clark "slow, deep breaths" kent who has to repeatedly remind you of a function you should otherwise have complete, unconscious control over. though when he's got his cock in you like this, that's not so much of a given.
it's as if your brain short circuits when he's inside you, wires detaching in your mind that made the task of breathing something difficult.
clark's got you caged in at the foot of the bed, arms, legs, all his limbs encompassing you like he didn't want to let you up. you're most malleable under him, body voluntarily limp as you allow him to contort you as he pleases.
your nails rake his back, streaks of pink following the trails of each erratic hand movement you make. he has no reaction to the marks you draw, nor can you see them being pinned under his weight, though you can only assume them to look like thick red chemtrails.
his cock repeats that same carefully precise drilling motion, that very same motion he's yet to curtail from. it's become almost relentless, the rhythm close to breaking you, rather than the other way around. it turns your body to mush and brain into a tizzy as he fucks you through another orgasm.
your thighs shudder around the lowers of his hips, an incessant twitching forming like you, yourself, hand no control over it. your stomach trembles with your climax, chest jittering as if to cope with the wild intakes of air you struggle to fully inhale.
your head tips back and you cry out a pathetically lewd string of gasps.
though with you seemingly teetering into something almost soul-engulfing like you are, it doesn't make him stop. he proceeds, cock dragging out and pushing into you just like it was before you let go around his dick — before your cunt fluttered and convulsed around him with your climax a moment ago.
with your throat exposed like it is, he lowers, lips pressing under your chin as he kisses and nibbles at it. he smiles against your chin, act amused by your bodily response to him.
"I know," he coos, dimpled grin almost juxtaposing his tone. "deep breaths," he instructs, hand reaching to the side of your head. "slow, deep breaths, baby," he repeats, guiding you into something calm all while doing the complete, polar opposite with his cock.
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summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance.
content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'.
notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!
—
"sweetheart, i got it."
"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"
clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.
the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"
you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.
with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.
—
a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—
"whoops. didn't know you had company."
you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"
"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"
warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.
"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.
clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"
"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."
clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"
you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."
"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."
every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"
"yeah, there's your usual room—"
"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.
when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."
—
a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.
"stark."
"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."
"i hate you, tony."
"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."
you pause. "what theory?"
"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"
you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.
—
now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.
the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.
"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."
"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.
it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.
something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.
—
fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.
it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"
you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."
"love you too, honey."
—
after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.
"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.
tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"
your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."
an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."
"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.
"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.
clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.
immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."
"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.
—
to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.
"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.
"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."
rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"
"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—
"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—
"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.
but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.
"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"
you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.
"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."
when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.
"you know, it's kinda cute."
"don't you start, nat."
"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."
your eyes narrow. "… you know something."
she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.
you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."
—
"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.
you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"
that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.
behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.
—
despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.
the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.
"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—
clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.
then… lifts you higher.
you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.
"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.
by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.
"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.
clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.
"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.
—
although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.
"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"
steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."
tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."
"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."
"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"
"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.
"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."
steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"
"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."
tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."
"… i resent that name."
—
on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—
"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."
your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.
"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"
"language."
"language, sweetheart."
steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.
without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."
"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."
"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."
thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: bucky isn't your boss, but he's still off limits. and even if he wasn't, there's no way he'd ever go for someone like you. weird that he matched with you on a dating app then, isn't it?✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, modern!au, ceo!bucky, no use of y/n, mutual pining, virgin!reader, dating apps, no description of reader (pictures for aesthetic only), fluff, angst, love confessions, kinda boss x secretary, plot to earn porn, feral level smut, (fingering, teasing, stripping, soft dom!bucky, dirty talk, mean bucky but you're into it, teasing, possiveness, mutual masturbation, pussy spanking, praise kink, manhandling, dumbification, big dick bucky, p in v sex, creampie), soft!bucky outside of smut✦
✦wc: 13.9k✦
✦Author's Note: this one is for all my wound up "want love but afraid of intimacy girlies". we go through it. Enjoy!✦
Bucky Barnes is ruining your life, and he doesn’t even know it.
You wish you could blame him. Slash his tires and scream in his face, maybe drain the oil from his bike or mess up his lunch order. But he wouldn’t deserve that, and you’d just end up homeless on the street. You’d have to sell your body, but you’ve never been that good at sales, and begging Steve for your job back wouldn’t get you anywhere when you’d just given his best friend food poisoning.
And Bucky wouldn’t deserve that. He’s perfect. He’s a mountain you’d love to scale, if you hadn’t always been horrid at climbing. You’d dig your nails into his chest, and maybe just keep him at eye level forever. So you could watch that quiet joy that only shines for the people he really, truly likes.
You’re a member of that rare club. It’s taken years of small kindness’ and lingering in Steve’s shadow to get there.
Even if you wanted to, you’d never risk ruining that just because of some schoolgirl crush. Not when Bucky might make your heart stumble and your face heat, but he hasn’t taken away your wits.
The same wits that tell you, it’s not worth the risk.
It will never be worth the risk. You worked too hard to get where you are. It’s too good a job, to burn up because you have a few fantasies. Steve Rogers famously went through assistant after assistant, before you. When you’d asked Natasha why—Steve’s a perfect boss, he lets you take hour long lunches and use sick time as PTO, as long as you don’t tell HR—she’d just shrugged.
“It’s not Steve that’s making them quit.” She’d hummed, like you were supposed to know exactly what that meant.
You hadn’t. You still don’t. Best guess, he thinks that everyone can keep up with him and forgets to slow down and match pace. But you can keep up with him just fine. Without breaking a sweat. Sometimes you out-pace him, and that earns you a loud, approving laugh and small smirk from Bucky.
Bucky.
James. You’re trying to call him James, in your head. It’s more formal. Creates a larger gap, between private fantasy and reality.
In fantasy, Bucky is a hazy voice that creeps into your dreams and rough stubble that brushes over your cheek. You tangle the sheets and blankets between your legs in bed, and pretend he’s there, holding you tight. Dreams and scenarios play out before you go to sleep, where he backs you against a wall and declares that he’s loved you since he first saw you. Or he shows up at your door in the middle of the night, pleading because he can’t take being away from you anymore. Maybe all his stares at conferences and meetings finally amount to something, and he grabs your jaw and kisses you so brutally you both just fall onto that soft couch in his office.
But Bucky doesn’t just stare at you. It’s one of his weird little quirks that Steve calls just Bucky, and Sam calls creepy and weird, he’s lucky we love him.
You do love him.
Bucky’s perfect. When you’d met him, he’d seemed as if he’d fallen out of a silver screen or leather-bound book. You’d never understood fantasies about powerful men, until one with the brilliance of fifty suns had been adjusting his cuffs in front of you. You’d barely been able to breathe, and it’s only gotten harder since you’ve known him.
At first look, Bucky’s a sharp jawline, dark hair, and eyes that follow you into your sleep. He’s cold and standoffish in that annoying way that makes the fool in your heart babble about how you could melt him. He snaps and orders and doesn’t waste time on things that don’t matter, and you’d like to hear how his voice could go soft, if you could make it.
That fool in your heart is loud. It tends to get the better of you, until the object of it’s fleeting obsession shatters the illusion by itself. Most of your crushes take a sledgehammer and destroy the heroic visage you’ve made of them in a second. You just have to wait for it, and they save you from themselves.
But Bucky likes to ruin your life.
It’s been a year, since Steve hired you. Fresh out of college, nervous, and with what Natasha called doe-eyes.
You love Bucky more than you did at the start, and it’s incredibly rude that he won’t just cut it out so you can focus.
“How’s your mother?” You ask one night, when it’s just you and Bucky.
James. When you’re alone in a room with him, and the white sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to show off obnoxious muscles, it’s important to remember you should be calling him James.
“My… Mother.”
He’s staring at you like you’re crazy. Heat floods your cheeks, but you just nod. He doesn’t get to win.
“You said she was moving.” You shrug, and Bucky’s tongue flicks over his lips.
“I did say that.”
“Yeah. I know.” You pretend to turn over a paper. “I was there.”
Bucky snorts, and it’s enough to yank your attention up. He’s shaking his head with that tiny curve of a smile, and it makes your heart do something that might resemble overdrive.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“What-“
“My mother’s doin’ just fine.” Bucky says, staring at you across the room. “She loved those muffins you made her. Got me and my sisters in a lotta trouble, for not bothering to make her a housewarming gift.”
You swallow. “Oh, I- I didn’t mean to-“
“Don’t hurt yourself.” Bucky—James, but it’s impossible to remember when he looks at you like that—smirks. “I’d want you over me every time, too.”
There’s no possible response you can think of, to that. Not one that makes sense, and isn’t humiliating. You look back to your papers, mumble a thank you, and try not to let Bucky’s low chuckle pool heat between your thighs.
You don’t succeed.
But that’s a problem for your vibrator to worry about, when you get home.
Because that’s where the fantasy. And the reality is always starker. Harder to escape.
Bucky is a mountain of a man, but you’ve never climbed anything at all. Not a tiny hill, not a slope, not even a bump in the road. The most basic things, that most people get out of the way in middle school, you’ve never even brushed against. Not on purpose. It’s just… Never happened. And you’re certainly not going to start doing anything now. With your older pseudo-boss and sort of friend. You don’t have a death wish, and you’re certain that rejection will kill you with the humiliation alone.
So in reality, you’re never going to risk anything. You’ve never had health insurance this good before. Steve buys you lunch every day—technically he buys himself lunch, but you’re allowed to get whatever you want—and you got to move out of your rundown apartment with the landlady who kept getting mad you dared to have trash, but refused to fix your broken heater. In New York.
You haven’t had freezing fingers in a year. Because now, you could afford gloves. And in the harsh cold of reality, no dick is worth more than a nice pair of gloves.
Bucky’s might be. Bucky and his smile and low laugh and nobleness and silent kindness and-
No.
Nothing’s worth it. Not when Bucky wouldn’t even want you anyway.
You’d rather have the gloves.
“You get a plus one to this event, you know?”
You look at Steve over the desk, frowning slightly. “Huh?”
Steve’s lips twitch. “You get a plus one.”
“Okay?”
“Wasn’t sure you knew.” He shrugs. Your frown deepens.
“Of course I knew. I send out all the invitations.”
“Hm.”
“What’s hm? What does hm mean?”
“Just hm. Do you have the numbers, about-“
“They’re in front of you, Steven.” You narrow your eyes. “What’s hm mean.”
“Told you, nothing-“
“What.”
Sam says that there are only three people Steve is afraid of. Natasha, Bucky’s mother, and you. At the time, you’d laughed it off and rolled your eyes.
With how his throat bobs and he avoids your gaze, you’re starting to think that last part might be true.
“You’ve just always had that plus one offered.” Steve mutters, looking at the reports like they’ve suddenly turned into something interesting. “Noticed you never used it. Wanted to, uh- Make sure you knew.”
“I knew.” You snap, and Steve sighs.
“Yeah, I thought you did.”
“Then why’d you ask-“
“You wanna get lunch?” Steve’s voice raises, and the conversation is clearly over. “I think I could go for some sushi, or- Mexican. Maybe acai?”
Those are three very different things, and it is your job to figure out which one he really wants. But you can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of the day.
You have never used your plus one. You’ve never needed to.
There’s never been anyone worth using it on, except for one, dumb, handsome man who already has his own invitation to every event, and never has a problem finding his own date. You’ve spent dozens of nights lingering at Steve’s side—because he can tell you all he wants to enjoy yourself, you’ll slack when you’re dead—and glaring daggers at the model hanging off of Bucky’s arm. Giggling at everything he says and trying to drift closer than the polite, respectable distance he keeps them at.
He lets you sit closer to him than he lets them. And they are all a little younger, so maybe he wouldn’t mind that you’re not experienced and-
You stamp those thoughts under your heel. Not worth it.
