the first thing that comes to your heart, your mind not catching up until a few beats later. “Whatever you are. Whatever happened. You’re safe.”

She shudders.

“You’re safe.” You press your palms into the dirt beside hers and whisper it again, softer. Her eyes soften—not completely, not entirely, but enough.

She’s heavier than she looks. Not in weight, but in presence—like gravity clings harder to her skin. Like the world hasn’t decided how to hold her yet. Her body folds into yours without a word, damp hair sticking to your collarbone. Her breath comes in shallow, panicked pulls, hot against the hollow of your throat. Dirt smears your pajama shirt, her scraped knee dragging across your thigh. She smells like ozone and scorched metal—like burnt wires and new air.

The sirens get closer. You curl around her tighter. Your heartbeat is a frantic drumbeat behind your ribs, but your hands don’t shake. One presses to her spine while the other finds the back of her head, cradling it like something fragile. Your palm nearly burns against the heat bleeding from her neck.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. She just holds on.

Later, there will be laughter. Ridiculous nicknames. Snack wrappers on your floor and boots on your pillow and windows that no longer lock.

But tonight, there’s only this:

The weight of a stranger pressed to your chest.

The heat of something not-quite-human.

The unshakable pull in your gut that says: Keep her safe. Don’t let go.

You don’t know what she is. Or what she’ll become. But as red and blue lights flicker through the trees and the night breaks wide open—you whisper it once, barely moving your lips.

“I’ve got you.”

And you mean it. With every inch of your skin, every beat of your terrified heart, you mean it.

You don’t know it yet, but that moment becomes everything. The origin point of a story that will bend your life into something you never saw coming.

She starts breaking into your room like it’s her own not long after.

It begins small: a rustle on the roof, the creak of windowsill wood, the soft thump of boots hitting carpet. At first you think you’re dreaming, half-asleep when she steps through the glass like it isn’t solid, like physics is just a polite suggestion for everyone else. She’s always barefoot. Always bleeding. Always chewing on something she definitely didn’t pay for.

“Don’t freak out,” she says, holding up a plastic bag from a gas station you know is two towns over. A slushie drips neon blue onto your rug. “Got you gummy worms and a hot dog I sat on by accident.”

You sit up, bleary and blinking. “Is that… blood?”

She glances down at her knees, then the spray across her shoulder. “Some of it’s not mine.” She grins wide.

You groan and she tosses the gummy worms at your face and peels off her jacket, smearing something green and viscous onto your pillow.

You learn, quickly, to keep a laundry basket labeled Alien Shit under your bed.

Your parents don’t ask questions anymore. Not after she saved the neighbor’s dog mid-air and melted your dad’s tool bench by accident. They think she’s just a troubled girl. Foster system. Maybe foreign. They ask for no paperwork and offer her food.

Your mom packs two lunches for you now—one with meat, one without. “Just in case she’s vegetarian,” she says, not noticing the time Kara inhaled a half-raw steak like it was fruit.

You wake up one morning to Kara floating upside down on your ceiling. “Can’t sleep,” she says, voice echoing weird in the walls. “Too loud outside. Earth’s noisy.”

You throw a pillow at her. She giggles, falls like a stone, and lands in a crouch beside your bed. “You’re such a menace,” you murmur.

She shrugs before leaping into your bed, arms wrapping tightly around you. “You’re my human. Deal with it.”

You cut her hair once when you’re sixteen with scissors that instantly dulled in your hand. The strands of her hair smelled faintly of lightning and cloves. You braid it afterward, fingers trembling at how soft it is despite being able to dull scissors.

She sits cross-legged in front of you in your pajamas, grumbling about boys on the news and girls on another planet and how she hates the word terrestrial.

“You’re not alone,” you whisper as you tie the braid off.

She doesn’t answer. Just leans back against your knees until your chin is touching the top of her head and your heartbeat is trapped between her shoulder blades.

She starts calling you her anchor. It’s always half a joke. Always slipped in when she needs you most.

When her powers spike and she shatters the bathroom sink. When a history video on a war makes her stop breathing. When her hands shake in the aftermath of an accidental rescue, where she saved you from nearly drowning, and her eyes flash red and her mouth won’t form words.

She finds you every time.

You’ll be brushing your teeth or writing a paper or halfway through a dream—and then she’s there, at your window. Dirt-streaked. Drenched. Wild-eyed. Shaking.

She still never knocks. She just climbs in and says your name.

And you hold out your arms before she even finishes it.

Some nights you lie side by side, her hand curled around your wrist like a tether. She mumbles nonsense in Kryptonian when she dreams—syllables that buzz against your skin like static. You memorize the sound, not the meaning. You learn the rhythm of her—how her foot kicks when she’s annoyed, how she hums when she’s hungry, how she can punch through a wall but crumples when you compliment her art.

You lend her a pen one day and she carves an entire alien language into the back of your algebra notebook. When you ask what it says, she just smirks.

“Probably something dumb like Mine.”

You laugh, but it knots something in your chest.

She calls you her sister now that you’re seventeen. Says it casually, in front of others.

But when she’s hurt, when she’s tired, when the world feels too big and she needs somewhere small—she presses her forehead to yours and says, softer than anything else she’s ever spoken, in Kryptonian, something that she translates to, “My Constant.”

You still have dreams of that first night. The crater. The burn in the air. Her face lit by fire and fear.

You see her now—brash and bold, covered in dirt, wearing your hoodie inside out and yelling at a livestreamed video game—and it still feels like that same girl is clinging to your chest in the dark, shaking like a leaf and pretending not to be scared.

And every time she says my human, every time she tosses a rock through your window because she refuses to knock like a normal person, every time she calls you her anchor with a grin and a wince—you think: I’m yours. I always was.

And you swear, without saying it out loud, without needing the words—you’ll never let her be alone in this world again.

You’re seventeen the first time you see him. It’s a hot July day. Cicadas scream from the cornfields and the Kent Family Farm smells like sun-warmed hay and ripening tomatoes. Kara’s tugging you by the wrist through the gravel drive, wearing cut-off shorts and an oversized tee that says Don’t Make Me Punch You that you bought her as a joke. Her hair’s a mess, there's dirt under her nails, and her knuckles are skinned again—she says it was from “gravity problems,” but you’re pretty sure she just picked a fight with a delivery drone for fun.

She’s talking a mile a minute. Something about cows. Something about Clark being so boring you’ll actually die.

You don’t hear most of it because then, you see him. Not just tall. Not just handsome.

He looks like the kind of boy you’d read about in summer paperbacks. The kind girls doodle in the margins of their notebooks. Tanned arms and a soft flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, collar slightly damp with sweat, dark curls falling over his forehead like they’re trying to keep a secret. There’s a grease smudge on his cheekbone and a wrench in his hand. He’s leaning over the open hood of a truck like he’s listening to it whisper.

When he looks up, the sun hits him square in the face—and you stop walking dead in your tracks. Something in your chest stutters like your body doesn’t know how to breathe around him yet.

You don’t speak–you just stare. He doesn’t seem to notice as he wipes his hands on a rag and flashes a warm, worn-in smile—one that feels like it belongs to someone else’s future. “Hey,” he says, voice deep and patient. “You must be Kara’s friend.”

You blink and Kara elbows you in the ribs. “Don’t mind her,” she says, grinning. “She forgets how to speak around pretty people.”

You flush—violently. Clark laughs, soft and surprised, like he didn’t expect that to be funny. And when he turns back to the truck, your eyes chase him like they’re caught on string.

Then Clark and Pa Kent put you both to work. Kara takes the tractor. You carry baskets. Clark fixes a fence post and hums an old pop punk song under his breath that you faintly recognize as one that Kara plays on repeat. His hands are calloused but gentle. His laugh comes easy. And every now and then—just barely—he glances your way. He looks away first, before you can really tell if it was anything at all.

But when he fully glances up the next time, it’s to shield his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Need help with that?” He asks.

You shake your head quickly, gripping the basket tighter. “I’ve got it.”

There’s a pause, and then he smiles—barely, but it counts. “You sure?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” you manage, stubbornly. Not wanting to seem uncool in front of this literal god. But, what you’re saying is not true. You’re actively losing circulation in your right arm. Not that you’d ever say that.

Clark nods like he believes you, however. “Must be. Kara said you once knocked a guy out with a snow globe.”

You blink. “I—she talks about me to you? Wait. I mean. Yeah—yeah. I did.” Nice one, you think, mentally smacking your head.

“Well, she made it sound heroic. Most of her stories about you are.” He says kindly, ignoring your awkwardness.

“It was in a Walgreens. And it was mostly an accident.”

Clark laughs at that. It’s low and golden and makes the air feel too warm as he says, “Still counts.”

Later, he offers you a drink from the garden spigot, and wipes the sweat from his brow before handing over the metal cup. You take it, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away—but you feel his breath catch. Just slightly.

“You always work barefoot?” you ask, nodding at the grass stains on his feet. “Kind of… weird. Must run in the family.”

“Harsh,” He teases, “But seriously, only when it’s too hot for boots,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Ground’s soft today.”

You sip the water. It tastes like minerals and rust and something sweeter.

Clark watches you swallow like he’s trying not to.

The conversation doesn’t pick back up because Kara flies full speed across the farm, fully launching herself at Clark, and you watch the two of them split a tree with how hard they collide with it.

At one point, while stacking wood for the firepit, you’re crouched low beside the kindling pile, fingers splintered with bark, palms streaked with dirt. The late sun drips gold across your shoulders, heat clinging like syrup, sticky and slow. You’re balancing a half-split log on your knee when you feel him move behind you—quiet, careful, and deliberate.

“’Scuse me,” he murmurs, voice low and worn at the edges, like flannel stretched too thin.

The air shifts. You feel it before you feel him—his presence brushing along the curve of your spine like the wind changed direction. His hand doesn’t touch you, not really. It just hovers, fingers spread, heat bleeding through the space between you. Like he’s bracing himself. Like he wants to touch but won’t. Can’t. Not here. Not yet. You’re not sure which it is, but you ache to feel him nonetheless.

You don’t move or breathe. The log balanced on your knee starts to tip, but you’re frozen—caught in the gravity of that almost-touch.

And then he’s gone, just as quickly as he appears.

He steps away with the wood, his flannel brushing the side of your arm like an aftershock. And when you blink back into motion, you swear your skin still remembers exactly where his hand didn’t land.

Once again as the sun is setting, you catch him looking. You and Kara had gone down to the creek that splits the back field, dared each other across the slick stones like you were still ten, laughing too loud and splashing too hard until your jeans were soaked past the knee and your braid came loose. Kara cannonballed as you slipped in sideways and gasped when the water bit your ribs. The two of you spent who knows how long splashing one another and wrestling in the water.

Now, back on dry land, you’re wringing out your shirt at the hem, fingers shaking droplets loose from the cotton. Your skin is goosebumped and flushed, your neck damp with creekwater and heat. The sun’s hanging low in the sky—amber, syrupy—and it hits the curve of your shoulder just so. Makes you look like something lit from the inside.

That’s when it happens. You feel it first—the weight of a gaze. The way the air stills. You glance over, casual, unguarded. And there he is.

Clark Kent.

Across the field, one hand resting against a porch post, body angled toward the barn—but his eyes? His eyes are on you. Mouth slack. Brows furrowed. Not in confusion—something else. Something sharper. Something closer to regret, maybe. You don’t know him well enough to tell the way you do with Kara from just a glance.

He blinks and looks away before you can hold it. He rubs the back of his neck like he’s done something wrong, ears a little pink in a way that you can’t help but find adorable.