But is Steve’s noticed how you never bring anyone, maybe he’s noticed how you stare at Bucky as well. And if he’s noticed that, he might start looking closer. And if he looks closer, he’s going to realize that you’re in love with his best friend, and he’s going to tell Bucky, and you’re going to get fired, and lose your cool apartment and fuck, you aren’t emotionally prepared to be a prostitute-
You need a date.
It’s the safest, most logical conclusion. You study Steve across the room, and quickly decide against asking to be set up. That might get back to Bucky, and you don’t want him to know for reason that defy common sense. You can’t ask anyone at work, but all your friends are your co-workers. You could go out to a bar, but that sounds dangerous and exhausting, and you’re not even sure where you’d find the time.
Which leaves one option.
Dating apps.
There are millions of them. You know from college friends and social media that there are about five worth having. You download all of them, and spend the rest of your lunch setting up your profile. You’re by no means ugly, and you’ve got plenty of pictures in exciting locations thanks to Steve being unable to get through any work event without you there. You put down that you’re not sure what you’re looking for, because you’re really not. You lie about your job, because when you tell people you’re Steve Roger’s personal assistant, they usually get weird. You settle just secretary, even though Steve and Natasha would shout at you if they saw.
They won’t see. None of them will see.
And you’ll get a nice, boring date to the next event, and everything is going to be fine.
“You never tell me about your family.”
Bucky’s words are so low you almost don’t hear them. You look up at him in surprise, and hope the dim lighting hides your flush.
“You never ask.”
His lips twitch down. “I’ve told you about my family.”
“So?”
“Usually.” He mutters, glaring at his papers like the did something to personally offend him. “When you tell someone about yourself, it’s an… Exchange of information.”
“An exchange of information?” You snort. “Is that a CIA thing?”
“Not everything I do is a CIA thing.”
“Everything Natasha does is a CIA thing. And you were in the CIA together.”
“Nat was better at it than I was.” He grumbles. His brow does a tight-knit wrinkle thing, when he’s frustrated. For a grown man, it’s always rather adorable. “I’d like to know about your family.”
“I…” You blink at him, your brain turning fuzzy and useless.
He’s staring at you. Saying those words like they matter, and you can barely understand them at all.
“Why?”
“Because. We’ve worked together a while. I know… A lot about you.” He takes a deep breath through his nose, giving you a strange look. “You know about me.”
“Uh huh. That’s usually how being friends works.”
Bucky sighs. “Yeah, well. You’ve met my mother. She adores you.”
“She doesn’t adore me-“
“She adores you.”
He says it like it’s really not up for debate. You flush. “Oh- Okay.”
“Everyone you meet adores you.” Bucky grumbles, like that complete lie of a statement infuriates him. “And I tell you everything about me.”
You don’t think that’s true either. You know a lot about Bucky, but not everything. Steve says Bucky’s just like that—not big on sharing—so you hoard every bit of information he offers you like a dragon with gold, but it’s far from everything. “Bu- James-“
“Bucky.” He corrects, and you sigh.
He’s not making that part easy, either.
“Bucky.” You say, smooth and careful. “You know everything about me that Steve knows. I- I can tell you more. But I’m not all that interesting.”
“I disagree.” He mutters. “You’re impossibly interesting.”
You can only hum, pressing your thighs together as he just keeps staring at you. He shouldn’t be allowed to do that. It makes your brain slow down and all your thoughts turn honeyed and gooey. His hands are right in your eyeline, and he’s got those big, deft fingers that you’ve imagined tracing over your hips and lips, and he’s giving you compliments. Compliments like they’re just breathing, like he doesn’t even have to think about them because you could be all he sees.
“What do you want to know?” You mumble, desperate to move the conversation away from this. If you offer yourself too much of his attention, it’s going to drag you under like quicksand.
“What’s your favorite kind of flower?”
“My favorite flower-“
Bucky grunts, nodding tightly. You take a deep, slow breath, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.”
Bucky grunts. “Well, what kinda flowers have people gotten you before.”
“I- I’ve never been given flowers.”
“You’ve never-“ Bucky cuts himself off, and you risk a glance up to see him scowling. “Ever?”
You can hear the what about that he won’t say. What about a boyfriend.
If he’s not brave enough to ask it—although you don’t understand why he’d care—you don’t have to be brave enough to answer it.
“No. Never ever.” You mumble, and you might dissolve into a mist of humid humiliation and confusing arousal.
You have Bucky’s attention, and you both wish he’d take it back and never want him to stop pushing. You’ve never had someone poke at you this much. It makes your core ache, and you’d rally rather not explore what that means right now.
“You need to sign these.” You shove some papers across the desk, staring at Bucky’s hands again.
They’re curled in fists. You’d like them inside you-
You mentally slap yourself, and force a smile onto your face, nodding to the papers. “Steve told me not to let you go home, until you did.”
Bucky chuckles at that, though there’s still a strange look in his eyes. “Not let me go home, huh.”
“Yes, sir.” You drawl.
Bucky’s knuckles go white. You could swear his voice gets lower.
“And how would you stop me from gettin’ home, kid?”
“With lots of talent.” You shrug, giving him a tiny smile. “And my body.”
Bucky coughs, and the desk jerks suddenly. His knee must’ve slammed against it. You shoot to your feet, ready to check on him, but he waves you quickly back down.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He scowls, scooting forward in his chair. “Papers.”
He makes a beckoning gesture, and you just stare at him.
“James, are you-“
“Bucky.” He grunts. “Papers, sweetheart.”
You nod stupidly, shoving the papers into his hands. You’re not sure what’s happening. Your thoughts are all still made of candy-clouds and goo, so you don’t want to overthink it.
It’s only when you get home, that you realize what he called you. I
Sweetheart.
You can’t blame him. He can’t know what that does to you.
You really need to find that date.
It happens in the middle of work. The worst possible place for it to happen.
Steve’s on a conference call, and you’re lying on his couch, swiping through dating apps. You’re only there in case he forgets something, and you don’t have to pay much attention for that. The voices of old, annoying men drone on and on and on in the background, and you have everything memorized so well that when Steve calls your name, you answer without even realty paying attention to what you’re saying.
The call is three hours for no good reason at all. You get bored.
Hence, the dating apps.
It’s almost as mindless as the call itself. All in all, the experience is turning out to be more of a fun game than an actual method to find a date. The next gala is creeping up, though. You refuse to give up.
But you’re also picky. And you keep comparing every profile you see to Bucky, which is deeply counterproductive.
Michael is handsome, and the exact same height as Bucky, but he’s built with corded muscle instead of the softer, thicker strength you’ve seen straining through Bucky’s suit. Henry has a picture of himself with kids—his sister’s, according to the caption—but you look at it and just think of when Bucky and Steve went to the children’s hospital, and Bucky had become such a soft and approachable person you’d been worried you’d get pregnant watching him.
Leon has nice eyes, but they’re not as pretty as Bucky’s. Cal is in the military, but he’s beaming about it in a way that makes you think he joined so he could run around with a big gun, while Bucky joined because his family needed the healthcare. Jake has a sweet smile, but it doesn’t make you feel bubbly like Bucky’s. Asher and Kyle both have high paying jobs—all their photos showing them driving Maserati’s and drinking expensive whiskey—but one of the things you’ve always loved about Bucky is how he doesn’t brag. His suits are less expensive and more well-tailored. His watch costs $150—he always grumbles that he just needs it to tell time—and he drives a motorcycle that Sam says he built from scratch.
You squint at Damien’s profile, and he’s got a motorcycle too. His caption says that he built it himself, and you don’t know anything about motorcycles, but you doubt he built it as well as Bucky did.
You swipe left with a sigh, and go onto the next profile.
James. 41. Business Manager. You give the picture a quick glance—beefy, shirtless chest that makes you drool a little, only the sharp, bearded jawline of the owner visible in the photo—and squint at the bio. Wealthy bachelor looking for his Queen.
You snort, and scroll lazily down. James’ Interests include music, cars, technology, dancing, family. No kids, but wants them. Looking for casual fun—you can’t be causal, or have fun, but it’s always nice to pretend—located thirty feet away, pet cat, smokes and drinks socially-
Located thirty feet away.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
You sit up suddenly, rapidly scrolling back up to the photos and main bio. James, 41, Business Manager.
Fucking- Fuck-
You click frantically through the photos, somehow burning alive and freezing to your bones all at once. James’ next photo doesn’t show his face either, instead displaying a fluffy white cat on his bare chest. You know that cat. You’ve fed and pet her, paying her more attention than Bucky himself whenever he brings her to the office. Alpine adores you. You have more photos of her on your phone than you do of yourself.
Next photo.
Bucky drinking at that Italian place he, Steve, and Sam always go to for celebrations. In the background, you can see Natasha flirting with the bartender. You remember that night. She’d taken him home, and you’d heard far too many details about how hot and submissive he was in the morning. You’d been happy for her, and sick with jealousy. You’d spent all of that night standing next to her, trying not to stare at Bucky while he and Steve drank.
Which means-
You pinch in on the photo, feeling a little sick when you find it. Shrouded enough in the background that you can only see it if you look, but you can definitely fucking see it.
Your lovelorn, sad expression as you stare at Bucky like he’s made of stars.
He’s seen this photo. Everyone who’s been on his dating profile has seen this photo.
You feel sick. You unpinch the photo, ready to maybe just fall back into the couch cushions and have them swallow you whole, and then it fucking happens.
Your thumb drifts a little to the right.
You swipe yes on Bucky’s profile.
And a little heart graphic overtakes your screen, the bolded words It’s a Match! Shoved into your face.
You scream, and throw your phone across the room.
Steve looks at you like you’re insane. You feel insane.
“Are you-“
“I need to go to the bathroom!” You shout, and Steve opens his mouth, but you’re already running.
You have to pass Bucky’s office—right next to Steve’s—to get to the bathroom. You pause to stare at him, unable to form any coherent thoughts but fuck and Bucky.
He’s on his phone. Reading something with a knit brow. You might actually be about to throw up.
Like he can sense you, he looks up.
Your eyes meet.
And you run away, as fast as you fucking can.
Steve is a lovely boss. When you tell him you need a week off for vague personal reasons, but that you can still work remotely, he tells you not to bother and just take the time without work.
“But- I can help-“
“I know. I’m telling you not to.” He gives you a small smile. “You’ve earned the break.”
“Steve-“
“You’re allowed to just rest,” he says your name kindly, and you shake your head. No. You’re not.
“Please give me something to do.” You plead, and Steve sighs.
“Kid, you don’t have to prove something-“
“Please.” If you don’t have anything, you’re just going to stare at your match with Bucky the whole time. And that’s a harrowing, deadly prospect of a way to spend your week.
Steve sighs, and gives in. You get a bunch of emails to send, and they’re just enough to distract you.
Barely.
Sometimes, you still manage to falter, and open up the app. Stare at the you matched with James three days ago! Banner at the top of the screen. Maybe he hasn’t seen it at all, and you’re hiding for no reason. He could be someone who never even checks who he matches with unless they message first, because he just gets so many matches. Jealousy stabs through your heart, sour and sharp, and you sigh.
It’s your best hope. That he’ll just never know.
But he matched with you, too.
He could just swipe right on every girl he sees. That’s a thing you hear men do.
Bucky’s not the type to do that.
He’s also not the type to be looking for his Queen. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did.
But you’re pretty sure you do.
This is making your head hurt.
Your real best bet is that someone’s been catfishing as James Barnes, but there’s no real hope of that with the bar photo. You’re going to have to quit your job and change your name. Maybe Steve can reference you to another similar job if you apologize enough. Maybe you can move to Alaska and learn how to be a fisherwoman. You’re not very patient. And you’re not going to be able to afford your nice gloves anymore. Maybe you should just die. The best option might just be dying-
Your phone buzzes.
Message from James.
You throw your phone again. He knows.
Death is looking lovely right now.
Your days off turn into a week off. Steve checks on you, but doesn’t push you to come back. If anything, he’s still trying to convince you to just take a real vacation.
“It’s going to help more than… What you’re doing right now.” He stands in the middle of your apartment, gesturing at your ice cream and the mess of clothing on the floor.
“This is helping plenty.” You mutter. Steve sighs.
“Look, I’m really not mad about you taking the time. I know you. You wouldn’t take it if you didn’t need it.”
“But?” You give him a pointed look, and his jaw ticks.
“But I wish you’d tell me what was goin’ on.” He says, sounding more sad than annoyed. “So I could help.”
You give him a tight smile. “Steve-“
“Anything you need. If I can’t get it, I’m sure Bucky or Nat could-“
“Steve.” You don’t want to hear about how Bucky can help you. Not when he knows perfectly well why you’ve gone into hiding. “I- I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve frowns, but lets it go. In the Steve way, where he keeps asking every time he visits, but always takes the no in stride.
“Can you at least tell me what I should be saying to everyone else?” He asks after a week. “People are noticing I’m missing my brain.”
You laugh softly. “I’m sick.”
“But you’re not.”
Not visibly. Your heart feels sick. Bucky’s sent you two more messages on the app, one into your personal number, and none on Teams, and you’ve read none of them. You don’t want to hear his gentle rejection, because it’s going to crush you into fine, little pieces.
“We’re worried about you.” Steve says. “And again, no rush to come back, but I don’t know how to work my own schedule and Bucky’s started pacing whenever I try to do your job, so-“
“Bucky’s pacing?” You blurt, and Steve blinks.
“Yeah? Think he misses you, too.”
You swallow, and glance at your phone. The unread messages.
Bucky only paces when he feels like something is wrong. Really wrong.
And you don’t want to know. That he’s been thinking about. That he’s been pacing. Because it all ends the same anyway.
“I’ll be back soon.” You mumble, flipping your phone face down. You don’t want to know. “Just- A few more days.”
Steve looks at you like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you.
But you’re a big girl. You can survive a little rejection, and it doesn’t have to be anything at all.
You’re going to keep going, and this won’t have to have been anything at all.
Nobody asks, when you get back to the office. Nat and Sam check in that you’re okay, and Steve lets you pick lunch three days in a row—and you think he’s blaming himself for everything, which at least tells you that Bucky hasn’t snitched about anything—but the only thing waiting for you is a phone full of voicemails and a crowded calendar.
And Bucky.
Bucky, who almost acts like nothing even happened at all.
Almost.
He’s staring more than he used to, and he’d always stared quite a lot. When you’re left alone in a room together, he stares until you look up at him, before immediately coughing and looking back to his own papers. He lingers outside of Steve’s office until you ask if he needs to talk, and he shakes his head and runs off like a teenager caught trying to buy drinks. Nat shouts at him after two meetings where he wasn’t paying attention, and he mutters that he was distracted.
“What?! What could you possibly have been so distracted by that you missed every cue Sam gave you, five times in a row?”
He just shrugs, and you can feel his gaze burning straight into your heart. You bow your head, and pretend you don’t see it.
You still haven’t looked at the messages. You’re not going to. And he hasn’t brought it up, so it’s like nothing ever happened.
Like nothing ever happened.
But it happened. The world ended, but it also just kept spinning, and now you’re suspended in a world where Bucky doesn’t even treat you like a friend anymore.
Steve notices. Of course he does. Asshole.
“Did something happen?” He asks softly. “Did Bucky… Say something to you?”
You look up with wide eyes, mouth going dry. “Wha- What? No, Bucky- James and I, it’s fine.” You laugh, high and nervous. “Everything’s fine.”
Steve hums, and he doesn’t believe you. You can see it, shining in his eyes. “You know… I’ve known Bucky a long time.”
“I know. I’ve read the about page.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “No. I mean, yes, but-“ He sighs. “Bucky’s not good at… Talking. When something matters to him, he shows it.”
“Okay.” He’s shown you nothing but silence and stares.
“And he, um- He’s a good guy-“
“I’m aware.”
“I know you are, but-“ Steve sighs, slumping in his chair. “Just, if Bucky ever says something to you, or asks you to do something, and you don’t want to, don’t. I’d rather you piss him off then feel pressured. Not that he’d pressure you,” he adds quickly. “But if there’s ever… Anything. And I’ve been wrong about… Stuff. Just know you’re as valuable as he is.”
He’s speaking in riddles. This has been a long few weeks. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Steve nods, taking in a deep breath. “And is there… Anything you want to tell me? As my friend?”
It’s a mean card to play. You almost want to. Steve’s kind, and he gives good advice, and you believe him. You know that if you confessed your silent, raging love for Bucky, Steve would just support you.
But you don’t need someone to support you right now. You need someone to smack you in the face and tell you to stop being a baby about your crush not liking you back.
“No.” You give him a strained smile, and it hurts on your face. “Why, is there something you need to tell me?”
Steve stares at you for a moment, then slowly shakes his head. “No. Just… You were missed.”
There’s a long moment of silence, and Steve clears his throat.
“By everyone.”
You nod, useless tears stinging at your eyes, and look back to your work.
Later that day, Bucky goes into Steve’s office and they talk for two hours. You want to eavesdrop, but that would be a new, pathetic low.
You stare at Bucky’s head through the glass, and chew on a pencil until it snaps in half.
When Bucky leaves the office, he stops in front of your desk and lingers. You can feel the heat from his body, and you’d like to fall into it. He clears his throat, and you look up like he’d grabbed your chin and demanded it.
His eyes are shining on yours, and you’ve never seen his jaw clenched so tight. As if he’s disgusted, just from the sight of you.
“You look nice.” He rasps, and you can’t tell if you’re glowing or burning out.
“Thank you.”
He nods, looking up to the ceiling, then back to you. “We all missed you.”
“I’ve been told-“
“I missed you.” He says those words firmer. They sink into your core, molten and demanding, so overwhelming you’re not even sure what to do with yourself.
You’ve been staring at him too long. Words are failing you, thoughts are failing you, and-
“I, uh- I’ll leave you to it-“
“You too.” You breathe out, and Bucky stumbles back like you hit him. “I- I missed you too.”
He blinks. His nostrils flare, and he gapes at you with a red face. For a second, you don’t see the calm, collected man you know and adore so well. You see something closer to a teenage boy, fumbling and gaping and unsure what to do with his own strength.
You like him, just as much as you like the rest of Bucky. Love it.
Endlessly and uselessly love it.
Bucky turns on his heels, and almost runs back to his office. Your nails dig into your palms, and you force your attention back to your work.
It will pass. All of this, like every storm, is going to have to pass.
You get a night off. Steve has a date, and it’s the one part of his life you have and want nothing to do with. You were going to use the evening to catch up on more voicemails, until Sam shooed you out of the building like a bird. Go rest, woman.
You are resting.
By catching up on emails.
There’s a knock on your door, long after anyone should be out doing anything. You don’t move from the couch at first, because you think it’s a mistake.
Then the knock repeats. Louder than the first time. And someone shouts your name, muffled through the door.
Not a mistake.
Bucky. That’s Bucky’s voice.
You fall, trying to get up. Your knees feel like jelly, and you haven’t even seen him yet, but he’s already doing that thing where his attention makes you feel like you’re made of electric static. Sensitive and empty-headed in the best and worst way. You can barely stand it. You can’t really stand at all.
When you finally—somehow—make it to the door, Bucky’s standing on the other side like he’s awaiting inspection. Tall and silent, shoulders squared and arms behind his back, looking at you like you’re holding his life in your hands.
You stare at him. He stares back, and you can measure your every breath in heartbeats. Louder and louder in your ears.
“Hi.” You finally say, shifting on your feet, and his throat bobs.
“Hey.”
“What’re you-“
“I wanted to check on you.” He blurts, and you freeze. “And- Talk.”
You ignore that last part. It’s the last thing you want to do. “I’m fine.”
Bucky’s pretty lips tug down. “You took two weeks off.” He mutters. “You don’t even take sick days.”
You swallow. “I- I was trying to take care of myself-“
“By working the whole time?” He looks past you again, and you follow his gaze.
Right to your laptop, open on an email draft.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ tonight off too.” He says, a little scolding, and you stiffen.
“You’re not my boss.”
Bucky chuckles. Low and deep, shivering up your spine. “Trust me, doll. I’m fully aware of that.”
Oh. That does something nice to your core. You think you might be getting a fever.
“James…”
“Bucky.” He grunts, and you take an unsteady breath. Staring at his chest seems to be the most effective way to speak to him.
“Bucky, I- I’m fine, really-“
“I brought you flowers.” He says suddenly, and his hands shoot out from behind his back.
He’s holding out a large bouquet of roses and lilies, each in about three different colors. It’s a stark contrast to his black suit and neatly pressed white shirt, petals spilling and little bits of yellow pollen clinging to the stems. To the cuffs of his sleeves.
Bucky clears his throat, pushing the flowers a little further forward. You take them with shaking hands, a little worried they’ll dissolve the moment you touch them. They don’t. And Bucky clears his throat.
“I, uh- I gave you options, and-“ He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I come in? Please?”
You can’t think of a good reason to say no. You don’t even think you’d get out the words, if you tried. So you nod, and step to the side.
And now Bucky’s in your apartment. Looking around at your things and licking his lips, nodding slowly. He fits into it, like a puzzle piece being slowly slotted in, and-
No.
You can’t think like that. It’s not going to help anyone, not by far.
He brought you flowers.
To apologize for breaking your heart.
Bucky looks back to you, bracing his hands on his hips. You swallow, hugging yourself tight, and neither of you dare to move. Bucky takes a ragged breath, looks to the side, and back to you with the strangest, most anguished expression you’ve ever seen on his handsome face.
“Tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.” He starts, urgent and pleading. “You gotta tell me if I’m steppin’ over the line.”
“Bucky-“
“We both know why I’m here.” He takes a step forward. You take a step back.
Bucky freezes, and you take a shaking breath, staring at his shoes.
“I- I’m sorry.” You mumble. “I didn’t mean to-“
“You didn’t?” Bucky cuts you off, and you glance up to see him frowning. “At all?”
You blink. “No, I- I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you meant it?”
You nod, and Bucky’s jaw works tight.
“Could you?”
“What?”
“Could you mean it?” He rasps, and your mouth falls uselessly open.
“Ja- Bucky.” You shake your head, stepping further back. If this is a trick, you’re too fragile to fall for it. “I- I don’t know.”
“Why not?” He takes a step forward, your eyes trapped together. “Is it me?”
“Is it you?”
“Yeah, I- I mean- You don’t really date.” He clears his throat. “And Stevie’s never told me why, ‘cause- I’m not your boss, but I’m not not your boss- ‘s what Sam says-“
You’ve never heard him ramble. Never heard him speak like he’s not sure of the next work. It’s just as endearing as the display at the desk, but you’re even less sure what to do with it. “Bucky-“
“If it’s just me that you’re not- That’s the reason.” He’s standing over you now. Bowing his head. “Then that’s fine. I’m not gonna be an ass about it. But…” His shoulders slump. “If it’s not that. Then I- I’d like to…”
He trails off, giving you a hopeful look.
But you’re lost. Nothing he’s saying is making sense, and you’re almost being dragged under by the current of his words.
“What?” You repeat, more pleading than before. Bucky sighs.
“You never answered my messages.” He mutters. “Figured I’d need to ask in person. Needed to hear it.” He clears his throat, lips twitching. “Even if it’s a no.”
“Even…” You frown. “Even if what’s a no?”