He looked like he got caught thinking something he shouldn’t.

You stand there, dripping, and wishing you could think of something to say. Kara starts yelling something about watermelon and a bonfire, but her voice is far away. You stare at the horizon, heart hammering, and try to pretend it didn’t happen.

You try to convince yourself it was nothing. That you imagined it. You try—hard—to unlearn the shape of his smile.The way it folds soft at the edges. The way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes when he’s fighting it. The way it lingers.

That night, the sky goes blue to black in a slow, molten crawl. You lie belly-up on the porch roof with Kara beside you, sticky with sweat and dried creek water, bare feet propped on the railing. The air smells like damp wood and charcoal smoke and the mint gum she keeps tucked in her sock.

There’s a bag of pretzels between you. She tosses one at your face. You blink when it hits your cheek and bounce off the siding.

“You’ve got that look,” she says.

You don’t turn. “What look?”

“The stupid heart-eyes look.” Her voice goes mock-dreamy. “Oh my god, Clark, tell me more about tractors—”

“Shut up,” you groan, elbowing her.

She snorts, rolls onto her side and props her chin in her palm. “You blushed when he handed you a wrench today like it was a fucking bouquet.”

“I was hot.”

“You dropped it.”

“It was heavy!”

“It was titanium. You carried me out of a river last summer, but sure—blame the wrench.”

“It’s not like that,” you cover your face with one hand, pretzels rattling across your chest.

“It’s exactly like that.” She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been extra weird since the creek.”

You stiffen. She sees it. “Oh my god,” she says, sitting up. “What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“What. Happened.”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, you confess, “I think he looked at me.”

Kara tilts her head. “He looks at everyone.”

“Not like that.”

She’s quiet. You stare at the stars. There aren’t many tonight, just a few freckles of light above the cornfield. Finally, she sighs and lays back down, arm stretched above her head. “Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

You blink. “What?”

“Promise.” She says it again, softer this time.

You roll your head toward her. “What? Gross. I’m not—”

“You are,” she says, a little too fast. Then, teasing again, she coos, “You’ve got the goo-goo eyes.”

“You sound like a cartoon.”

“Promise,” she says, turning her face toward you. Her eyes catch the porch light. They shine like firefly glass. “Just… don’t. Okay?”

You laugh, weak. “Why?”

She shrugs, but it’s not careless. “He’s always been perfect. Everybody always loves him. I just…” Her voice falters for the first time all night. “I don’t want to lose the one person who doesn’t.”

There’s a beat. A breath. You smile. Force it. “You’re ridiculous.”

She pokes your side. “Promise.”

You sigh. Draw the word out like a performance. “Fine. I promise.”

She leans back, satisfied. But something in her smile wavers, not enough to break it. Just enough to show the ache underneath. The fear. The weight of what she’s asked. Like she already knows it’s a promise you’re going to break. Like she already knows that he looked at you like his even if you don’t.

You don’t sleep. Kara does. Out cold by midnight, sprawled on the twin bed beside yours, mouth slightly open and one leg kicked out like she fought off sleep with both fists and lost. Her hair’s still wet from the creek. There’s a pretzel in her elbow crease. You could laugh if your chest didn’t feel so tight.

The window’s cracked open. The breeze smells like hay and clover, cool against your cheek, but your skin’s still hot—prickling like you stood too close to the firepit for too long.

You lie there staring at the ceiling. Watching the shadows shift across the wooden beams. Listening to the distant groan of an owl and the soft click of the kitchen’s old fridge cycling on. Down the hall, someone moves—a floorboard sighs under weight—and you know it’s him.

Clark.

You imagine him in his room. Shirt off. Hair damp from the sink. Turning off the light with that quiet kind of grace he carries like muscle memory. Folding himself into a too small bed the way someone raised in a small house does—like they don’t want to take up too much space, even when they could.

You press your knuckles to your mouth and swallow a sound that’s not quite a sigh.

“Promise me you won’t fall in love with him.”

Kara said it like a joke. Like a dare. Like a line drawn in sand she never thought would hold. But she meant it. She wouldn’t have said it to you otherwise. And now it’s sitting in your chest like an ember. Low and glowing and wrong.

You close your eyes and try to remember what his smile looked like early today when you first met. Before the creek. Before every little moment. Before you caught him looking like maybe—maybe—he saw you.

You can’t.

Not clearly.

You wake up late. The sun is already spilling through the kitchen windows when you pad down the hall, bare feet sticky against the tile. Kara’s outside somewhere—you can hear her yelling about fence integrity and laughing at her own bad jokes.

Clark is inside at the sink rinsing a plate. One hand is braced on the edge, forearm flexed, the cotton of his worn t-shirt stretched tight across his shoulders.

You almost backpedal. You almost pretend you forgot something in the guest room. But before you can, he turns.

“Morning,” he says, and his voice is thick with sleep and honey. He offers a bright smile, dimple popping.

“Hey,” you manage, heart beat fumbling. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it the way that Kara can.

You move past him toward the coffeepot. He steps aside instinctively—gentle, careful, never in the way—but as you pass, his hand brushes your shoulder. His fingers skim the fabric of your shirt like a breath, a suggestion. Warmth blooms through the contact point like a bruise that hasn’t surfaced yet.

Neither of you says anything. Neither of you flinches. But your hand shakes just a little as you pour your coffee. And Clark clears his throat too quickly. Wipes his hands on the dish towel like they’re stained with something he can’t name before accidentally dropping it and bending too quickly to pick it back up.

You both pretend it was nothing.

But you feel it for years.

“Hold still,” you murmur, curling your fingers around Clark’s wrist.

You’re sitting on his couch in his Metropolis apartment, but it’s soft and too big for the room and smells too much like him to let yourself fully think straight. The coffee table is covered in takeout boxes and one of Kara’s flip-flops that lost a battle with Krypto. There’s a blanket pooled at your hips and an old episode of Jeopardy! buzzing quietly from the TV, ignored.

Clark’s arm is tense in your hands. Not because he’s resisting. Just the opposite—he’s trying not to hold onto you too hard, like he’s worried he’ll hurt you even after all these years. His knuckles are white where they are formed into fists, and his pulse flutters beneath your palm like something trapped.

You keep your voice low. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

His eyes are closed. Glasses forgotten on the end table. Hair damp from the sink, curls flattened in odd directions. He nods—once, sharp—and tries again. This time he manages a full deep breath.

“Good,” you whisper. “You’re doing good.”

You feel him start to settle. Slowly. Carefully. Like a building realigning its weight after an earthquake. You stroke your thumb over the bone of his wrist—once, twice, three times—and say nothing more.

He had a panic attack at the grocery store. Just… out of nowhere. Halfway between the pasta and the soup aisle. You’d seen the signs before—shoulders drawn tight, jaw locked, blinking too fast—and you’d grabbed his hand without asking.

It’s rare for him. He’s Superman– he sees some of the most impossible things on a daily basis. Can fly, has xray vision, heat vision, super breath. But, sometimes, it happens. And you’re no stranger to them yourself.

So now, you’re here, on the couch, saying nothing. But doing everything you can to help him and provide comfort.

This is your rhythm now. He brings you soup when you’re sick. You hold him through the wreckage when things are too loud. It’s quiet. Constant. And almost enough.

When he finally exhales and lets his head fall back against the cushion, you feel the tension bleed out of him like steam.

“Better?” you ask.

He nods without opening his eyes. “You’re good at that.”

“At basic breathing?”

“At making me feel like I’m not going to implode.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your chest. “You’ve never imploded around me. Clark.”

“Yet,” he says, voice gone soft. “But seriously, thank you.”

You squeeze his wrist once more before letting go. The loss of contact makes your fingers ache.

Later, you clean up the takeout containers while he washes his face. You lean against the kitchen island and watch him through the cracked bathroom door as he pats his skin dry, careful around the eyes, like everything about him could bruise if someone looked too close.

You think about the wedding last spring—how he asked you to be his plus one in an attempt to cheer you up after a bad break up. He had said it with a shrug and a half-smile. You remember how you wore a navy dress and he’d looked at you once—just once—like the world had tilted. You’d danced. Held hands. Swung in lazy circles under string lights until your feet hurt.

He’d driven you home and walked you to your door. He could’ve kissed you. You think he almost did.

Instead, he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said, “Whoever broke your heart was an idiot.”

You hadn’t known what to say. How to tell him that it was you who had broken your own heart in a million little ways. Or how to say it was him, with his warmth and effervescence. How since that first day you met, all those years ago, no matter what changed or who you both became, he never stopped showing up for Kara. For you. Even when looking at him sometimes made you feel like you were swallowing thousands of needles at once.

You still don’t.

You’re friends now. Real friends. Not through Kara. Not because of shared blood or expectation. Just you and him.

He texts you photos of stray cats and bad diner signs. Brings you coffee the way you like it—extra hot, two sugars, lid twisted on fully because he knows your hands shake when you’re tired. You fix his glasses when they sit crooked on his nose, just tilt them straight without thinking, and he always flushes but never stops you.

You know the sound of his laugh when he means it, the one that cracks wide open and leaves him breathless. You know exactly how big he has to smile to get his dimples to really pop. You know how he folds in on himself when he’s overwhelmed—big hands fidgeting with threads on his shirt hem, mouth drawn quiet. You know what calms him. What ruins him. What songs make his shoulders sway just a little when he thinks no one’s watching.

You know the scar on his knuckle from learning to open beer bottles on belt buckles in college. You know the mole on the side of his neck just below his jawline. You know that he says your name differently than anyone else.

And you want him. Still. Always. With a hunger that's patient. Gentle. Ancient.

It’s not about kissing him. Or having sex with him until he’s actually breathless. It’s about hearing him brush his teeth in the morning and wanting to hand him the towel before he asks. It’s about sitting next to him in silence and thinking, please never look away.

It’s about love so quiet it hurts.

You’ve never told him. Never dared. Because there’s something coiled tight beneath your ribs—older than the wanting, older than the ache. Something made of the memory of Kara’s voice on a summer night, teasing but not really. The way she smiled at you like she already knew how it would end.

You made the promise once and Kara’s never really brought it up again, but that doesn’t mean it stopped mattering.

There are nights you lie awake tracing the shape of that vow with your breath. Wondering what it meant. Who it protected. Whether she remembers at all—or whether you’re the only one still carrying it, heavy and folded, like an unmailed letter.

You hadn’t known how to explain the quiet erosion—how loving him, silently and for so long, had carved hollows into your ribs where softness used to be. How the closeness felt like cruelty some days. Like being handed a glass of water after wandering a desert, only to be told you couldn’t drink.

You thought you could bear it. You thought friendship was enough. But it’s not. Not when you know the warmth of his laugh. Not when you’ve memorized the weight of him beside you on a too-small couch. Not when his nearness feels like gravity—steady, irresistible, and cruel in how gently it pulls.

You still don’t know how to say any of that. So instead, you drink your coffee, ask about his day, and pretend your hands aren’t always inches from grabbing and holding on.

It’s just past midnight when the knock comes. Not at the front door. But on the glass of your seventh story balcony.

You jolt where you sit cross-legged on the couch, half a bag of chips spilled beside you, your tank top sliding dangerously off one shoulder. You’re wearing boxer shorts, nothing else on your legs, and your skin flashes cold as you stare toward the sliding door.

And there he is.

Clark.

Framed by the low glow of the city behind him, coat ruffled by the breeze, hand still raised mid-knock with a sheepish wince already forming on his face.

You grab the nearest blanket like a lifeline.

He mouths something through the glass—sorry sorry sorry—but you don’t bother reading his lips. You unlock the door with a sigh and slide it open, still clutching the throw blanket around you like a toga.

“You scared the crap out of me.”

“I know,” he says, stepping inside. “I didn’t think you’d be standing right there. In… very little.”

You arch a brow. “You think I wear jeans to bed?”

His ears flush pink. “I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

“No,” you murmur, voice teasing. “You rarely do.”

He grins—that boyish, shy grin that should be harmless but somehow never is when it’s pointed at you—and shuts the balcony behind him with a quiet click. The night air that snuck in is cool on your legs, still bare below the hem of your top, and you swear Clark’s eyes flick down once—just once—before zipping back up to your face like he’s ashamed for even looking.

“Cute socks,” he mutters as he steps into your living room, brushing snowmelt from his shoulders. “Penguins?”

“You’re lucky I like you, Kent.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, plopping onto the couch, nearly stepping on your foot in the process.

“Shut up,” you say, but you’re smiling. He’s still in his work clothes—tie askew, sleeves rolled, collar unbuttoned, coat now shrugged fully off onto a heap next to your couch. He must’ve come straight from the newsroom or maybe from somewhere even higher—halfway across the hemisphere if his hair’s anything to go by. You reach out to smooth the wind-tossed cowlick near his temple and feel him go still under your fingers.

“Why are you here?” you ask gently, softer now.

He shrugs again. “Kara texted. Said you sounded… off.”

You blink. “I did not.”

“She said you posted about three tequila memes in a row.”

“…Okay. That’s fair.” You sigh and flop onto the couch next to him, accidentally bumping your knee into his thigh. He makes a sound like a half-smothered laugh, his hand drifting toward his knee where you just bumped him. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t move away either.

“Tequila memes are a cry for help, you know,” Clark says solemnly. “It’s in the journalist handbook.”

“Oh yeah?” you stretch your legs out across his lap, blanket pooling at your hips. “What page?”

He frowns thoughtfully, tugging his glasses down his nose like he’s actually trying to remember. “Page… twelve. Right after the chapter on how to cry at your desk without smudging your notes.”

You snort. “Guess that’s why you always use a notepad.”

“Exactly.” He lifts his brows, smug, like he’s won something. “Ink runs. Graphite endures.”

“Did you just say that like it’s poetry?”

“It is poetry,” he insists, but his voice is warm with laughter now. “Don’t mock the power of a pencil, Op-Ed.”

You toss a chip at his chest. It bounces off his tie and lands in your lap. He stares at it like it betrayed him.

“I’m serious,” he says, plucking it up and tossing it back into the bag. “Pencils are reliable. Can’t say the same about people.” That last part slips out quieter. Almost too quiet. But you hear it anyway.

You don’t say anything at first. You just shift, nudge your foot against his hip, and offer him the bag. “We still talking about office supplies, Kent?”

He blinks. Looks like he’s about to deflect again—classic Clark—but then something softens in his shoulders. The kind of honesty he doesn’t always let show. “I’m still figuring out who I can count on,” he says after a beat. “But you—you make it easier.”

Your throat tightens. You look down at your hands, your fingers still tangled in the edge of the blanket, and try to pretend your heart didn’t just do a full somersault. “You always know the right thing to say,” you murmur.

“I usually don’t,” he says quickly. “I just—mean it. That helps.”

You glance up at him again, catch the way he’s watching you, like he’s memorizing every shift in your expression. The air changes. Barely. But you feel it. And Clark does too.

He clears his throat. “So. Uh. What were we watching?”

You blink. “Oh. Reality TV. The worst kind.”

“Good. I came to make sure you were okay, and then to suffer.”

You smirk. “You’re lucky I didn’t start a murder doc. Or worse. The Bachelor.”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Whatever helps avoid you posting more tequila memes. Kara was ready to show up with a bottle.”

You grab the remote, start the episode over, and settle back into the couch. Your legs are still stretched across him. His hand is near your ankle now. You’re not sure if he put it there or if it just… ended up that way.

The show is stupid. The contestants are already drunk. One’s crying because someone else stole her “emotional support wine glass.” You feel Clark laugh beside you, that low, involuntary chuckle that rumbles through his chest before he catches it and tries to muffle the sound.

“God, I forgot how terrible this is,” he says, voice half-buried in the blanket you’ve now shared between you.

“You love it.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts slightly, enough to bump his shoulder against yours. “I love a lot of things,” he says softly.

You tilt your head toward him, just enough to see his profile. He’s not watching the screen. He’s watching you—soft and unreadable, like he’s cataloguing something he’ll never write down.

“You’re not staying the night, right?” you ask, suddenly aware of how close you are. How easy it would be to turn just an inch and kiss him. “You’ve got an early shift at the Planet, don’t you?”

Clark shrugs. “I’ll manage.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I’m always exhausted.”

“You’ll—”

“I want to stay.” He cuts you off like it’s simple. Just the truth, unadorned.

Somewhere between 2:13 a.m. and the next fake-love monologue, your eyes drift shut. You don’t mean to fall asleep. But it’s warm. And quiet. And Clark doesn’t move.

When you blink awake, bleary and blinking in the TV’s soft glow, your head is on his chest. His arm is around you. His pulse, steady beneath your cheek. One of his fingers—barely there—is tracing circles on your hip.

He’s not asleep. You know that instantly. His breathing is too careful. You don’t move. You don’t say anything. And neither does he.

You just stay like that.

Until dawn.

This is Kara’s idea.

You’re three blocks from the Planet when she loops her arm through yours and grins like she’s planning mischief. “We’ll bring him coffee,” she says, sing-song. “Make fun of his tie. It’ll be cute.”

You’d agreed because it did sound cute. Clark in his work habitat, tucked behind a desk, glasses slightly fogged, probably with a tie crooked from the minute he put it on. You like catching him in the middle of things. In motion. He always seems to turn toward you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

The elevator dings. The bullpen hums. Phones ring, keys click, papers shuffle—and there he is.

Clark stands near the copy machine, sleeves rolled to the elbow, tie loose, pen between his teeth. He’s talking to Jimmy Olsen, who’s waving a camera lens around like it’s a baton. The second he sees you, Clark straightens. Then falters. The pen falls from his mouth and clatters to the floor. You pretend not to notice.

“Morning, newsboys,” Kara chirps, breezing ahead to toss a coffee cup at Clark.

You hold yours out in offering. “I brought you the cocoa with cinnamon that you said helps you think. Kara also brought you a coffee because she said you like it more.”

Clark blinks and takes the cocoa. “You remembered that?”

“I remember things,” you echo, tossing his own line back at him.

He blushes.

Jimmy steps in, grinning. “And who’s this charming, incredibly thoughtful friend?”

“Jimmy,” Kara groans.

But you play along. “Hi. I’m a friend of these two—and apparently the only one who remembers his cocoa order.”

Jimmy offers you his hand with dramatic flourish. “James Olsen. Photojournalist. Doer of justice. Can I get you anything? A drink? A snack?”

“She’s already got a coffee, Jimmy,” Clark says, voice dry. “You don’t need to impress her.”

“Maybe she deserves two,” Jimmy says, tossing you a wink.

You’re about to laugh when Clark shifts closer—subtle, but there. One step. A glance. His shoulder brushes yours as he reaches for a stray printout. His hand lingers just a beat too long near yours before pulling back.

“She’s good,” he says, trying for light but landing somewhere closer to overprotective older brother who just got caught staring.

Jimmy raises both brows. “Dude.”

“What?” Clark’s ears are already turning pink. “I’m just being hospitable.”

Kara snorts into her coffee.

You sip yours to hide your smile. “I can fight my own battles, Kent.”

He glances at you, sheepish, then ducks to retrieve the pen he dropped earlier. “I know,” he mutters. “Just… don’t want you to have to.”

That makes you pause. Kara clears her throat loudly, breaking the moment. “Okay, Romeo, let’s dial it back before you lift Jimmy through a wall.”

Jimmy grins and leans toward you conspiratorially. “He’s not usually like this. I’ve flirted with his cousin before. He didn’t say a word.”

“That’s because I can bench-press a truck,” Kara says, flashing a wicked grin.

Clark groans. “Please stop talking.”

But you’re already smiling. You nudge his arm gently as you pass. “Don’t say I never bring you anything.”

His voice is soft behind you. “You always bring me exactly what I need.”

And when you glance back, he’s still watching you—tie askew, pen forgotten, a whole newsroom bustling around him. But all he sees is you.

Kara tosses a handful of popcorn at your head.

“Stop making that face,” she says, pointing at you with her chopsticks. “You look like someone just killed your childhood pet.”

You blink, startled out of your daze. “What face?”

She mimics you—eyes unfocused, lip between your teeth, brow furrowed like you’re working on a five-thousand-piece puzzle.

You sigh. “I’m just… thinking.”

“That’s your Clark Kent face,” she announces, smug.

“I don’t have a Clark Kent face.”

“You do. It’s the same one you made the first time you saw him carry a couch one-handed.”

“That was a heavy couch.”

“That was not the point, babe.”

You groan and flop onto your side, burying your face in a throw pillow. Kara jabs your thigh with her chopsticks until you roll back over. “Okay, okay, hear me out,” she says, tucking her legs under herself on the couch. “His name is Evan. He’s a pediatrician. Tall, dreamy, glasses—but not in the same ‘little bitch with a secret identity of a god’ kind of way.”

You raise a brow.

Kara frowns. “Too soon?”

You snort. “Always.”

“He volunteers on weekends. He has a dog. He likes musicals. Come on. Let me set it up.”

You try. You really do. You imagine Evan. His smile, his dog, his charming glasses. You imagine sitting across from him at dinner, nodding along to stories about his little patients. But your brain won’t stay still.

It drifts.

To Clark’s laugh when he’s caught off guard. The way he gestures with his hands when he gets excited about a story. The careful way he tucks his tie before every press conference like he still hasn’t figured out people watch him. The scar on his knuckle from when he tried to slice an avocado without looking.

You think about the night he brought you soup when you had the flu. The way his voice softened as he pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. You think about the playlists. You think about the coffee he brings you. You think about how easy it is to think about him.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, poking at the edge of the popcorn bowl. “I’m probably just… not in a dating headspace.”

Kara eyes you. “You mean you’re in a Clark Kent headspace.”

You roll your eyes and say, “Shut up,” but it lacks heat. And she knows why.

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll hold off on Evan. But just know I’m sitting on gold, and it’s your fault if he ends up dating a barista with no upper lip.”

You snort. “A barista?”

“She’s very nice,” Kara says, too quickly. “But Evan deserves more. You deserve more.”

You glance at her, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. Kara nudges your knee. “Especially more than my dumb cousin.”

You don’t say anything. You just press your cheek to the pillow again and let your thoughts drift—not to Evan. Not to baristas. But to Clark. To his hands. His voice. His smile. To the way he says your name like it’s the first time every time.

And you wonder—again—how much longer you’ll be able to pretend it doesn’t mean anything.

The party winds down early.

Kara ducks out before midnight, mumbling something about space alerts and reruns of Hell’s Kitchen. You offer to go with her.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “Go flirt with the cute guy from Gotham or whatever.” She smirks, shoves a bag of chips into your hands, and vanishes out the front door in a gust of cold air and frayed denim.