His head shoots up, and his frown deepens. “I’m… Asking you out. On a date?”
Oh.
What.
Your surprise must be written all over your face, because Bucky looks bewildered. He can join the club.
You just keep staring at him stupidly, and he says your name, slow and measured.
“You read my messages, right?”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“I- I’m sorry-“
“No, it’s- It’s my fault.” He mutters. “Nat told me you were oblivious-“
You cut him off indignantly. “I am not oblivious-“
“We matched on a dating app.” He drawls, lips twitching slightly. “And you’re shocked I’m askin’ you out.”
You scowl, hugging yourself tighter. “I thought you made a mistake.” You grumble, and Bucky chuckles.
He takes another step forward. Close enough that you can smell him, smell his cologne and aftershave and something deeper that’s just Bucky. You step back more out of fear that you were about to fall forward.
Bucky follows you.
Suddenly your pinned against your counters, Bucky’s arms braced on either side of your body. You swallow. Bucky’s tongue darts over his lips, and you think you did drown in his everything. You’ve been swept out to sea, and there’s no hope of being dragged out to shore.
And with how Bucky’s looking at you, you’re not sure you’d ever ask to be saved.
“You.” Bucky reaches up, brushing hair out of your eyes with a small smile. “Are not a mistake. And if someone’s been tellin’ you that you are.” He leans down, until your lips are almost brushing. “They’re damn lucky you’re lettin’ them make it.”
Dear God. You’re not strong enough for this.
“James…” You breathe out, and his brows knit. “Bucky. Don’t.”
He tenses around you. “Don’t?”
“Don’t.” You whisper, eyes dropping to his lips. They look so soft. “Don’t do this.”
Bucky leans a little back, but doesn’t pull fully away. “Why not? I told you, if it’s not ‘cause of me, we can work it out-“
“Bucky-“
“I’ll quit.” He says suddenly, and you gape.
“You’re the boss, you can’t quit-“
“There are like, four bosses.” Bucky waves you off. “Five if we’re countin’ you, which I am, and you do twice the fuckin’ work. I’ll just quit, and you can have my job, and we can-“
“Bucky.” You grab his shirt, and he falls silent immediately. “Just- Stop. You can’t quit, you shouldn’t-“ You take a deep breath, trying to focus on speaking instead of crying.
Bucky says your name softly, and big hands thread through your hair as you start to sniffle. It’s so pathetic, but you’re tired and overwhelmed and you can’t take him doing this to you twice. You’re not the kind of girl Bucky Barnes is going to want. Not for real. Not for long. And you can’t handle him pretending you are.
“It’s not nice.” You whimper, even as he tugs you into his chest.
Pressing your face into his chest is just as amazing as you’d always imagined. You wish you weren’t crying when it finally happened.
“What’s not nice.” Bucky prompts gently, and you swallow.
“You.”
“Me?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his torso. Bucky pets the back of your head, words low and cautious.
“What about me isn’t nice?”
You shake your head, hugging him tighter. You can’t stop. It’s like a reflex. “You can’t- You can’t say that stuff. ‘S mean.”
“Me tellin’ you I’d quit for you is mean?”
“You don’t mean it.”
Bucky tenses. “I do mean it-“
“No, it’s not- I’m not-“ You swallow, breathing him in. “I don’t just wanna be…”
You trail off. Bucky prompts you softly. “Be what?”
“Be fun.” You mumble. “I can’t do fun, you know than, and- And if you’re not serious, then-“
“I’m dead serious.” Bucky grunts, and you swallow.
“James-“
“No. Listen to me.” He picks you up without a warning, sitting you on the counter so you’re at his eye level. You grab his shoulders, and he keeps his hands planted on your hips, almost holding you under his words.
Forcing you to hear them, as he watches you like you’re the most important thing in the world.
“I am serious about this. About you.” He grabs one of your hands, holding it between your bodies. “I have wanted you since I met you. Don’t look at me like that,” he squeezes your hand when you give him a doubtful frown. “I have. You are beautiful and smart and bossy, and I’ve been obsessed with you so much, Nat’s slapped me about it twice.”
You swallow, closing your eyes tight. You can’t look at him right now. “Your profile said looking for casual.” You mutter, and Bucky snorts.
“Last year, Sam made that thing for me. ‘Cause I was obsessed with Stevie’s new PA, and I needed to get under someone to get over it.”
“Hm.” You peek at him. He looks sincere. “Did you?”
“I got under many someone’s.” He shrugs. “Didn’t have Sam’s intended effect. Think I just wanted you more, after every time.”
You swallow. That does explain a lot about the profile, in hindsight. Those were all very Sam things to say.
“I want you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing a little closer. Your noses are bumping, and he’s still not looking away. “You’re in my dreams, and days without you are nightmares. Just- One shot. It’s all I need. Please.”
And God, you want to give it to him. More than anything. You want to tell him that he doesn’t even need his shot, he hit a bullseye a year ago and you’ve just been waiting for him to realize it since.
But-
“I’m a virgin.” You blurt, and Bucky blinks.
“Okay-“
“I can’t do what others can. For you. And I- I don’t know how anything works- Well, I know how sex works, I got an A in health class, but everyone got an A in health, but I got an A and paid attention, and-“ You’re rambling. “I just don’t know how dating works, or- Or relationships, and I’m not- You’re very- You.”
You gesture over his everything, and Bucky’s lips twitch.
“That a problem, doll?”
“No. God, no. You’re perfect, I’m just- Not? And that’s not really fair to you-“
Bucky grabs your face, and your cut off in a kiss.
You’ve seen kissing in the movies and on TV. Read about it a million times. It’s always all sweet and romantic, with swelling music and breeze and passion.
And nothing has done it justice at all.
Kissing Bucky is awkward for a second—his lips slotted over yours, your whole body frozen as it shuts down, then reboots—and then it’s like breathing. Your hands fly back to his shoulders, your legs spread so you can lean further forwards, and your lips move without a thought. Pressing against Bucky’s, moving in a dance he seems more than happy to lead, chasing at the slight chance that you could have just a little more.
One of Bucky’s hands finds this back of your head, and the other grabs your waist. Dragging you further forward until your chests are pressed tight, massaging the softness there in rhythm with his lips. You sigh, breathy and content, and Bucky presses further down. He’s all you can feel, muscle under your hands and love pounding in your heart. You nails scrape his neck, and he groans into the kiss.
The sound vibrates against your spread thighs. His hand on your waist flexes, fingers digging into the softness, and you gasp.
Bucky pulls back too fast, and you follow. Tugging him back, unwilling to let him go just yet. He follows for a second, tongue tracing over your lower lip, then yanks himself back.
His brow presses against yours, and you both breathe raggedly.
“I like you.” Bucky almost growls. His thumb presses over your swollen lips, palm cupping your cheek, and you melt further into him than you already were.
“Bucky-“
“You’re what I want.” He leans forward, demanding and pleading all at once. “Your body.” He pushes his hand under your shirt, rough fingers dragging against sensitive skin. “Is a bonus.”
You shiver, whimpering softly. You feel pliant. Dizzy, in a way that no flirting or video has ever rendered you before. You think Bucky might’ve sucked your soul out with that kiss. You’d like him to do it again.
But when you try to lean up, Bucky pushes you gently back down. You whine, and his lips twitch.
“You like me too.” He mutters, watching you like he’s somehow still unsure.
“Mhm.” You say, and he stands a little taller.
“How long-“
“The same.”
“Oh.” He grins. “Good. That’s- Good-“
You slam back up, kissing him with an open mouth and sloppy need. Bucky responds immediately, and heat is starting to build between your thighs. It’s not just going to go away with a little touching and petting. It’s almost painful. You need him.
Bucky pulls away again. You’re going to punch him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, staring down at your desperate expression. “You gotta slow down, baby-“
“Don’t want to.” You breathe, pulling at his shirt. “Want you, Bucky. Want you now.”
His throat bobs, eyes darkening, but he remains composed. “You… You’re a virgin-“
“Then show me.”
Bucky says your name, and now he’s the one begging. But you’re not letting him off this easy.
“Show me, Bucky.” You rest your chin on his chest, giving him your best pout.
He grabs your face between big hands, chest heaving as he stares at you. You offer a sweet smile, and his nostrils flare.
“Please.” You whisper. “Anything. I just want to feel you.”
“Feel me.” He echoes, like he can’t believe it. “You wanna feel me?”
You nod, and he presses his brow over yours his, his eyes squeezed shut.
“And you want me to show you.” He rasps. “All the different ways I can make you feel good.”
You nod frantically, almost clawing at his shirt. Bucky’s eyes shoot open.
“Yeah?” He grunts, and you whine.
“Yeah. Yes. Please-“
He grabs your jaw, grip hard and unyielding, folds over you like he’s trying to fuse your bodies together. His lips move, harsh and hungry, and his hand on your hip starts to knead the skin like he’s trying to leave a mark.
“Wanted this for so long.” He grunts, dragging his hand down to squeeze your ass. “Wanted you. So fuckin’ bad.”
You moan into his mouth, and Bucky sucks on your lower lip. You can’t have enough of him. He’s warm and leaves little fires everywhere he touches. You’d like them to sweep through you, overtake you and send you higher.
“So gorgeous.” Bucky’s hand moves lower, resting on your upper thigh. “Thought about you all the time, hated bein’ in a room and not getting to touch you, was so sure I was going to lose my damn mind not havin’ you be mine.”
“I- I wanted you too.” You breathe out, almost delirious from his kisses. “Always wanted it to be you, never- Oh-“
You lose your ability to speak for a second, when Bucky starts to kiss under your ear. Your body goes pliant and soft, and his growl against your skin sends a shiver up your spine. He’s holding the back of your neck now, guiding it to offer himself better access. You tug on his hair and he moans. It makes your knees wobbly.
“Never anyone else,” you breathe, and he seems to like that. The massive hand on your thigh shifts slightly, so Bucky’s thick fingers are grazing your core through your clothing.
It’s a perfect pressure where you’d been craving any of his attention, and it’s a promise of more later. Your legs give out, eyes fluttering as your brain short circuits with arousal.
Bucky picks you up like you weigh nothing. Your nails dig into the back of his neck as he sits you on the counter, back arching as he captures your mouth in another kiss.
“No one else.” He mutters, hand on your neck slowly, possessively moving down your spine. “Never gonna be anyone else, doll. Not for you,” he nips at your jaw, hand on your thigh teasing the sensitivity under your shirt. “Sure as shit not for me. Been no one else since I started thinkin’ of you.”
Your breath hitches, and you lean back with wide eyes. “Bucky, you don’t have to-“
“I’m not lying.” He says firmly, dropping his brow against yours. You try to lean back, but he grabs your chin, forcing your eyes back together.
You blink at him hopelessly, grabbing at the collar of his shirt like you’re looking for balance. Bucky gives you a tiny smile, pressing his lips sweetly over yours. Another, softer promise.
“No one,” he murmurs. “Was ever gonna live up to you. First few months I’d fuck a girl and feel sick the next day. Like I’d done you wrong.”
“You- You didn’t-“
“Yeah, I did. We coulda been doin’ this a lot sooner.”
You flush, looking down to where your bodies are pressed so tight together. Bucky’s dress shirt and hidden muscle, both hard and gentle all at once. Your sleeping clothes and bare feet, swinging off the counter. You lean a little further into him, suddenly feeling rather small.
“What if I’m not…” You take a deep breath, frowning at the floor. “What if I don’t-“
Bucky says your name, concerned and caring, and you shake your head.
“What if I’m not the fantasy, Bucky.” You look back up with your best pleading eyes. “What if that- That idea of me isn’t worth what you thought?”
His brows knit tight, and you try to shirk away as he studies you. You can’t tell if you like it or not, but you know you feel bare. And you both want him to look away, and never go where you can’t reach him again.
Bucky’s lips twitch. He leans forward slowly, kissing each corner of your mouth before taking it fully under his. The kiss is hot and commanding, almost forcing your brain to slow back down. You dissolve into it, your thoughts a nice haze of Bucky. He guides your legs a little further apart, and takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind you.
“I love you,” he mutters. “I told you. And remember,” he pulls back with that lovely, secret smile. “I’m helpin’ you through it, right?”
You nod, and Bucky leans back forward, bumping your noses together.
“Trust me?”
“Yes.” You breathe, and he grins.
“Good girl.”
Heat floods between your legs, and oh. You like that. You’re shaking a little bit, you like it so much. Want it so much. Want Bucky.
Like he’s reading your mind, he rasps against your lips. “You enjoyed other things before?”
You nod, unable to tell if that’s another flush or just how turned on you are, and Bucky smirks.
“Like what?” He kisses your cheek, massaging your thighs. “Tell me what you like, sweetheart. What you want.”
“I- I want to be under.” You whisper, and you think his hands might be magic. Pulling answers out of you that you would’ve rather died with an hour ago. “Want you over me. Tell- Telling me what to do.”
Bucky hums, nosing at your neck. You close your eyes, forcing on.
“Tell- Tell me how good I’m doing. And- Other stuff.”
He leans back, and your core throbs at the shine in his eyes. Like he’s going to eat you alive. “Other stuff?” He rasps, and you nod weakly.
“If you can- Can do that.” It’s hard to focus, between his piercing gaze and the hand wandering between your legs. Teasing your inner thigh, until you’re voice is high and breathy. “Do that, and- and be-“
“Be a little mean?” He coos, thumb pressing over your aching button. You swallow, and nod.
“A little mean.” You echo, and Bucky grins.
“Yes, ma’am.” He kisses you again, slow and romantic, and you barely notice his hand moving away. “Think that’s enough outta you for now.”
“Wha- Bucky-“
He steps away. Without warning, Bucky just backs up, and you almost fall off the counter trying to chase him. He laughs, and pushing you back into place in a second, then moves away again. Where you can’t follow.
“Bucky, come back-“
“Nope.” He grins, like he knows you’re already too lost to chase him. He probably does. Asshole. “You want me to show you?”
You scowl. “James-“
“Call me whatever you want, baby. You ain’t gonna be able to talk at the end, anyway.” He braces his hands on his hips, raising a brow. “Want me to show you.”
He won’t come back until you answer, so you just nod, crossing your arms like a scolded child. Bucky grins, and you’re hoping for another good girl and kiss, but he doesn’t even lean closer.
“Alright.” He stands a little taller. “Strip.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Strip.”
“Like, completely?”
“Hm.” He pauses, raking over your body in a way that really shouldn’t make you feel more turned on. “Yep. All of this, off.”
He waves to your body, and gives you a silent, challenging look. Like he’s expecting you to go back, and ask for that date first.
But at this point, you’re going to explode if he doesn’t make you cum. And you’ve never backed down from him before. You have no interest in starting now.
Slowly, you peel off your sweater. Your shirt. The cold air hits your bare chest, and not wearing a bra was the right choice. Bucky’s looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, the evidence of your effect on him straining through his pants.
Your nipples are peaked, and you awkwardly palm at them the way you’ve seen in porn. Bucky shifts on his feet, hand flexing like he’s trying not to reach for you, so you repeat the motion again.
“Pants.” He grunts, and you smile sweetly.
“Please?”
Bucky chuckles, like he can’t believe you. “Jesus, woman-“
“It’s polite-“
“If you don’t take your pants off.” He grunts, giving you a firm look. “I’m gonna rip off your pants and fuck you on this counter right now.”
You swallow. That doesn’t sound all that bad, but-
Something foolish and lovesick inside of your chest demands that tonight be special. So you move on from your breast, but give Bucky a nervous smile.
“Next time?”
He softens slightly, and nods. “Next time. Pants.”
You smile, and he smiles back. But the expression quickly shifts back into desire, as you shuffle out of your pants. You take your underwear down in one motion as well, leaving you completely exposed. At Bucky’s mercy.
And he’s just watching you.
Watching you and rubbing his crotch, where an erection is demanding attention. The lewd sight makes you fuzzy in all the right places, your own legs spreading a little wider apart.
You need him so bad it hurts. Your fingers dip into your wet pussy, clumsily rubbing your clit, and Bucky groans.
Suddenly he’s back against you, staring at your hand between your legs and panting like a dog.
“Look at you.” He groans, dragging his gaze back up your naked body. “Better than a dream.”
“Thank you.” Your hips buck up against your own, suddenly flimsy and useless hand. You’ve touched yourself before. With Bucky all around you, it’s simply not enough. “Bucky- You-You need to touch me-“
“I know.” He grunts, lips ghosting over yours. “Need you to be ready, just-“
His throat bobs as he cuts himself off, his hand on his own hard dick suddenly pressing against your pussy. A spasm shoots through your body, and you almost fly off the counter.
Bucky presses further down, attaching his lips to your neck and collarbone. His tongue flicks against a pulse point as he spreads your pussy lips. Rubbing up and down while his thumb circles around your clit, working you up and up and up. You’re panting in his ear, vulnerable and dazed, and Bucky hums against your skin.
“Shirt.” He grunts. “Get my shirt off.”
You nod, and it should be a simple task. But Bucky’s relentless. He suckles on your neck, leaving possessive bruises on your skin all while working your pussy and drawling in your ear.
“I know exactly how I want you, pretty girl.” He mutters, flicking your clit with his thumb. “Told you I’ve been thinkin’ about it forever. ‘Bout every single way I’d take you if I got the chance. And I’m gonna show you all of them,” he kisses over a bruise, teasing two fingers against your fluttering core. “But tonight, we’re takin’ it easy.”
You whine, fumbling with just the top button of his shirt. “I- I don’t want easy-“
“I know, baby.” He presses just the tip of his finger into your cunt, and you clench around him with a whine. “But you’re so sensitive.”
If you had the power right now, you’d hit him for saying it like that. All mocking and syrupy. Making you try to fuck your hips down onto his fingers. But Bucky just pulls fully out, moving his attention back to your swollen clit.
“You need to take care of the buttons.” He whispers, pushing down hard on the bundle of nerves. “They need a little extra attention.” He rubs his thumb back and forth. “Before we get goin’.”
“Fuck- Bucky-“ You breathe, almost slumped against his chest. Your fingers are shaking, desperate to just hold onto something as thighs spread as wide as they can go. “Fuck you-“
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head as his thumb picks up speed. “We’re getting there, needy girl.”
You scrape at his forearm, one hand still trying to pry his shirt open with no real resolve at all. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the asshole. Driving you insane with the teasing over your exposed entrance, never fully offering relief. You manage to get the top button open, but then Bucky pushes down hard on your clit, and an open moan falls from your lips as you double over.
“That’s it.” Bucky laughs, low and dangerous in your ear. “Doesn’t that feel good, baby?”
You nod, watching him move on you. “Bu- Bucky-“ You pull on his collar. “Help…”
“You’ve got it.” He says simply, spreading two fingers and dragging them between your pussy lips. “Just keep tryin’.”
There is no world where you have it, but Bucky’s words are enough for you to keep grasping fruitlessly at the fabric. Your head drops onto his shoulder, as you paw at his shirt. He laughs, rumbling through his chest, and slows his pace on your clit.
“All the ways I’ve pictured havin’ you.” He mutters. “This is the prettiest. Got you nice and ready, barely even touched you.”
“You’re- You’re touching me-“
“Not like I could touch you.” He says, a deep promise in his voice. “Told you, I’m going easy on my best girl. But if I wanted…”
He chuckles, kissing the side of your head. Pushing on your clit as your body starts to wiggle, trying to find more relief. “Bucky-“
“Every time I’ve seen you, layin’ on the couch.” He presses further forward, his bulge against your thigh. “I’ve thought about putting my hands all over your perfect fuckin’ body. Touching these tits,” he ducks his head, and your breath hitches as he kisses over the curve of your breast. “Touchin’ this sweet little pussy.” He plays with your clit like it a toy. “And makin’ you squirt all over Stevie’s nice cushions.”
“I’d look at you.” You gasp, holding onto his shirt for dear life. “In your chair. Wanted to sit on your lap.”
Bucky groans, hips jerking slightly. “Shit, I’ve thought about that too. Pinning you on my cock ‘till you’re sobbing, fucking you over my desk- Christ, whenever you’d bend over I’d just want to drag your ass back and fuck it ‘till you were drooling.”
“Fuck, yes.” You’ve given up on the shirt.
Your hand is wandering down between your bodies, and you rub against Bucky’s crotch, trying to return some of the favor. Bucky moans into your ear, pressing his hand flat over your cunt.
“Shit, you- Can’t just fuckin’-“ Bucky grunts your name, and you roll your hips against his hand.
“Need it. Need it, Bucky- Just- Your fingers, please-“
“No.” He mutters, his own voice gravelly as you squeeze him. “Can’t be patient, can you, sweetheart? Want this cock so bad you’re just grabbin’ for it, wasn’t even able to get my shirt off-“
“It’s a mean game.” You breathe, and he laughs, pushing his lips back over yours.
“You started it.” He brushes the hair from your face, easily moving you backwards until you’re just groping for something of him to hold onto.
“Why can’t you just- Just fuck me-“
“Because you wanted to be a good girl.” Bucky’s kisses are turning slow. Lazy. He’s groping your pussy again, but with far less purpose.
Just spreading your arousal and teasing everywhere you need him, driving you up to an edge you think might take away your mind. A mind you’d be happy to lose for him, if he’d just take it.
“And I want to show you.” Bucky rests his thumb over your entrance, his free hand pushing on your abdomen. Forcing you to stay still. “But you’ve got a greedy pussy, sweet girl. Think you need a little break?”
You shake your head—you do not want a break—but Bucky pushes his thumb a little harder, and you squeak.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“Look at me.” He orders, and you don’t have another choice. His voice is magnetic.
With just the top button exposing his sweaty collarbone and his erection evidence that he cares about this as much as you do, all of Bucky is magnetic. Gravitational. And it makes you feel so unbelievably good, just to be seen by him.
Being fucked by him might kill you.
It’s a risk you’re willing to take.
“Hi.” He smiles, and your lips wobble with need.
“Hi.”
“You still in this?”
You nod, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“I’d like you to say it-“
“Yes, sir.” You can’t help yourself from saying it.
It’s supposed to be mocking. But your voice is still high, and Bucky looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty.” He shakes his head, tone something between amused and exhausted. “Otherwise you’d be a really fuckin’ brat.”
You flush violently, and Bucky slaps your pussy once. Just enough to make you feel like you’ve been struck by lightning, and mold back into his whims.
“One day.” He drawls, one knuckle pushing up to press on your clit. “I’m gonna get you on my face. Let you ride me, fuckin’ suffocate between your legs.”
You’re shaking, watching him. He’s talking like he’s predicting the weather, but your head is running wild. The image of Bucky under you, forcing your cunt onto his generous mouth. It would be hot and wet, his hands would leave bruises, and, and-
“You’re so reactive,” he mutters, using featherlight swipes of his thumb against your clit. “Think I could make you squirt on me. It’ll be like this,” he starts to move in tiny, rapid motions back and forth. “Like this. But my tongue,” he licks up your neck, nipping at the underside of your jaw. “And your needy clit bein’ sucked like I’ve got some fuckin’ candy.”
He pinches your clit, and starts to roll it back and forth. You can feel a pressure, building and building. It’s almost blindingly good.
“You’re makin’ such nice sounds for me.” Bucky mutters. “Bet you’ll sound even better, coming apart all over my cock.”
You nod, humping into his hand. You need more, but just when you think it’s going to snap, Bucky’s hand moves back down.