You do flirt. A little. The guy’s nice enough—tall, sharp-jawed, probably knows it. He compliments your drink choice, your earrings, the way you say “technically” like it’s a threat. You laugh when he leans in, even let him touch your arm once. But the spark never lights. Your smile’s too practiced. Your eyes keep drifting toward the kitchen where Clark is leaning against the counter, nursing a bottle of root beer like it’s a nervous tic. His glasses are a little crooked. His flannel sleeves are rolled to the elbow. He’s talking to someone, but every time you glance over, he’s looking somewhere else. At you.

When the guy from Gotham says something about splitting a cab, you hesitate.

You feel it in your chest—this low, certain no. “I think I’m gonna walk,” you say. “But thanks.”

He shrugs. Doesn’t press.

You’re pulling on your coat near the door when you hear the voice behind you—soft, warm, and too familiar. “I could walk you.”

You turn.

Clark’s there, holding his jacket in both hands, like he’s afraid of offering too much. “Only if you want,” he adds quickly, glasses slipping a little lower on his nose. “I don’t mind.”

Your fingers curl around the hem of your sleeve. You nod. “I’d like that.”

The city exhales around you as the door clicks shut behind him.

It’s late, that hour when even Metropolis quiets—when traffic thins and the streetlights buzz faintly like they’re trying to stay awake. The sidewalk is damp with the ghost of an earlier rain, but the sky’s cleared now, leaving the pavement slick and silver under the streetlamps.

Clark walks beside you, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched slightly against the chill. You can hear the way his boots scuff the concrete, unhurried. You match your pace to his like you always do.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s comfort in it, the quiet. But there’s tension too—stretched taut between you, invisible and obvious, like string pulled between two tin cans.

You steal a glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His hair’s gone soft and unruly in the misty air, curls dark and curling along the nape of his neck. There’s a spot on his collar where his flannel didn’t quite sit right under the jacket. You want to fix it. You don’t.

“It’s not really that far,” you murmur eventually.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

“I could’ve walked alone.”

“I know that, too.”

You glance over. “Then why offer?”

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “I guess I just wanted to.”

That lands heavy in your chest. You look forward again. Your apartment is six blocks away, but you start wishing it were twelve.

Two blocks later, your fingers brush. Just for a second. A graze of knuckles, a breath of skin on skin. Neither of you pulls away.

You feel it immediately—how the air shifts. How everything tilts, gently, toward that place you’ve both been orbiting for years. Your pulse stutters. His shoulders tense. His hand is still in his pocket, but his arm lingers closer now, the way a magnet hesitates before it gives in.

You stop walking. So does he. You turn to face him beneath the wash of a flickering streetlamp, golden light stuttering across his face.

Clark looks at you like he’s memorizing something he’s not allowed to keep. His mouth opens. Closes. His tongue wets his bottom lip, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Or won’t.

“Clark?” You swallow.

He takes half a step closer. His coat brushes your sleeve. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—solid and steady and unbearable. The space between you isn’t space at all. It’s static. It’s breath. It’s wanting.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same. The silence buzzes.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers, and this time it’s not a warning. It’s an apology.

“I know,” you breathe out—quiet, shaking. But neither of you moves. Not yet. His head tilts, just slightly. Yours does too. One of you, or maybe both, lean in just a bit. And for one second—one unbearable, incandescent second—you think he’s going to do it.

You think this is it.

But then a dog barks three blocks over, loud and sudden. A light flicks on in a window. Someone laughs. The moment breaks.

Clark exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. “I should—”

“Yeah,” you say quickly, cutting him off. “Me too.”

He steps back. You unlock your door. You don’t look at him when you say goodnight. And when the door shuts behind you, you press your palm to the wood and let your eyes close.

His breath is still in your hair. His almost is still echoing in your chest.

And you know—God, you know—this won’t be the last time you stop just short of falling.

A few months later and the guy from Gotham texts you good morning before his coffee. He double-knots his shoelaces and brings up his therapist in conversation without being weird about it. His hands are large and warm. His apartment smells like cedar and peppermint. He listens when you talk.

You like him. You do.

But he doesn’t make you nervous.

And that’s a problem.

Lois Lane has cheekbones like weaponry and a voice that cuts through boardrooms like a buzzsaw. She is brilliant. Unapologetic. Fast-talking and sharp-dressed and funny. She once told a senator to shove it in three languages during a live press conference, and the video plays on loop in your head more often than you’ll admit.

Clark smiles when he talks about her. Not the shy, crooked smile he gives you. The other one. The one with his whole mouth.

You adore her.

So does Kara.

It helps that Lois doesn’t look at you like she’s trying to read your mind. She just hands you her wine glass and says, “I can’t do another one of these unless you’re double-fisting with me.”

You clink glasses like a pact.

The triple date happens by accident.

Kara sets it up. You suspect she means well, but it’s a mess from the start. Too many candles, too many rooftop heaters, too many tiny plates stacked like apology letters. The kind of place where the menus are printed on thick matte cardstock and the waiter introduces himself like he’s auditioning for a role you didn’t know you were casting.

You sit between your boyfriend Richard, the guy from Gotham, and Kara, directly across from Clark. Which is cruel.

Kara looks fantastic. Backless jumpsuit. Gold hoops. She’s halfway through her second glass of wine, already calling Lux—her med student date—Dr. Dumbass with the kind of affectionate venom only she can get away with. Lux is nice. A little sweaty. His collar’s too tight and he keeps trying to catch Kara’s eye like he’s waiting for a cue.

Richard’s knee is pressed to yours beneath the table. He’s warm. Always warm. Always steady. Dark hair, big hands, a smile that melts hearts. He reaches for your hand when the server asks for drink orders, thumb tracing absent circles over your knuckles. It’s sweet.

You don’t pull away but you don’t lean in either.

Clark’s jacket is draped over the back of his chair. Not folded, just tossed—one cuff slipping halfway to the floor. You don’t know if it’s carelessness or comfort. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to the elbow again, forearms tanned and dusted with the soft kind of hair you know would tickle if you touched him there. His collar is slightly askew—just enough to notice, just enough to want to reach for. There’s a cocktail in front of him, untouched. Lime wedge drying. Salt clinging to the rim like something that won’t let go.

The server arrives with her pen poised and fake cheer dialed to eleven. Everyone fumbles for their menus. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance up when he says, “She’ll have the halibut, no lemon, and Kara wants the risotto. Extra parmesan, right?” It’s too easy. Too practiced. Too casual to be coincidence.

Kara blinks. “How’d you know?”

Clark shrugs. “I remember things.”

Lois snorts. Her chair is angled toward his, their knees brushing, the curve of her ankle tucked behind his boot like they’ve been doing this a while. Her lipstick is already worn at the corners from laughing too hard at something Kara said earlier, and her rings clink against the base of her martini glass when she lifts it.

“Do you remember the thing I told the mayor last week?” she asks, raising a brow over the rim.

Clark’s smile tilts, crooked and boyish. “That’s… different.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty Smallville,” she mutters, and loops her arm through his like it’s a reflex. Her head leans against his shoulder for exactly three seconds—long enough to look effortless, short enough not to make it a thing.

Your heart curls in on itself. You look down at your menu and trace the embossed lettering like it’ll tell you how to feel. Richard is still beside you, saying something to Lux about rooftop yoga studios. Kara’s pretending to be interested, nodding absently as she sips her drink. The city hums just outside the glass railing, and the table is alive with movement, shifting shadows, passing servers—but all you see is the ease in the way Clark holds space.

For Lois. For Kara. Even for Lux and Richard, who are clearly swimming in this whole thing.

You’re the only one at the table who feels like she might shatter if she breathes wrong.

Richard is telling a story now. Something about a Gotham elevator and a guy dressed like a raccoon. Or maybe it was a possum. He’s doing voices, accents, full gestural reenactments. Everyone’s smiling. Even Lux chuckles, finally settling back into his chair like he’s decided not to be afraid of Kara tonight.

You laugh, too. Not because it’s all that funny. But because Clark is watching you.

You can feel it. That soft, familiar weight of his gaze—more aware than affectionate, more quiet than kind. It isn’t hunger. It isn’t even admiration.

It’s recognition. Like he’s watching you become someone else in real time, and he’s wondering how much of you he’ll still know when it’s over.

So you laugh. Too loud. Too long. It bursts out of you like a reflex, sharp and bright and aching at the edges. A sound designed to perform joy, not express it. The kind of laugh that says I’m fine, and means please look away.

You lift your wine glass mid-giggle, but your fingers are too tight around the stem. Too tense. The base wobbles as it hits the table again. Just a little. Just enough.

Clink. The rim kisses the side of your water glass—clear, precise, piercing. The conversation doesn’t stop. But Kara hears it. She turns her head so fast it’s almost a whipcrack, blonde hair catching in the breeze. Her brow is arched. Her mouth pulled tight around a half-finished sip of wine. The look isn’t subtle.

You drop your hand to your lap. Rest it there like it belongs. Her eyes flick between you and Clark, and she doesn’t soften.

“Are you two okay?” she asks. Not just curious. Pointed. Like she’s catching you mid-thought. Mid-shift. Mid-undoing.

You go still. Clark doesn’t. He doesn’t even blink. “Always,” he says. Soft. Steady. Too smooth to be honest. Too practiced to be real.

You nod beside him. Your smile lands like a paper napkin in a rainstorm—folded. Thin. Useless. You take a sip of your wine to keep from answering. To keep from looking. To keep from saying the thing that’s been pressing against the back of your teeth for weeks.

It tastes dry. Too acidic. Heavy with something metallic you can’t name. Like a secret left out in the sun. Like something you forgot to swallow the last time he smiled at you.

You pull it together. You breathe. You fold your napkin across your lap, pick at the bread basket, and start asking Lux about his dissertation topic. You nod while he talks. Smile when Kara cuts him off. Chime in when Lois makes a crack about the state of Metropolis traffic and blames Clark personally.

You laugh at that one for real.

And when Richard—Dick, as he started insisting everyone call him after he’s had a few drinks—leans over and murmurs something about how wild this all is, how glad he is that you invited him, how lucky he is, you smile. You reach for his hand under the table. His thumb brushes yours. You anchor yourself there.

He’s good, you think. Smart. Playful. Gentle. He knew how to get you to smile when your shoe broke in the rain last week. He leaves little cartoons in the margins of his notes. He flirts with you in a way that does make your heart flutter sometimes. He bought you a new toothbrush for his apartment without asking.

He isn’t Clark. But he’s good.

So you lean in. Let the night unfold. Let the light and the laughter soften the corners of everything that came before. For a while, it works.

The food arrives. You eat. You laugh more. Clark and Lois get into an absurd debate about sandwich alignment. Kara and Lux vanish briefly to the bar and come back with shots of something blue. The wind picks up around dessert and everyone huddles closer to the heating lamps, shoulders bumping, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth and the neon blur of city lights behind them.

It’s good. You make it good.

Eventually, the table disperses. Someone starts talking about after-party drinks, but the group is full of excuses. Busy days tomorrow. Papers to grade. Meetings to prep for. Someone mentions a looming fire inspection. Kara smirks. Clark groans. Lois just gives you a little wink and murmurs something about how she’s “tired of babysitting this lot.”

Coats are shrugged on. Bags lifted. Goodbyes start like gentle waves, casual but inevitable. Richard moves to help you into your coat, but Clark is already there—tugging it gently from the back of your chair and holding it out with both hands.

You blink. So does Richard. Clark doesn’t say anything—just waits.

You slip your arms through the sleeves, brushing his knuckles on the way. His hands are warm even through the fabric. The collar settles against your throat. Too soft. Too close.