“You feel this, baby?” He circles his thumb against your hole, and you hum, eyes flutters. “She’s ready for me.”
“Yes.” You breathe. “Ready, Bucky, please- Wait-“
You almost whine when he pulls away again, but this time it’s for a good cause. Bucky rips his shirt off, tossing it to an unimportant corner of the room.
He’s a work of art. All thick, tanned muscle and scars from his time in the army. They ripple when he moves, decorate him like earned tattoos, and you want to map each one with your fingers. His arms are fucking tanks, reaching out for you, and you tumble into them without a thought.
Bucky hauls you into his arms, hooking under your ass and dragging you off the counter with only a grunt.
“Legs around me.” He orders, and you obey. It’s nice to be this close to him.
Plus the bonus, of getting to try and ride his chest while he carries you to your room. You stumble and giggle, trying to give him directions. Bucky shoves open your door with his shoulder, and you laugh as he walks backwards to the bed, his knees hitting the mattress and sending you both tumbling down.
“Shit- Bucky!” You shriek with delight as Bucky rolls you over, trapping you under his broad body. “Oh- Ooh-“
Your words fall off as he kisses you into the mattress, settling between your spread legs quickly. Your hands wander over the expanse of his back, and it’s a nice wealth to be crushed under. You’re losing cognitive function again, as Bucky ruts his still covered erection against your wet core. You don’t know how he’s kept it together so long. You feel like you’re going to cry with desperation, and you’re fully at his whims.
This is nice, though. It’s a hot pressure—still far from what you need, but enough to tide you over—and Bucky’s wall of muscle around might be the best things you’ve ever felt. Your tits pressed against his chest, his arms braced by your head as you just make out like teenagers. He glides one hand down, rolling your nipple between calloused fingers, and you gasp softly.
“Bu- Bucky-“
“I’m gonna start slow.” He murmurs, low and commanding. “Then pick it up. Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, baby. Give you what you deserve.” He drops his hips, forcing you to stop grinding up. “That sound good?”
You nod, blinking hopelessly up at him, and he smiles.
“Good girl.” You get a sweet kiss on your cheek, his beard tickling softly. “Stay down.”
You don’t understand the request until he’s moving again, and suddenly it seems impossible. Being naked in front of him had been one thing. Naked, sprawled out in bed below him, and watching him strip is another thing.
Bucky sits up on his knees, never breaking eye contact as he pulls off his belt. You start to chew on your lower lip, and he moves back forward, stopping you with a gentle press of his thumb.
“Easy.” He murmurs. “Relax.”
You whimper, but try to. For Bucky.
And you think you might be turning into a puddle anyway, under the reverence in his gaze.
Bucky gets his pants off with practiced ease, and your mouth falls open.
His cock is thick and big. Veiny in a way you want to feel dragging against you, the head red and angry. Your breath catches as he starts to stroke it, just watching you wait for him.
Your legs close, trying to rub together for some friction. Bucky grabs your knee, and drags them back apart.
“Let me see you.” His thumb rubs in small circles. In a perfect rhythm, with his hand beating his cock. “Nice and relaxed for me, doll. Need you to be relaxed.”
You hum, watching him under hooded eyes. You can’t stop yourself from glancing down to his dick again. You feel empty, waiting for him. You’ve been waiting long enough as it is.
Bucky follows your gaze, and his lips twitch.
“You just walk around all the time?” He teases. “Waiting for some cock to fill you up.”
You nod, breathing through your mouth, and Bucky’s throat bobs.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.” You whisper, dragging your gaze back to his. “Need to feel you, Bucky. Pleeease.”
He swears under his breath. “Legs a little wider. Now.”
You listen quickly, and Bucky lowers down. He drags his cock between the puffed, slick lips of your pussy, the head bumping against your clit.
“Dirty girl.” He hovers over you, watching your every breath as he plays with you. “So fuckin’ pretty, should be stuffed with cock all the time, shouldn’t you. Gonna keep you in my bed, fuck you full of me.” He kisses you quickly, his words getting rough. “My smart fuckin’ baby, begging for my cock.”
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“ You mumble, and Bucky grins.
“But you’re so pretty when I do.”
He kisses your cheek, and you feel raw. A live nerve, open for him and almost vibrating with desire. But Bucky’s hands are gentle against you. And you know.
He’s going to treat you well.
“You think you can let go for me?” His question is gentle. Almost soft. “Always workin’ so hard.” He notches himself at your entrance, and your breath catches. “I’m gonna take care of you, aren’t I.”
“Yes.” You whisper. “Please.”
Bucky grins, and kisses your lips. “That’s right. You just gotta take it.”
You don’t get to even nod, before Bucky starts to push in.
And you’re not a blushing nun. You’ve used your fingers, and even some toys. Tried to see what the big deal was. But it had just felt like something was inside of you, and kind of heavy, and mostly just annoying.
This is different.
Bucky splits you open, and it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Breathe.” He grunts in your ear, and you nod uselessly. “Breathe, baby.”
You gasp for air, burying your face in the crook of Bucky’s neck, and clawing at his shoulders.
He mutters your name, and you try to arch your back up, inviting more. You need more. Everywhere he isn’t feels cold and hollow. Bucky needs to smear himself all over you, or you’re going to lose your mind.
“More.” You manage to croak out, and Bucky grunts.
“Are you-“
“Yes- Fuuuuck-“
You moan, loud and shameless, as Bucky presses deeper in. He bullies your pussy open, thick cock pressing deep into you and making your feel more full than you could’ve ever felt possible. Your body feels like it’s singing, a shiver of delight pushing up your spine as he hits that spot inside you that you weren’t even sure was real.
Your pussy clenches involuntarily, and Bucky hisses in your ear.
“Shit- Relax.” His thumb snakes between your bodies, massaging your clit. “Let me in, babydoll, come on-“
The massaging helps. You melt into him with a shaking breath, head tipping back when he bottoms out.
Bucky’s head drops into your chest, his breath hot against your breasts. You’re just sitting in each other, in the sticky, feverish heat that might drive you insane.
“You feel… fuckin’ perfect.”
Bucky’s voice is a rasp, and he sounds like a man ruined.
You might have already lost your mind.
“You too.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
The sound is a vibration, and you bite your lip as pleasure rushes right down to your toes.
“Oh… God.” You squeeze your eyes shut, clenching again, and Bucky grabs your hips.
“You gotta stop doin’ that-“
“Can’t.” You whine. “’S- You did it, you spent forever working me up, and- And now-“
His muscles shift around you, and that’s enough for your body to keen. Your back arches, pussy squeezing, and Bucky makes a guttural sound from his chest.
You squeak, when he pulls the tiniest amount out and slams back in. Your body goes completely limp, and Bucky pushes up over you, his cock still buried deep inside as he stares down at you.
“For someone who asked me to teach her, you’re bad at takin’ directions.”
“You- Bucky-“ He’s fucking you, shallow and slow. Just dragging back and forth. You might cry over it. “You- You knew that already-“
“I did.” He muses, pressing your hips further down. Forcing you to feel every thrust of his cock against your cervix. “It’s something that I love about you, y’know? So sweet and mouthy, all at once. My dream girl. So far outta my reach.”
He angles you a little up, letting him rut against your g-spot, and any chance of a sassy retort is knocked out of your head.
“Not right now, though.” His lips twitch. “Bet you’d tell me anythin’ right now, if I fucked you nice and properly. Fucked you like you deserve?”
Your head bobs, words slurred on lust. “Any- Anything, Bucky, oh my god- mmmmh-“
His thumb swipes your clit, and it’s like a tiny shock you can’t even react to. Your body jerks, but Bucky just pins you back into the mattress.
“Think I don’t want you to talk right now.” Bucky leans down, smirking as you blink with teary eyes. “We’re a little past that, aren’t we sweetheart?”
There’s something mean and powerful, radiating off of him right now. He really knows exactly where he has you right now. And you have no desire to be anywhere else.
“Ye- Yes.”
“Might’ve fucked you nicely, if we’d just talked a month ago.” He raises his brows. “But you made me wait for this pretty pussy. Hurting us both, baby.”
“I- I was-“
“I know.” He kisses your nose. “You are a fuckin’ brat. Bet you thought about this every time you touched yourself.”
“I- I did.” You confess. “Needed your cock, Bucky. You’re- You’re so big-“
You mewl, as he rolls his hips and slams back in. He kisses you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and you can feel your slick need running down your ass. Or just Bucky’s sweat, as he tenses with the effort to hold himself back.
Effort is visibly, slowly slipping.
“You feel that? Feel this dick inside of you?” He fucks a little harder, and your head rolls. “All yours, babydoll. This hard, just for you.”
You whine, and Bucky sucks on a soft spot at the base of your throat.
“You’re a natural.” He groans against your skin. “Made for this cock, made to be my pretty doll, and- shit-“
He rises back up, watching you with a dark, hungry gaze.
“You’re trying so hard, aren’t you. To not choke my dick with your tight little pussy.”
“I- I am, Bucky- Please-“
“You gonna be good and listen to me, now?”
You nod, doe-eyed and cockdrunk, and Bucky hums in satisfaction.
“Hands on my shoulders.” He instructs, and your body somehow finds the strength to listen. “Mouth open. No holding back, wanna hear how you like it. Hear you scream my name.”
He kisses under your jaw, and you moan loudly. Bucky’s lips curve, and he pulls a little further out than before.
“Just like that. Good, isn’t it?”
“So good.” You whine, and Bucky hums.
“Stay just like this for me, doll.” He drags fully out, then slams back in. You think you see stars behind your eyes, and a sound you didn’t know you could make is pulled from your chest.
“Buuccky-“
“I know. Needy girl, wound up so tight.” He sets a slow but brutal pace, his hands bruising into your hips as he holds you down. “I’ve got you now.”
And he does.
Bucky’s got you so good, you’re already ruined for anyone else.
He fucks you the same way he’s been kissing and touching you. Like he’s trying to lay a claim. Make it so there’s no question what he wants, no doubt in your head that this is anything but serious. His hips piston against you, but it’s not rapid. It’s the measured, strong work of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
If there’s a pleasure point on your body, Bucky’s finding it and using it. You babble, as he abuses your g-spot with the thick head of his cock. His kisses swallow your every moan and plea, and you can’t think beyond his massive body, completely draped over yours. You’re tangled together, his balls slapping your ass and hands wandering over your body like he owns it.
He drags your knees up to your chest, helping him hit even deeper. You’re so wet it’s smearing all over his cock, and the sight of him driving in and out of you is enough to make that pressure in your tummy feel like it’s going to explode.
Bucky’s beyond words himself, hunching over your and taking one of your nipples in his mouth as he grabs at the other. You mewl, eyes glazed over and body overwhelmed with the need to cum. You might scream if you don’t. You’re probably already screaming.
“I- I need- Bucky, please, please, fuck-“
You scratch at his shoulder, so close to toppling over the edge but unable to figure out how to just fall. Bucky grunts, slamming down harder. His tongue swirls your nipple, sucking the peak between full lips before he crashes back up. His kiss is sloppy and open. You’re writhing in the sheet, edged into complete oblivion and on the verge of tears.
“You having some trouble, babydoll?” Bucky teases, throaty and wrecked.
You nod, shaking with the need to snap. Bucky hums, kissing you too sweetly to be productive.
“Let go for me.” He squeezes your ass. “Just let go.”
Bucky finds your clit, and barely even offers more than a tease before you’re coming with a scream of his name.
Your back flies off the mattress, your hips bucking, and you’ve never cum this hard in your life. The tension in you burst like fireworks, heat pooling down your pussy and your body trembling. Your vision goes white. You might black out for a second, the daze of pleasure clouding your gaze.