“Thanks,” you murmur. He nods. Doesn’t look at you. Beside you, Lois is wrapping her scarf, already halfway into her own jacket. Clark turns toward her instinctively, reaches to smooth one side of the collar that caught on her hair. She swats at his hand, half-annoyed, half-fond, and says something low you don’t quite catch—but Clark laughs. Quiet. Easy.

And then Richard’s arm slips around your waist. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs you in gently, tilts his head and kisses you. It’s slow. Sweet. Familiar. A little practiced, but not unkind. Your hand lifts to his chest out of reflex. Not to push him away. Not to pull him closer. Just… to steady yourself. But your chest goes still. Not tight. Not aching. Just still. And when you open your eyes again, Kara is staring straight at you. Her expression is unreadable. Lips parted. Brows slightly drawn. Not angry. Not surprised. Just… watching.

You shift your weight. Swallow. She looks past you then—to where Clark is standing frozen, still halfway turned from Lois. His hand is at his side now. Still. His eyes flicker once between your face and Richard’s, and then away again. No reaction. None that shows.

He just clears his throat, says something to Lois about the parking garage, and steps back into the breeze. But you feel it anyway. A ripple. A fracture in the air. Like the moment marked something. Even if no one says a word.

The morning after, the city is washed in pale gold. Dew climbs the sides of your window. The air smells like coffee and dust and leftover adrenaline.

You wake slow. No hangover, but there’s something thick in your chest. Not sharp—just present. A dull kind of too-much. Richard had left early. Something about a date with his Dad, Bruce. A train back to Gotham. He kissed your temple on the way out, whispered thanks for the night, for the dinner, for you.

You had smiled. Had meant it, even. But your body stayed curled in the same corner of your couch long after the door closed.

By noon, you still haven’t moved far. You’re in an old hoodie and mismatched socks, chewing dry cereal straight from the box with one leg tucked beneath you. Kara texts a meme. Lux sends you a youtube video to some weird video essay about aliens, trucks, and bears and says “this helped my post-date anxiety.”

You snort. Almost reply. Then your phone buzzes again.

Clark Kent: 1 attachment.

No caption. No context. Just a Spotify playlist titled: “for you (shut up, kara)”

You stare at it for a second too long. Then tap it open.

The first song is “Seventeen Again” by The Mighty Crabjoys—his favorite band. You’ve heard him talk about it with too much enthusiasm and absolutely no shame. Said they got him through high school. Said their lyrics were “corny in the exact right way.”

The next is a moody acoustic track—“Lullaby for the End of the World”—melancholy and strange. The kind of song you’d listen to with your forehead pressed to a cold train window.

Then comes “Satellite Heart", then “Nothing Arrived” by Villagers, then “Your Ex-Lover Is Dead.”

One mid-way track is just guitar and silence for almost a full minute before lyrics even start. You don’t know the name, but the ache in it is familiar.

There’s another one by The Mighty Crabjoys, of course. “Soft Armor.” It’s the one he used to hum when doing dishes. You remember teasing him about it once, and he said, “It’s about pretending things don’t hurt when they do.”

By the time “On Your Porch” plays, you’re still not sure what any of it means.

It’s a mess of genres. Pop punk and indie rock and old romantic standards and one Lana Del Rey song you’re pretty sure he meant to delete but forgot. It makes no sense. And every kind of sense.

You scroll through the list, fingertips slow, heart beating somewhere between too loud and not at all. There’s nothing clear. Nothing definitive. No love confession. No hidden message in the song titles.

Just a boy you love—who held your coat last night, and laughed at Lois’ teasing, and didn’t react when Richard kissed you—sending you songs that sound like feeling too much and never saying it.

You don’t ask him about it. You don’t text back. You just tuck the playlist into your likes. Download it to your offline library. Make it your background noise as you do the dishes, as you clean the apartment, as you try and fail not to play every lyric like a tape recorder against the inside of your ribs.

By nightfall, you’ve memorized track three. By morning, it’s the only thing playing in your head. And still—you don’t know what it means. Not really. But you hold it close to your heart anyway.

Like it might mean everything because every song feels chosen. Tender. Devastatingly so. Like someone making space where words can’t go.

Like someone trying to say I see you. I remember. I still care, without daring to say anything at all.

You and Dick break up on a Thursday three months later. It’s quiet. It’s civil. It still guts you.

You’re sitting across from him on a park bench, shivering against the early spring wind while he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket. There’s no shouting. No betrayal. Just the quiet, tired truth that sometimes good things don’t bloom the way they should.

“I think we’re both holding back,” he says. “I think maybe we’ve been doing that the whole time.”

You want to argue. But your throat is full of glass. So you nod. Once. He kisses your forehead before he goes.

It’s sweet. And final. And not for you.

Clark shows up just after dusk. You don’t call him. You don’t text. But when you open the door, there he is—hood up, hair wet from the light drizzle that started twenty minutes ago, rain dotting his shoulders in dark patches like bruises. Like he knew you needed someone. He always seems to know exactly when you don’t want to be alone.

He holds up a crumpled brown grocery bag, soft with moisture. “I brought soup.”

There’s a six-pack of ginger ale under his arm. Paper towels jammed against his hip. He looks sheepish, like he’s not sure if this is too much or not enough.

You step aside without speaking.

The apartment is too quiet but Clark moves through it like he’s been here a thousand times. In truth, he has.

He doesn’t ask how you’re doing. Just sets the bag on the counter, finds the chipped mugs in the wrong cabinet (you had mindlessly put them away while doing dishes and crying earlier), and pours the soup into one like it’s coffee. He hands it to you without meeting your eyes and sits beside you on the living room floor, his long legs stretched out, knees brushing yours.

You sip without tasting.

The TV hums in the background—low and forgettable. Some sitcom rerun with laugh tracks that ring hollow. Your cheek is sticky with salt where tears dried earlier, and you forgot to wash your face. Clark doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just… stays.

At some point, your foot grazes his. Neither of you move.

Later, you’re curled into the corner of the couch like you’re trying to fold into yourself. Clark sits on the rug, elbows on his knees, watching the shadows shift across your wall. The cocoa he made for you both has gone cold on the coffee table. His hands are clasped between his knees, knuckles white.

The silence is heavy. Fragile. Sacred.

“Do you think I’m broken?” you whisper, voice frayed and thin, like the end of a thread.

He turns to look at you—too fast. Like the question hurt him. “No,” he says, with a softness that aches. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.”

The breath you take is sharp. Unsteady. You press your face into the throw pillow and will yourself not to cry again.

He doesn’t tell you not to.

Your phone buzzes near midnight.

KARA: i’ll come home right now. say the word. i will fly back and snap his spine like a glowstick.

You almost laugh. Almost.

Instead, you send back: please don’t. he didn’t do anything wrong.

KARA: fine. but only bc clark is there. and only bc you’re the one who asked. i love you, dummy.

You love her too. So much it hurts.

Clark makes up the couch without being asked. You try to stop him—softly, not because you want him to go, but because it feels like the right thing to say. The polite thing. The careful thing.

“You don’t have to stay,” you murmur, standing awkward in the kitchen doorway as he shakes out the old throw blanket. “I’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t look up. Just folds the blanket over one arm and grabs a pillow from the end of the couch. “I know.”

You hesitate. “Lois might want—”

“She understands,” he says, too quickly, stopping you from finishing your sentence. Then, quieter, like the words aren’t meant to be picked apart, he adds, “She knows how much you mean to me.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because suddenly, there’s that ache again. The one that lives between your ribs and behind your throat. The one that sounds like I wish you didn’t mean this much.

Clark tucks the pillow behind his head and lowers himself onto the couch with a wince. It’s always too small for him. His socked feet hang off one side, one arm draped over his chest like he’s holding himself in place.

“Clark…” You try again.

“I’m not leaving you alone tonight,” he says gently, like it’s just a fact. Like gravity. “Not after this.”

The air between you stills. You nod. Swallow hard. He tugs the blanket up to his chest and exhales long through his nose, eyes already drifting shut.

“Goodnight,” he says, voice low, the kind of rumble you feel before you hear.

You linger in the doorway, arms crossed tight like they’re holding in everything you want to say. He’s beautiful in the dark, half-lit by the glow of the streetlamp beyond the curtains—shoulders rising and falling, brow still faintly pinched like even in rest he’s trying not to feel too much.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, barely audible.

You go to bed. You don’t sleep well. Not really. But you sleep better knowing he’s here.

And that’s what terrifies you most.

You lie in bed until late into the night, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might finally tell you what to do. The room is too quiet. The bed too big. The ache too familiar.

She made me promise not to love him. You don’t even think she remembers.

But you do. God, you do.

You remember every inch of it. The summer humidity. The way Kara looked at you. The way her voice had sharpened just enough to make your stomach twist.

You remember the way Clark looked the first time you met him. You remember the curve of his smile and the slight furrow between his brows when he’s thinking too hard. You remember how he didn’t leave tonight, even when you gave him an out.

You bury your face in your pillow and think, I wish I didn’t remember either.

The next morning, Kara texts you.

KARA: you okay?

You stare at it for a long time. Then you write back.

YOU: getting there.

She sends back a string of emojis that don’t quite match—💪🥲🍜🪐—and tells you to come over later. And just like that, she’s still your best friend.

The one you’d never, ever hurt. Even if part of you is already doing it just by breathing too hard when he is near.

It’s raining again, months and months later, when it ends. Not dramatically—no thunder, no cinematic flashes of lightning, just a slow, steady mist that clings to the Metropolis skyline like the city itself is holding its breath.

You don’t hear it from Clark. You hear it from Kara. The call comes just before dusk.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” she says, without preamble. “But he and Lois… it’s done.”

You sit up straighter, hand still wrapped around the tea you haven’t touched. “What do you mean it’s done?”

“I mean they ended it. Talked. Cried. Hugged it out. He packed a bag and left. He’s back at his apartment now.” A beat of silence. “He’s not okay.” She finally adds.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “Is he hurt?”

“Not like that.” Kara sighs. “It was mutual. Honest. But you know him. He’s holding it like a dying star inside his chest and pretending it doesn’t burn.”

You close your eyes. It feels like when you open them, you’re already there, knocking on his door twenty minutes later. Kara’s already there—curled up on his couch in sweats and a hoodie that says “Krypto Made Me Do It,” that Clark got her for Christmas last year, balancing a takeout container on her knees. She waves a dumpling in your direction.

“He’s on the roof,” she says, mouth full.

You nod and take the stairs two at a time.

You’ve seen Clark heartbroken before.

You were there after the girl in college who said she loved him, but not enough to stay in Kansas. You and Kara brought him takeout after the journalism student who cheated, Kara threatening to go beat her up. You watched him cry once—silently, stubbornly—when a summer fling ghosted him right after Pa Kent’s birthday.

But this? This is different.

You feel it the second you step onto the roof. He’s still in that same beat-up flannel. The same jeans with the frayed pocket. But he’s standing like someone’s rewound him too many times—shoulders bent, head low, arms folded tight against the chill that has nothing to do with the wind. Like he’s trying to hold in the silence before it spills.

The city glows beneath him, golden and soft around the edges. It smells like wet concrete and ozone and the faint sweetness of a corner bakery somewhere down the block.

You’ve never seen him this still. He always moves—pacing, shifting, tapping his fingers against whatever surface is near. Even in grief, he’s kinetic. Quiet, but always doing something. But now, he’s just… here. Heavy. Suspended. And somehow smaller for it.