There’s nothing but Bucky, still pounding into you. The obscene sounds of it, his guttural moans and the slide of his cock through your spasming cunt. His thrusts are jagged and uneven, his mouth kissing you everywhere he can seem to reach.
He follows you quickly, thick ropes of cum painting your insides and dribbling out of your pussy.
Bucky kisses you one more time, before he pulls out. It’s slower, like he’s trying to memorize you. You reach up to cup his face, smiling against his lips, and he lets out a heavy breath.
“That wasn’t too-“
“Perfect.” You whisper, and he relaxes.
“Good. Good.” He rises back up, brushing away the hair stuck to your face.
For a second, you just watch each other.
And with Bucky looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the universe, you feel like it.
He certainly treats you like it, too. Cleaning you up like you’re a princess, a treatment you never thought you’d want until it was Bucky offering. A warm, wet cloth between your thighs and a glass of water. He carries you into the bathroom, changes the sheets, then brings you back to bed.
He pauses after he sets you down, hovering around the mattress with a frown.
You scoot a little to the side, give him a hopeful look, and his shoulders slump.
He crawls into bed next to you, pressing his face into your breasts and holding you tight.
“We got things to talk about.” He mutters, and you hum, playing with his hair between your fingers.
“I know.”
“I was serious, about all of it-“
“I believe you.”
Bucky looks up at you with tired, but happy eyes. You smile, and they crinkle when he returns it.
It doesn’t matter if you’re the most anything in the world.
To him, you seem to be the world. And that’s more than enough.
“I’d like to take you out.” He says. “On a real date. Then the gala, too. If you-“
“Yes.” You beam. “Yes, please. I’d like that a lot.”
✦End note: bucky on a dating app has haunted me since tfatws. glad to do something with that.✦
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Okay another dad!clark thought because I’ve seen some TikTok’s.
Okay so I’m thinking early pregnancy. You’ve been married 2 years, very much enjoying married life, eating out, lazy mornings, romantic vacations, a little puppy, sneaking kisses at work (because of course you’re both journalists at the daily planet) but during your anniversary dinner at your favourite restaurant, you mention trying for a baby, and of course Clark agrees because he’s wanted to have a baby with you since the first day he met you. You waste no time trying for a baby, and 3 months later, you’re sat on the closed seat of the toilet while Clark sits on the side of the tub, looking at a positive pregnancy test. Clark cries, you cry, the dog cries, everybody cries!
Pregnancy symptoms start to kick in and you’re so poorly all the time. Clark gets very upset watching you cry over dinner, or breakfast, or water he’s trying to get you to drink. You really struggle with the nausea, and he tries everything to try and help. Ginger tea, mint gum, researching pressure points, he even calls your doctor for you to try and get some medication to help.
You’re also very tired and sore all the time. Sometimes, you’ll head home before him and he’ll come in to find you asleep on the couch, living room dark, curtains not even closed, just you still in your uncomfortable work clothes. Sometimes he’ll help you get changed and into bed, but other times he’ll cover you with a blanket and start on dinner.
He’s always giving you foot rubs, back massages, playing with your hair when you rest in his lap in front of a movie.
One morning, he’s watching you get ready for work, hair mussed and face bare, only wearing his sleep shirt and panties, and he’s just watching the slight curve of your stomach. You seemed to have popped overnight, and you’ve yet to realise.
“Honey?…”
“Yeah?”
“I think you’re showing.”
“What?”
You’ll jump in front of the mirror, and lo and behold, there’s a definite bump.
He’s crawling out of bed, only in his boxers, and slides up behind you, both hands landing on your hip, creeping towards your stomach. He’s definitely muttering how beautiful you are. How amazing you are. How proud of you he is.
He’s also definitely reading every single pregnancy and parenting book available, simultaneously. He’s got like 20 books on the go.
He comes with you to every appointment, and even though he could see the baby whenever he wants with his x-ray vision, he chooses not to, because only seeing the baby whenever you can makes it so much more special. He’s a mess seeing your baby, who at 20 weeks you find out is a little girl. And he is obsessed.
Anyway, that’s my thought of the day. I am so so so obsessed with dad!clark rn so if anyone has any thought prompts or blurb/fic requests please please please send them my way. I am working on a Scott requests and ywstk but…pleak 🙏
( ꈍᴗꈍ) ps: This is my first attempt to write something. So forgive me for this and for my English 'cause it is not my 1st Language
Reader is a shy woman who doesn't know how to express herself nor what she wants and always sticks up to the same boring sexual life.. so one day she decides to challenge herself into some bdsm stuff that she saw online ( on some weird blogs) anyways... She ended up buying some of them toys ..and.. kinda ...wear one of them (a plug) to work the very next day👀
Can you imagine now Clark riding to his work happy and innocent 😇 greetings everyone with some coffee on hand and then seeing his favorite person right at her desk running her hands at the keyboard... a single drop of sweat breaking over her forehead when she accepts his gift with a shy smile... not meeting eyes tho.. "that's.. that's weird" he thinks as he goes over his desk that's right besides hers.
at first he just brushes it off knowing her for a while now and being familiar with her shyness, the least thing Clark wants is to make her feel pressured or anything with theses interactions. but then after half a hour later he can still hear her heart beating fast and and a shaky low breath coming out of her mouth almost mute but not to him... "God..she must be sick" that thought immediately set his head up.. he checked her face. Nothing gives the impression of sickness. Reader still has her face fixed on her monitor and some paperwork... But her heart still beats fast and her hands are quite overworking today.
"Hmmm" He tapped the pen against his lips. The uncomfortable feeling is there but he doesn't know how to approach this withou- too immersed in his own thoughts Clark almost jumps after Reader stands up suddenly " oh no... Did he looked like a creep ??" See, here a thing: when you have these kinda of super powers, every normal thing to you is abnormal to others ."was he staring too much?" He tends to not blink when his analizing something and overthinking .
Reader seems to care less about it or even notice him staring at her as she grabs her purse off the ground and goes straight up to the bathroom's corridor. " Oh no.. is she gonna faint?" He can't help but to give a last look on her and he then uses his x-ray vision to check her conditions one last time as she walks by.
That's when he sees it
A small piece of metal object on a very compromising part of her body 👀👀👀
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“you like that, don’t you?” the rasp in his voice mixed with the way he grinds his hips down slowly, cock stretching you out perfectly, causes your eyelids to flutter closed and your nails to sink into the skin of his hip with each thrust. “like feelin’ how deep i am, honey?” teeth nip at your ear, one of his hands pressed down on your back, keeping you pinned down on the bed while the other rests beside your head. “yeah, you do, just look at you.”
you try to reply but with how his hand presses down on your lower back again, your eyes roll back and your lips part with a choked moan at the deep stretch of his cock pressing deeper into your cunt, walls fluttering around him. “that’s it, let me in, honey.” he cooes into the shell of your ear.
beyond the room, you can faintly hear the sound of waves crashing outside the sliding doors, a subtle reminder of the vacation you both took together for some warranted down time, but your mind isn’t focused on that, it’s focused on the feeling of his slow thrusting, focused on the sound of his breathless panting. the world outside doesn’t exist. not when he’s with you.
“you’re so pretty, baby,” he groans deeply, palms of his hands landing on the globes of your ass, and his eyes; hooded and lustful, watch the bounce of flesh. “so pretty like this.”
the fabric of the pillows muffle your moans, muffles the choked whines each time his hand lands on your ass, squeezing and rubbing to ease sting away gently. your body begins to jolt, moving higher up the bed each time he pulls out so the tip remains, just to sink back into you a little harder. the sounds of skin slapping together echoes the room loudly.
“so deep,” your words are slurred and breathless, eyes half open. “you’re so deep, honey, can’t, oh fuck,” the hand you had on his hip flies off and grips the sheet tightly beneath you, eyes rolling back a second time when both his hands are dripping your hips, practically dragging you back and forth onto his cock.
you’re pretty sure you’ve got drool dribbling down the corner of your mouth and onto the silk sheets below, but you don’t seem to care, he sure as hell doesn’t. the thick vein on the underside of his cock throbs against your walls, and it causes you to squirm underneath him but his hands stay clamped around your hips, keeping you from moving away from him.
“nuh uh, stay here, baby, just stay right here. yeah, that’s it, good girl.” his praise goes straight to your cunt and your walls clamp around him tightly. “takin’ it so good,” he’s sitting back just enough to look at the way you’re both connected, the sight of the thick creamy white ring around the base of his cock causes him to growl. a growl that emits from deep in his chest. he huffs out a breath through his nose, and keeping his thrusts hard enough to have you whining and moaning, but then switches them to a slow grind of his hips to have you begging all over again.
the second he’s lowering himself over you, the angle causes him to sink even deeper if that’s possible; he moves from your hips, and forms his hands into fists and presses themdown onto the mattress on each side of your hips instead and one of your hands grab onto the hard muscle of his arm, nails sinking into the skin once his thrusts get harder, driving into you with vigor. “i love you,” he groans, sweat forming on the hairline of his face and then down his temple, eyes flickering between where his cock slides in and out of your cunt and then at the way your muscles in your back tense. “love you so much.”
you’re rendered speechless, hair sticking to your face, tears streak down your face at the pure feeling of him fucking you so deep and good into the mattress that any thoughts you did have are now gone. you bury your face deeper into the pillows when he’s suddenly moving his arm, not the one you’re still holding and slides his hand down your stomach before his fingers find your throbbing clit, that you scream into the pillow, his long digits rubbing slow but constant figure eights on the sensitive nub in tune with each of his thrusts. “ohmygod! don’t stop, please don’t stop.” you finally manage to cry out.
he grins smugly, and shakes his head despite you not being able to see him. “never, honey, never gonna stop.” he promises.
your orgasm washes over you like a tidal wave, no prior warning and your walls tighten around his cock again, his breatch hitches at the feeling and clenches his jaw tightly and you can tell he isn’t far behind with how his movements get slower and sloppier above you, groaning and moaning breathlessly; the sweat from his forehead and chest drop onto your back but he doesn’t stop, his fingers against your clit don’t stop either.
“gonna cum, baby,” his voice is wrecked, raspy and low. “where do you want it?”
“inside,” you gasped out, your body still coming from the high of your own orgasm; you’re pretty sure he might even pull another one from you if he keeps it up. “want it inside, please, need it inside.”
all it takes is a few more deep thrusts, and his entire body locks and tenses before he’s spilling deep inside you. “wait, baby, don’t do that,” he chokes out weakly when your cunt flutters around him, trying to milk his cock for all he’s worth. “christ,” his cock twitches inside you, and when you hum contently at the feeling of him filling you up just like you always ask for he laughs hoarsly. “you’re greedy,” he murmurs, carefully lowering himself to press his chest against your back. his body was warm despite being sweaty. “and beautiful.”
once he’s close enough he presses his face into your neck from behind, you turn your head as best you can, even if the angle is awkward, and press a kiss to his temple; you hope it’s his temple; your eyes are still hooded and glazed. “love you, honey. stay like this with me for a while.”
“you’re still warm around me, not going anywhere. the beach and margaritas can wait” he murmurs into the damp skin on your neck. then softly, he speaks again. “love you more, always.”
or... how do you tell the girl you like that you're superman?
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
summary: you give clark kent a chance despite your better judgement
words: 7.2k
warnings: MDNI, fluff, smut (fingering, dry humping), light angst! more smut (fingering, piv, creampie, one pussy pronoun... big dick clark), happy ending
notes: i haven't written fanfiction in about 5 years so i would really appreciate feedback. i've never written clark but i was moved... i have some more ideas so lmk if u like this :P
Clark Kent is a pushover. Okay, no, well – maybe. Clark Kent is definitely a pushover. It isn’t always so glaringly obvious to other people. Late to a work meeting? He was coming with a couple trays of coffee to make up for it. And yes, it was everyone’s exact order. I mean, did he have a notes app entry of everyone's order? It seems the exact sort of thing Clark Kent would do. Along with it, your name was always squiggled on in his annoying, pushover handwriting with a smiley face to boot. You had to suppress the eye roll every time.