You hesitate at the stairwell door, your hand still curled around the railing, like you’ve stepped into a moment you were never supposed to witness. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t need to. You know he knows it’s you. He always does. You're not sure if it's because of his enhanced senses, or if it's something else. The same something that always tells you when he's near.

You walk toward him anyway. Carefully. Each step feels too loud in your own body. Your boots squeak just barely on the damp concrete. When you stop beside him, the silence bends around you both like it’s been waiting. He exhales, long and soft. His breath curls in the cool air between you.

“She said I never fully gave myself to her.” His voice is raw when he finally speaks. Not broken—no, not Clark—but worn, like a page turned too many times.

You swallow. “Did you?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts his weight like the question tugged something loose. Then, almost too quietly, he says, “I thought I had.”

You glance sideways. His jaw is clenched. His curls are wet from the mist, flattened over his temple. There’s a tremble in his fingers where they press against his arm, like he’s holding back more than he knows how to carry.

Your chest tightens. “You loved her.”

“I did.” A beat. “I do.”

“But?”

“But I couldn’t give her what she needed. I didn’t even know I was holding back until she said it.”

You nod. It’s all you can do. The truth tastes like metal on your tongue.

“She deserved more than half my heart,” he adds.

“And you deserve to be loved by someone who didn’t need to ask for the rest.” You say, not unkindly. Just gentle but firm.

He flinches—not from hurt. From recognition. There’s ink on his forearm, you notice. A smear of something that might’ve once been a signature or a note. His sleeves are still rolled. He hasn’t changed since the conversation. Since he left her apartment. That much is painfully clear.

You want to touch him, but you don’t. Instead, you say, softly, “I thought you two were endgame.”

He turns to you then, just barely, and your breath catches. “I think we both did,” he says.

You nod again, your throat too tight to answer. You look out at the skyline instead. Let the lights of the city blur behind unshed tears.

“I wasn’t going to call you,” he says, sudden in the quiet.

You blink. “Why?”

His hand finds your wrist—not holding, just there. Anchoring. Then, finally he shrugs, like it costs him something to bring it up. “Didn’t want to make it worse.”

Your brow furrows. “Worse how?”

A beat. His eyes stay forward. “Just… figured if I saw you tonight, I’d feel things I don’t know what to do with.”

The silence that follows is dense. Not uncomfortable. Just… full. Like there’s too much unsaid suspended between your shoulders. He doesn’t look at you. You don’t press.

He lets go.

And you let him.

You walk back downstairs together, feet barely making a sound. When you step inside, Kara looks up from the couch. Her hair’s a mess. She’s already wrapped Krypto in one of Clark’s blankets and is halfway through a box of cheezits.

She doesn’t ask about your conversation. Just nods toward the seat beside her and gestures with her hands like nothing in the world has changed.

You sit. Clark drops beside you a few minutes later. The couch is too small. Your thighs touch. He doesn’t shift away. Kara starts a movie. Something loud and dumb. You can’t follow the plot. Because Clark’s elbow brushes yours every few seconds. Because your pinkies are almost touching.

Because you’re here, in the quiet that follows a storm you didn’t think you’d live to see. Sitting beside the boy who’s been part of your world for so long it hurts to remember a time he wasn’t. And now—for the first time in years—he isn’t holding someone else’s heart in his hands.

You don’t know what that means. Not yet. But you feel it. The shift. The hush. The space that opens and doesn’t immediately close.

Neither of you says a word but something lingers. Unnamed.

And staying.

#HELLO?????#im gonna reread this bc its THAT good #how tf do you write love like that how tf r u describing it in ways i never even begin to imagine…#this is so good like #Dont get me started on kara and reader LIKE they were TOIGHT #AND READER AND CLARK…OHHHHH #Like the way i know clark majored in loverboyism #HIS MOVES HIS SWAG….it was giving HUSBAND #IT WAS GIVING LOVE OF MY LIFE….#HREFUHFHDF #Sane and normal dont mind me

806 notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 6 days ago

Text

٠ ࣪⭑ mastermind

‎pairing: clark kent x bombshell!reader (3.0K words)

summary: as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup

warnings & content: bombshell!reader, female reader, not technically bimbo reader but others assume so, clark is whipped from the start and somehow becomes more whipped, reader double majored in stats and journalism go smart girls go!

If there were two people who talked the most at the Daily Planet, it would be Cat Grant and yourself.

The two main gossip columnists. You were both brutal. Once, Jimmy was assigned a story with you. He requested to never work with you in the gossip column again after just six hours. Perry agreed. He also never assigned you anything but gossip because the one time he did? You wrote a slam piece on both baseball teams you were assigned to write about.

Perry realized very early on you were a gossip column writer only. And he was okay with that.

Cat and you were always stunning the offices and newsrooms. Hair, makeup, and pretty outfits every single day, even if you were sick or it was storming out. You always looked good. That was the fun part about the job, and you took it seriously. The fashion, the presence, the image. It wasn’t just for the sake of being seen. It was armor. Lipstick was war paint, heels were your battle cry, and your notes app was a finely-honed blade.

Between you and Cat, there wasn’t a single scandal that went unnoticed or unpublished. You had sources no one else could reach, contacts who owed you favors, and a sixth sense for when something was about to blow up. You weren’t just gossip columnists, you were watchdogs in stilettos.

And Clark? He wasn’t sure what to make of you at first. He’d never met someone who could talk circles around Cat Grant and casually bring up alien migration patterns over lunch. He also didn’t understand how someone could write a piece titled Lex Luthor: Lots of Money, but Hard to Appease? and still manage to interview senators by the end of the week.

You were loud. Smart. A little too clever. But no one could deny it. Every time you walked into the room, the story followed.

And eventually, so did Clark.

“Clark, you gotta hear this, man,” Jimmy’s chair wheeled over beside Clark’s desk. “She’s talking nonsense. Like.. smart nonsense.”

Clark glanced up, already a little wary. “What is it this time?”

Jimmy pointed, discreet but desperate, toward the far end of the bullpen where you and Cat Grant were deep in conversation. “She’s doing something really weird. I walked past her desk and heard numbers. Equations. Graphs. Clark, she’s talking about Superman like he’s a physics dissertation.”

Clark blinked, turning just slightly in his chair to get a better look. You were standing near the coffee station, one hand wrapped around a pink mug that read Panic Then Write, the other animatedly gesturing as you explained something to Cat, who, for her part, looked like she was either being converted into a new religion or trying really hard to figure out whatever you were saying to her.

“—and that’s exactly why his maximum velocity during vertical ascension contradicts the standard gravitational drag equation,” you said brightly. Your hands waved in the air, manicured nails glistening in the light. “Like, there’s no way his flight path over the city last Friday didn’t involve some level of gravitational lensing. Did you see the air pressure ripple? I mean, it wasn’t visible, obviously, but the birds dipped midair. I have a theory, I’m working on it.”

Cat blinked. “You’re telling me you can tell how fast Superman was going based on bird migration patterns?”

“Oh, totally. Well, that and minor wind displacement across a five-block radius. Also, the security cam footage from Ninth and Fulton glitched at the exact time he crossed into frame. It’s like an energy signature thing. I track it in my spreadsheets.” You said it like it was the most simple thing in the world, like anyone else could be doing it.

“Spreadsheets,” Cat repeated, like she wasn’t sure if she should be impressed or afraid.

Clark stared. So did Jimmy.

“She has spreadsheets,” Jimmy whispered, horrified. It was like every assumption he had previously assumed about you was being thrown out the window.

Clark tried very, very hard not to smile. “About Superman.”

“She’s obsessed, man! She said his cape flutters at a different rate depending on the altitude! She compared it to solar panel kinetics! Who does that?” Jimmy’s exclamation nearly gathered your attention. Jimmy just gave you a small, hesitant nod, making you shrug and continue with your conversation.

“Apparently she does,” Clark murmured, voice a little too fond. He watched your face brighten again as you began explaining something else to Cat.

Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You’re into this, aren’t you? You like that she’s a walking Super-statistics manual.”

“I admire her dedication to research,” Clark said simply. Sure, it was the dedication, but this was the first time Clark was actually seeing a whole new side to you.

You were always gorgeous. It was probably the first thing Clark noticed about you. But he knew you had passion, riveting storytelling abilities, incredible grammar and punctuation. Clark knew you were always on time and always listened to people intently whenever they spoke to you. He knew you loved every single color of the rainbow, always greeted everyone in the morning, and made time during your busy day to gossip with Cat. Clark learned a lot about you very quickly.

So, learning you were actually a genius was something he really liked. Really liked. More than your pretty eyes, bright smile, and endearing voice. Especially because you zeroed in on him. Superman.

“She’s got a color-coded chart titled Flight Patterns vs. Rescue Probability Ratios,” Jimmy hissed, hands flailing around the air. “I saw it with my very own eyes!”

Clark smiled. “That’s actually.. not a bad idea.”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought. We’re gonna find you one day married and buried under pie charts.” No, Clark’s crush was not a secret.

Across the room, you caught Clark’s eye—mid-sentence, mid-rant, mid-explaining the temperature fluctuation when Superman breaks the sound barrier—and grinned at him like you knew he was listening.

Clark gave a small wave.

You waved back.

Clark had always been such a sweetie since day one. He brought you coffee, even if he just went over to the machine to get it for you. Sickeningly sweet, just the way you liked it. You weren’t stupid in any way, shape, or form, so you knew Clark was whipped. Just like how everyone else knew.

He held doors open without making a show of it, remembered how you liked your pens (gel, fine point, purple ink), and always pretended not to notice when you’d start your day with gossip but end it quoting Nietzsche over lunch. He complimented your writing like it was easy—like it was fact. He would even sometimes split his lunch with you if you even briefly commented on how his looked better than yours.

And yeah, sure, he looked like the kind of guy who should be on the cover of GQ: Farmer Edition, all broad shoulders and soft flannels. But he didn’t use that to his advantage. If anything, he blushed too easily and said excuse me even when you bumped into him.

Clark just always had your attention. You loved his silly little jokes, how he would ask you for help with his article even though he really just wanted your opinion, and you especially loved how he looked at you with his bright blue eyes.

And Clark was always there when some new intern or Steve insulted you. You were a total bombshell, yes, but that didn’t mean you were stupid. Clark knew you weren’t stupid, you knew you weren’t stupid, even Steve knew—but he just liked to push your buttons.

Once, Steve had muttered something under his breath about how your lipstick probably took more time than your research. You didn’t even flinch. You were used to it. But before you could reply with something scathing and Pulitzer-worthy, Clark looked up from his desk and said, calm as ever, “She’s written more front pages this quarter than you have in your career, Steve.” Just like that. No raised voice. No dramatics. Steve blinked. Went back to pretending he was important.

You had just smiled sweetly, twirled your pen between perfectly manicured fingers, and softly said, “Thanks, Clark,” like your heart wasn’t thudding in your chest.

He always had your back. When people underestimated you because of the heels or the tight skirts or the fact that you said like and wore rhinestone barrettes, he never did. Not once. And maybe that’s what made your heart twist a little, more than the compliments or the coffee or even the soft way he said your name. The fact that he saw you. No filters, no assumptions. Just you.

Maybe he was your soft spot.

Maybe.

This last fight had been rough for Clark. Millions worth of property damage and a lot of angry people. In his defense, he didn’t mean for the fight to get so out of hand, but to be fair, no one else was fighting that thing. So really, was he fully to blame? Where was The Justice Gang when you needed them?

Talk shows were already speculating if Superman had lost it. The morning news ran slow-motion clips of the destruction on a loop, conveniently skipping the part where he dragged a dozen civilians out of the blast zone with one arm. The word reckless was being thrown around like candy. The city was hard to please. Save them with minimal damage, they’re happy. Save them with anything more, they’re not so happy anymore.

The newsroom was all different conversations about whether Superman was in the right or not. Of course, most of the people Clark surrounded himself were mainly on his side, but they did have opinions.

“I’m just saying, did he need to take down a whole building?” Jimmy asked.

Lois sighed, flipping through her notes without looking up. “It was already empty. Evacuated ten minutes before the hit. Clark wrote that in his piece.”

“Yeah, I know, I read the piece,” Jimmy said, hands up. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”

Steve Lombard chimed in from a few desks down, clearly not playing devil’s advocate. “Maybe if he was smarter about it, we wouldn’t be looking at a six-block reconstruction. Just saying.”

“Maybe if you were smarter about it, we wouldn’t still be running that disastrous opinion column you call journalism.”

Clark looked up to see you walk in. Blue blouse, red skirt, red nails, blue headband. You were fully decked out in Superman’s—his—colors. Clark felt his brain glitch in real time. It felt like a system error and complete crash was actively happening as you walked up to the group, grabbing your chair to swivel up and join the conversation.

Lois looked up from her notepad, one perfectly arched brow raised. “What’s with the patriotism?”

You gave a dazzling smile as you sat, crossing your legs with practiced flair. “Just.. showing a little solidarity.”

“With Superman?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“Obviously with Superman,” you shot back. “You think I’m wearing red and blue for the Meteors?” Clark’s brain continued its slow descent into chaos. You looked like every dream he’d never admitted having. Bright, bold, stunning and fiercely on his side. And you looked really good in blue.

Jimmy leaned in, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You do realize you're basically baiting everyone who’s mad about the damage, right?”

“Good,” you said sweetly, reaching for the coffee Lois had just set down for herself. You took a sip like it was yours. It was the sweetest, maybe even sweeter than yours with all the sugar she dumped into it. “They can be mad and wrong. Multitasking is real.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “You all act like he’s flawless.”

You gave him a look. “Nobody’s flawless, Steve. But Superman was the only one fighting that thing. It’s easy to criticize from behind a keyboard when you’re not the one getting thrown into buildings.”

Clark’s chest warmed. You weren’t just defending him—you were wearing your defense like a battle flag. You turned slightly, catching Clark’s eye. “And for the record, he saved a lot more than he destroyed.” Clark tried to form a response, but his mouth had completely forgotten how to function.

Lois smirked, clearly clocking the interaction. “Alright, Wonder Woman 2.0, let’s hear it. What’s your angle today?”

You leaned back in your chair, legs still crossed, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Same angle as always, Lois. The truth. It’s not about perfection—it’s about intention. Superman cares. That’s more than I can say for some of the people complaining about the cleanup from their luxury apartments uptown.”

Clark looked down at his screen, a dopey grin tugging at his lips. He felt his heart beating a whole new pattern. It might as well have been spelling your name in morse code.

Then, you reached into your bag, pulled out your tablet, and tapped the screen a few times. “By the way,” you added casually, “I ran a breakdown of structural losses versus casualty prevention. Want to guess how many lives he saved by demolishing that building?”

Steve groaned. “Please don’t say spreadsheets.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely saying spreadsheets,” you grinned, flipping the screen around. “I cross-referenced city evacuation timelines, mapped the creature’s path, and ran predictive models based on its movement patterns. Taking out that building redirected the debris zone by a 42.7% margin. It shielded half the block.”

Lois raised her brows. “You’re telling me Superman used a ten-story office complex as a wall?”

“I’m saying,” you replied, “he thought fast, acted faster, and made the smartest call in an impossible situation. And anyone who can’t see that is probably mad he did more damage to their ego than their rent-controlled apartment.”

“Remind me again of how you know all of this?” Steve sighed like it was a chore to listen to your rambles.

You shrugged, “Double majored in Statistics and Journalism. Thought it may come into hand at some point in my career. Though, I did always hope I would just do gossip.”

“I actually did not know this,” Jimmy raised a hand as he interrupted. “I just thought you were some kind of natural genius.”

“Yeah, no. She has never brought this up,” Lois nodded in agreement, also quite perplexed.

Steve just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “But you.. only write gossip? Why not do an actual column that people read?”

You ignored the comment. Cat punched his shoulder anyways. “Because gossip moves markets, sweetie. You think LuthorCorp’s stocks tanked last month because of their quarterly report? No. It was because I leaked that Luthor skipped the mayor’s fundraiser and was seen at an off-books dinner with a mystery guest. Which, for the record, was his own clone.”

Slowly, Jimmy leaned over to Clark, not taking his eyes off you. “Yeah, man. You were so right for getting a crush on her,” he whispered, slightly shaking his head in disbelief.

“I—that doesn’t—”

“You’re wrapped around her finger. You’ve got dibs,” Jimmy whispered back, patting Clark’s shoulder, and swiveling back to his desk.

Clark opened and closed his mouth like a Windows error message. “I don’t—dibs isn’t—Jimmy, that’s not how—” He turned halfway in his chair, gesturing vaguely, but Jimmy had already slipped on his headphones and was pretending to work while very obviously still listening.

Clark sighed, dragging a hand over his face, just as you glanced over from your seat, your pen poised dramatically between your fingers. “Something wrong, Clark?” you asked, head tilted, expression effortlessly sweet and soft, the way you always looked at him.

“Oh, no, no,” Clark shook his head. “Just, uh.. amazed. At you..your calculations.”

You blinked, then smiled, soft and warm like sunlight through a window. “Really? You think they’re okay?”

Clark let out a short, almost breathless laugh. “Okay? They’re incredible. I mean, I didn’t even notice half the things you picked up on. The migration patterns? The glitch timing? That’s.. genius.”

You blushed, glancing down at your notes like you needed to double-check them now. “I just.. like looking closely at things, I guess. Patterns make me feel like the world makes more sense.”

He nodded slowly, watching you. You were a goddess walking among men. Which said a lot, coming from the man that was compared to gods. “You make things make more sense.”

You looked up again, surprised, and your smile grew just a little more shy. “Thank you, Clark. Really. That means a lot coming from you.” There was a quiet moment between you—just long enough for the newsroom to blur around the edges—and then you added, voice even softer, “You’ve always been kind to me. Even before I ever proved I was more than the gossip girl. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you for that.”

Clark’s heart thudded. “You never needed to.”

“I still want to,” you said. “So.. thank you.”

And he swore, right then, that if he wasn’t already hopelessly gone for you, that would’ve been the exact moment he fell.

Lois turned to Jimmy. “Is she whipped for him too?”

“I think we just found her soft spot,” Jimmy muttered, in literal disbelief that, nerd, Clark Kent, somehow was pulling bombshell, you. The unobtainable girl in the newsroom. The one every guy had a secret, small crush on. He exhaled. “You know what? Good for them. I mean, it's confusing and a little terrifying, but good for them.”

Lois smiled knowingly. “Give it a week. One of them’s gonna crack.”

Watching them closely, Jimmy narrowed his eyes. “My money’s on Clark.”

“Please,” Lois scoffed, waving Jimmy off with her hand. “That girl’s gonna fold like a lawn chair the second he says something too soft with those stupid eyes.”

They both turned back to their work, though neither one stopped listening. Not when you giggled. Not when Clark looked at you like you hung the stars. And definitely not when the entire bullpen slowly started to realize:

The gossip columnist and the golden boy were both very off the market.

5K notes · View notes

yuuzuforia · 6 days ago

Note

hiii! i love your work and i was wondering if you could do a damian fic where the reader has a personality like Deadpool? just very loud and outgoing haha it would be interesting to see how he handles her while falling for her thank youuu <3

WAS THAT FOREPLAY?

SYNOPSIS: The newest Titan is mouthy, unpredictable, and pissing him off. Damian wants her off the team. He also maybe wants to kiss her. Which is another reason she should go PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Alternate Universe, Banter, Sexual Tension, Enemies to Lovers (Kinda) WARNING !! Due to the nature of Deadpool's characterization, there will be sexual jokes and innuendos

🜼 :: i hate action scenes. i'm never writing one again unless necessary

Damian Wayne had faced League assassins, alien warlords, and Gotham’s worst dressed criminals, but none of them prepared him for her.

The first time [Y/N] met Damian Wayne, she was mid-tour of the Tower.

She was a new Titans recruit. Still on probation. Still technically under observation. And if Damian had any say—which he did, being team leader—she would have been kicked out after day one.

But noooo, she had skills—“Unique approach,” Kori had said. “Good instincts,” Dick added. “Fun energy,” Gar said, heart-eyes practically bulging out.

And Raven? She just smirked. “Let her stay.”

Damian hated all of them.

[Y/N] was trailing behind Gar and Raven as they toured her through the Tower. She’d already asked three different people if ‘probationary’ meant she got a parole officer or an ankle monitor. Gar was the only one who laughed. Raven just kept walking.

“And over here’s the training room—” Gar had barely gotten the words out before the automatic doors hissed open, letting out the humid heat of sweat and testosterone.

And him.

Damian stepped out with a towel slung around his neck, damp hair pushed back, black compression shirt clinging to every single ridge of muscle, chest rising slow.

[Y/N]’s brain hit the emergency brakes. Her lungs forgot how to breathe. Her soul performed a dramatic stage faint.

“... Damn”

Gar blinked. “What?”

“Sorry, I meant damn”

Gar choked on a laugh. “Are you good?”

“Am I good?” she whispered, hand clutched dramatically over her combusting heart. “Does he come with a warning label, or do I just rawdog this experience with no prep?”

“That is Damian—Robin.” Raven said, with a distinct tone of warning.

“Does Damian consent to be ruined?” she asked, eyes wide with reverence and thirst. “Because I would—gladly. Voluntarily. Happily. I’d ruin him like a laptop in the hands of a baby boomer.”

Across the room, Damian’s gaze cut toward them.

He definitely heard.

Never one to waste a moment, [Y/N] smiled and gave a little two-finger salute. “Hey.”

“Hmm,” Damian said flatly, giving her one quick, scathing once-over. “Don’t get comfortable.”

Her grin only widened. “Noted. I’m already uncomfortable—in a good way.”

He muttered something in Arabic under his breath and walked off, leaving a trail of sweat in his wake.

She turned to Gar. “Damn. Are the rest of the Titans that hot, or is that a custom welcome package just for me?”

“Yeah, no,” Gar said, grinning. “You’re definitely gonna get stabbed.”

The stabbing happened three missions later.

To be fair, it was mostly deserved.

She’d gone off-book. Again. Which, in her words, was “just improvising, baby,” and in Damian’s words was “grounds for immediate expulsion, or execution, if we weren’t in a civilized country.”

In [Y/N]’s defense, the goon she tackled had a grenade.

In Damian’s defense, she hadn’t told anyone she was moving in and accidentally knocked into him mid-fight—which was why his arm got slashed in the first place.

“You’re bleeding!” she yelled as they returned to the Tower lounge, trailing behind him with quick footsteps and wide eyes.

Damian stared at her, shirt torn, bicep gashed, blood already dripping down into his glove.

“Yes,” he said, voice like a glacier. “Because you tackled me. Like a wrecking ball.”

She winced, hands raised like she was approaching a feral cat. She looked appropriately guilty… for about two seconds.

“Okay, but—was it cool though?”

Damian stared, blinking slowly. Like he was calculating whether breaking his father’s rules was worth the chance to bury her in the woods.

“I hate you.”

“Lies. You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am obsessed,” he bit out, voice rising with thinly veiled murder, “with surviving missions without you body-checking me.”

She only shrugged, utterly unrepentant, and pulled a juice box out of her pocket like a magician with a death wish. “Peace offering?”

He slapped it out of her hand.

The drink arced through the air, burst against the ground with a sad little splat, and started leaking fruit punch across the floor like blood from a tiny, sugary corpse.

She stared down at it, aghast. “Rude. That was a Capri Sun.”

“Raven!” Damian barked, already walking away. “Can we teleport her into the sun?”

“Can I at least bring snacks?” [Y/N] called after him. “I hear solar flares pair great with spicy chips!”

Damian didn’t break stride. “You’d burn before you opened the bag.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I made something explode in my hands.”

He stopped mid-step—like someone had yanked the power cord out of him. His shoulders stiffened. His head tilted slightly, as if he needed a second to process the words and decide whether homicide would be considered justifiable.

“Oh my god,” Kori muttered. The rest of the Titans were cackling in the background.

She grinned, completely undeterred, hands on her hips like she was collecting achievements. “What? Too soon? Too hot?”

“Enough!” Damian finally snapped

He turned—his expression was thunderclouds and murder, stalking forward with the kind of poise that made everyone in the room instinctively get out of the way. Except her.

[Y/N] just raised a brow. “What?” she challenged, stepping forward without an ounce of self-preservation. “Gonna write me a sternly worded email? Ground me? Put me in time ou—”

Steel flashed.

In one quick, fluid motion, she was pinned—flat against the back of the couch cushions. Damian moved like a storm, katana drawn in a blur, the flat of the blade pressed firm across her chest. His face was inches from hers, breath cold, controlled. The sword angled with terrifying precision—so precise that the very tip had nicked the skin above her clavicle.

Just enough to draw a bead of blood.

Her breath caught. The grin faltered.

The room went dead quiet.

Gar’s post-mission Pop-Tart slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a sad little plop. Raven didn’t flinch—just arched an unimpressed brow from the armchair, already halfway regretting not hexing them both into another dimension.

The air stilled. Thick with disbelief.

And then—

She let out a sound—a soft, involuntary whimper that fell somewhere between surprise and something much, much filthier.

For one wild second, Damian’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if her noise physically knocked a circuit loose in his brain. Like he’d expected a fight and walked into a porno instead.

His jaw ticked. “...What the hell.”

[Y/N]’s lips parted slowly. She tilted her head, eyes glittering with something dangerous and delighted. “Was that foreplay?”

“You’re insane.”

“And you’re so hot when you’re threatening me,” she breathed, gaze dragging down his front like a caress. “Wanna try that again, Robin?” Her voice dipped, syrupy and wicked. She licked her bottom lip. “Because I promise you’ll get a very different result if you move that blade about eight inches lower.”

“You need help,” he hissed, backing off like proximity itself was dangerous.

She leaned in, slow and smug, tongue flicking out to lick her lips. His eyes locked on the movement—caught, held, froze.

“Probably,” she said, voice like velvet. “You volunteering?”

He stepped back like she burned him, katana immediately sheathed—but not fast enough to hide the way his fingers trembled slightly on the hilt.

She pouted. “Aw. You’re no fun.”

Damian stormed off down the corridor, boots hitting the floor hard and fast, muttering something sharp and furious in Arabic that absolutely wasn’t appropriate for public spaces.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted after him, “Hey, wait! Don’t go! I’m into you!”

“I know!” he barked over his shoulder without looking back.

She only watched him go, grinning like a devil. “Did anyone else feel that chemistry? No? Just me? Okay.”

Things did not improve from there. For Damian, anyway.

The Titans were training in the Tower—an ordinary afternoon drill. Combat exercises, sparring rotations, and teamwork simulations. The gym floor echoed with movement: punches hitting pads, bodies hitting mats, weapons clashing in synchronized rhythm.

Damian was already annoyed. Her presence always seemed to fray the edges of his patience.

She flirted constantly. Shamelessly. With everyone. But mostly him

“That shirt is so ugly. Take it off,” she said loudly, voice bright and teasing as she saw him walking past.

He didn’t even pause. “It’s my training gear.”

[Y/N] nodded solemnly, like she was doing him a favor. “Exactly. I’m trying to be supportive of your fitness journey. You’ve clearly worked so hard—why hide it?”

Vic choked on his water bottle. Gar let out a wheeze and nearly dropped his barbell. Raven, halfway through a drill, muttered something under her breath that definitely sounded like a quiet plea for death.

Damian didn’t respond. He kept walking, jaw clenched, grabbing a practice staff from the rack with far more force than necessary.

“Y’know,” [Y/N] drawled, twirling her own staff with lazy precision, “if you ever want another uniform, I can design one for you. I’m thinking sleeveless. Maybe some mesh. Definitely black. Slut—but make it tactical. That’s hot.”

“You’re deranged,” Damian muttered, not even glancing her way.

“I prefer bold,” she said cheerfully. “Or uncontrollably sexy.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose—sharp enough to be a warning. His shoulders were rigid, every step carrying the kind of restraint it took not to whirl around and throw his staff through the nearest wall.

Instead, he stalked to the center of the mat, expression thunderous.

“Gar. You’re up.”

Gar froze mid-lift. “I—me?” He looked between them, eyes wide. “But I was—can I—? Actually—maybe Kori should—”

“Now.”

Gar scrambled forward like his life depended on it. Which, judging by Damian’s face, wasn’t entirely off.

Meanwhile, [Y/N] perched on top a stack of gym mats like a bored cat, chin in her hand, eyes tracking Damian across the room like he was center stage at fashion week. “This is fun. I love when he’s bossy.”

Raven sighed. “Why are you like this?”

“Lack of supervision as a child. Deep-rooted attachment issues.” [Y/N] leaned forward, eyes locked on Damian with zero shame. “Also? Have you seen his arms?”

“Refrain from objectifying me,” Damian snapped from across the mat, eyes still on Gar but voice clipped and furious.

“Oh baby, I’m not objectifying,” she purred, teeth flashing. “I’m appreciating.”

“Can we mute her?” Damian asked the room, tone calm in the way that meant someone was probably about to die.

“I’ve tried,” Raven said.

Kori, floating upside down in a relaxed hover above them, beamed. “I believe this is called sexual tension, yes?”

Damian dropped his escrima sticks with a clatter. “That’s it. Training’s over.”

“But we just started—” Gar began, panting from nerves.

“I said it’s over.”

They were mid-mission in Blüdhaven—intel said a high-tech weapons deal was going down in the docks, and the Titans were on overwatch while Nightwing leads.

“Stay sharp,” Nightwing said, crouched atop a rusted container as his eyes swept the shadows between rows of metal crates. “They’ve got gear. Assume you’re being watched.”

From her perch on a nearby stack, [Y/N] scanned the ground below, fingers twitching in anticipation. The docks were quiet, fog curled at their feet like smoke from a loaded barrel.

“I’m always being watched,” she whispered, clinging to the shadows. “Mostly by Damian. He’s obsessed with me.”

“Shut up.” Damian hissed through comms. “Why are you always this exhausting?”

[Y/N] smiled to herself. She could practically feel the vein bulging in his temple from here—the same one that always pulsed whenever she breathed near him. She imagined he was gritting his teeth, probably clenching his jaw so hard he’d need physical therapy by the end of the mission.

“Only with people who clearly want to kiss me and are in denial about it.”

“Do you have an off switch?” Damian asked flatly.

“Yeah,” she said sweetly. “It’s right next to my G-spot.”

Dick choked so hard he nearly slipped. “OH MY GOD.”

“Please stop talking,” Raven begged.

Then everything exploded into motion.

Gunfire. Smoke grenades. Chaos.

[Y/N] ducked behind a crate, weapon drawn, as the team split to flank both sides. That’s when she saw him—Damian—move.

He was a blur of lethal precision—vaulting off a stack of containers, cape flaring like wings. He landed in the middle of a squad and took them out in three moves flat. Disarmed one, elbowed another in the throat, then he caught a thrown knife with two fingers. And flicked it back into the guy’s shoulder without blinking.

She stared. Mouth parted. Soul leaving her body.

“I’m having thoughts. None of them holy. Very vivid, very physical thoughts.” she whispered, awestruck. “I think I’m ovulating.”

Across the comms, Dick yelled, pure older-brother horror in his voice. “Time and place!”

“What?!” she called back immediately. “I’m appreciating! I’m supporting! This is team-building!”

Damian didn’t even turn. “Focus on the mission.”

The dockyard lit up with muzzle flashes and the crackle of electrified rounds, but even as she slid and took out two goons with clean, practiced hits, her eyes kept drifting back to him. The way he moved through the smoke—brutal and efficient. Someone tried to flank him and ended up crumpled at his feet in less than two seconds.

“I am! I’m focused on how good you look ending people!”

She ducked an arm swing, elbowed the attacker in the gut, and stunned him with a clean jab to the neck—never missing a beat.

But her focus was divided. Always a little off. Always on him.

“Can we mute her?!” Dick snapped. “Can we please mute her?!”

“No point,” Gar said through laughter. “She just gets louder.”

“Oh my god,” Kori whispered.

“I’m being oppressed,” [Y/N] declared dramatically “For being visually overwhelmed!”

Damian, somewhere in the distance, took down three more men with the seething, single-minded rage of someone trying very hard not to commit an actual felony. His foot slammed into a guy’s chest, dropping him like a sack of bricks, and he pivoted to catch another attacker in the ribs with his elbow.

His voice cut through the comms like a dagger. “Do not make me come over there.”

She inhaled, eyes glittering. “God, please do.”

“[Y/N]!!” the entire team shrieked

The Batcave was quiet—mostly.

Dick peeled off his domino mask with a sigh, stretching until his shoulders popped. His suit was scuffed, blood on one shoulder, but nothing serious. Damian trailed behind him, jaw tight, movements clipped and just a little too sharp.

“Hey, I gotta hand it to you,” Dick said, tossing his escrima sticks into the weapons locker. “You really kept your cool out there.”

Damian grunted, removing his cape.

“Even when [Y/N] was openly flirting with you mid-fight,” Dick added casually.

“I do not wish to discuss it.”

Dick smirked. “You mean you don’t want to admit you liked it.”

“She’s unprofessional. Inappropriate. Exhausting.”

“Sounds like your type,” Tim said, appearing from the shadows like a sleep-deprived specter, coffee in hand.

Damian turned, scowling. “Why are you awake?”

Tim shrugged. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not—”

“He totally is,” Dick said, arms crossed, grinning like it was Christmas.

“It’s kind of sweet,” Tim added, taking a sip. “She drives you nuts, but you don’t push her away. Not really. You let her get under your skin. That’s... rare for you.”

“Classic enemies-to-lovers arc,” Dick said. “Except you’re not enemies. And it’s just you denying everything while she steamrolls through your walls.”

“I will end your life in your sleep,” Damian said darkly.

“I’ll schedule it in,” Tim replied, unfazed.

With a sharp exhale, Damian grabbed a cloth from the supply shelf and started cleaning his katana like it had personally offended him.

“I hate you.”

Dick grinned wider, like he’d just won a game Damian didn’t know they were playing. “That’s fair. But not as much as you don’t hate her.”

Damian clenched his jaw and muttered in Arabic—again.

Somewhere deep in his chest, his heart betrayed him by beating just a little too fast.