Was it just you thinking this? Or did it feel like he simply turned it on when you were around? Always holding the door open, offering to read over your articles, oh and the feedback was always so well thought out. It’s like he could pick up on the places you were subconsciously unsure of and simply offer up a solution out of nowhere. A solution you had no idea you even needed. He was a pushover. Or an opportunistic freak. I mean, a man always had an ulterior motive and the small-town Kansas gentleman thing was purely an act, it had to be –
“Y/N?” His voice cuts through the chatter of the room, heard by you over the clicking of keys and conversations. It is so easy for him to pull you out of your thoughts.
You have to wipe the look off your face. I mean, whose voice sounds like that? All kind and dripping with sweetness. You don’t trust Clark Kent as far as you could throw him and God knows you weren’t moving that well-toned body of his, how much did he work out and that bone structure, I mean– “What, Clark?” You know you sound snippy because he looks like a kicked puppy. Well, actually, he always looks like that around you.
Clark’s glasses sit on the edge of his nose, he pushes them up as he speaks, “Oh, um, sorry to bother you.” His desk chair scoots over from his desk over to yours. A common occurrence. Jimmy and Lois would share a glance over it, you’re sure. “I was just wondering if you’d read over my latest piece. The new one about Superman.” He’s got that look on his face. Is he trying to impress you or shove it in your face? Everyone would kill for an interview with Superman, but of course, Clark Kent is the only one to secure them.
You roll your eyes. You can’t help it. “Clark, I’m sure it’s great. I’m sure it’ll be on the front page like the last four articles you wrote about him.” You turn your attention back to your computer, not wanting to continue the conversation.
“Oh, really? You think so?” It typically takes a few more sassy replies from you to get him to retreat back to his desk, but not this time. This was Clark Kent who only ever takes your words at face value. Clark Kent who can’t seem to pick up on the fact you’re annoyed with him, always. Clark Kent who won’t stop till every person at the Daily Planet at least tolerates him.
“You bet, Clarkie.” Your voice is laced with faux sweetness, but Clark turns away with a smile on his face, his posture straighter than before, desk chair wheels sliding back the way he came from.
Clark would annoy you more if it wasn’t for the little way your heart flipped when he came through the door every morning. But that part of you was never your brain talking, hell, it probably wasn’t even your heart. You swore off the men of Metropolis a long time ago. Relationships were always too complicated and men more so. You have been hurt too many times. They all started off strong. Kind, gentlemen-like, and a little too good to be true. More likely than not, Clark Kent was the same. He wanted one thing and once he got it? No more doors opened before you had a chance to look up. No more take-out containers appearing during the nights when you had to make a deadline. Not to mention you worked together. You couldn’t handle ruining the one place you actually loved. And for what? Clark Kent? Even if it was real, he is too sweet. He probably helps old ladies cross the street and the only thing you ever knew was tumultuous relationships.
You would throw your hands against the desk if you didn’t want to draw so much attention to yourself. He always had a way of worming himself into your brain. He didn’t even have to try very hard. His smile lit up rooms. He was so tall and broad yet he tried to shrink so as not to take up so much space. You could kill him, you think.
It was clear to Lois and Jimmy that Clark has a crush on you. It was the most obvious thing on the planet. Clark was nice. The whole act you assumed was for the purpose of getting things out of others was simply how he was. He was a gentleman from Kansas, always taught to do the right thing from Ma and Pa. But it was different with you. He was even more nervous than usual. Clark went out of his way to make sure you were comfortable, that you were seen. If you rubbed at your temples too much, an Advil would appear on your desk. If you yawn a little more than usual, a cup of coffee prepared just the way you like. He never needed the credit for it either. Just did it because he knew it was the right thing to do for someone you admired.
You picked up on it. You weren’t blind. “I mean, he does that for everyone, doesn’t he?” You had asked Lois last week.
Her eyebrows raised. “I mean, no. If I ask, sure, Clark is happy to get me a cup of coffee from the break room. For you? He’ll go to that place down the street.” She had a knowing look on her face. More often than not, you had been going back to Clark as a topic of conversation. In the past, you brushed him off.
You sighed, picking at the skin around your fingers. “Well, if anything, he just wants to get in my pants.” You had seen it before. Hell, the last intern the Daily Planet hired had tried it too, but once he realized you weren’t interested, the pleasantries had stopped. That hasn’t happened with Clark, not yet anyway. “Right?” You looked at Lois again.
“Sure and settle down with you in Kansas somewhere and give you a handful of kids and wait on your hand and foot or whatever floats your boat.” She shrugged. She wasn’t going to waste more of her breath trying to convince you that Clark was one of the good ones. You had to figure that out on your own and your mind was surely set on staying away. And she sure as hell wasn’t gonna go out of her way to vet him for you, at least not for a little while longer. I mean, she had her $50 bucks put on the fact it would take longer than six months for you guys to go on a date. Jimmy on the other hand was convinced it would take less than six months. She was right on the cusp of winning, you just had to hold out a little while longer. Lois can't let Jimmy Olsen win a bet. “But, really, you’re probably right. I mean no man is that perfect.” She emphasized, glancing over at Clark.
That was a week ago. Now, your restraint seems to be thinning more and more every day that you catch a glimpse of him in that white button down, his glasses hanging close to the tip of his nose. You had managed to finish the day off still mildly annoyed at him, though. I mean, push up your glasses for God's sake.
Clark, on the other hand is making eye contact with Jimmy, shaking his head vehemently as Jimmy gestures over to you, mouthing, “Come on, man. Ask her out!” Clark is nervous. He didn’t want to ruin anything between you, but it was getting harder for him to ignore the ache in his chest. He glances over at your desk, noticing that you're packing your bag for the night. Oh gosh, is he about to do this?
Jimmy throws a fist up in the air signaling triumph as Clark scrambles out of his chair, stuttering over his words, “Oh, hey, wait, let me grab that for you.” He reaches your desk, scooping your bag over his shoulder as he smiles. “You know, we, uh, walk the same way.”
You shrug. “Okay.” It was a long day. He was strong and capable. He could carry your bag a few blocks. He’s quick to grab the door before you can, push the elevator button, and follow you to the street.
“How was your day?” He asks, genuinely curious. He’s only stalling a little on asking you on a date. I mean, would you say yes? Were you set on being friends? Friendly co-workers? He knew he wanted more than that and Ma always said it was better to just take a chance.
“Honestly? It kind of sucked. Perry was on my ass, sending me email after email when I sent in my draft for Sunday. I just– I worry I’m not always picking up the slack. Like, that I’m not good enough to be here.” You sigh, glancing up at Clark as you walk. Where the hell did that come from? But you knew. Clark was always easy to talk to. He had a way about him that sort of eased the ache in your chest.
The frown on his face is genuine. “Oh, come on, you know that’s not true.” His brows are furrowed, his grip tightening on your bag. “You’re one of the best writers I know.” He clears his throat, his admiration as clear as day. “Plus, Perry was just in one of his moods. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, it might’ve been my fault.” He’s sheepish when he says it.
Your mouth drops open. “What? Clark Kent, golden boy? Perry upset with you?” You bump into his side as you walk, teasing him. Conversation flows easy between Clark and you. As much as you hated to admit it at times.
Your building looms in the distance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a taste of Clark Kent. It had been awhile since you had any romantic prospects. Maybe it didn’t have to be so life or death for you. Maybe it could just be fun. It could even be nice after the day you had.
Your footsteps slow down as you reach the front door of your building, your body turning to face Clark. His eyes stare down into your own. He swallows. Does he know what you’re about to ask?
“Do you want to come up?”
“Can I take you out on a date?”
You both stutter over your next sentences. “Oh– Well.”
“Yes.” You say at the same time, a matching grin on both of your faces.
—-
What were you doing? Maybe you didn’t quite think this through, you think as your front door clicks shut.
“Oh, you can just, uh,” You grab your bag from Clark’s shoulder, dumping it off on your coffee table as you take in the state of your apartment. It wasn’t that bad. After taking a quick inventory, you turn back to Clark, finding him with a goofy smile on his face. As much as you wish it wasn’t, it was contagious. “Stop smiling like that.” You can’t help the way a smile tugs at your own lips looking at him.
His fingers push the bridge of his glasses up his nose, a chuckle falling from his lips. He’s got a blush dusting his cheeks, has he always been this cute? “I just can’t believe you said yes to a date. I mean, and now I’m in your apartment and it’s just–”
You close the space you made, stopping his rambling as you stare up at his face. I mean you invited him up for a reason, right? You might as well take the chance while you have him here. You could do this despite your heart wanting to jump out of your chest and into his. You stand on your tip-toes, leaning into him. “Come on, Clark, kiss me.” Here you were, taking the chance. God, that stupid button up and your stupid feelings.
He really doesn’t have to be told twice. Clark’s hand comes up to cup the side of your face, leaning in and connecting your lips together. Oh, fuck. Your lips move in sync, your eyes closing as you melt into his touch. He is so big, so tall, and all consuming as he deepens the kiss. His nose nudges against your own as he tries to get as close as possible to you. A small groan escapes his lips as he pushes your bodies together, a hand on the small of your back. “I, uh, ‘msorry.” He mumbles against your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours. Clark, ever the gentleman, worrying he’s taken it too far. “I’ve wanted to do that forever, didn’t know if you’d ever ask.”
A small laugh escapes your lips, already feeling drunk from the feeling of his lips against yours. “Not sure I was ever going to ask.” You peck his lips, sliding your hands across his chest. “But maybe I finally lost my senses.”
“Oh, yeah?” He can’t wipe the smile off his face as his hands glide over your shoulders to slide down to hold at your waist. “Can I kiss you again?” His hands give your hips a gentle squeeze before he sees your nod and dives back in and this time, it feels even more consuming than the last. Your hands can’t stop exploring the expanse of his chest, his back, the hardness of him, his biceps and the softness too, the way his biceps flex when his arms move to pull you closer. Your hand finds his as you continue to kiss. You pull away from his lips as you begin to tug him towards the couch.
Clark is quick to sit down and pull you onto him. He isn’t sure how he waited this long to kiss you, to touch you. The world before seems foreign to him now. Have you always been this soft? This beautiful? His hands are moving over your body, squeezing your plush hips in his hands as his lips work down your neck. “I still want to take you out, okay?” He reassures you. His fingers tease at the edge of your shirt, pushing it up an inch just to get a taste of your skin. His fingertips tickle at the bare skin of your tummy; it makes you shiver. You can barely think. “I, uh, I’ve wanted to ask you out for so long.” Every word is punctuated with a kiss as he moves all over your neck, your throat, back to your face: your lips, your cheeks, nuzzling you now that he’s allowed to. “Is this okay?” His fingers are skating at the edge of your shirt, the heat they leave in their wake is enough to make you shiver. You nod.
Clark shakes his head, fingers desperately gripping at your waist again. “No, I need to hear you say it.” His forehead is pressed against yours, wondering how the hell he ended up here. Maybe he’s dreaming. “Please.”
You nod again, “Yes, please. Touch me.” Your thighs are straddling his lap as your hips subconsciously grind down against him as you give him your answer. He’s hard underneath you. You swallow. Sure, you knew what you invited him up here for, but you didn’t expect the way heat pooled in your stomach, the way his lips felt against yours. It was electric. You didn’t think you had wanted someone so bad from a kiss before. Didn’t think you’d ever want Clark Kent like this. Clark Kent with his curls disheveled from your hands, his pupils blown out underneath his glasses, the few buttons of his shirt undone, the expanse of his chest peeking out from underneath. You could come from that sight alone.
Clark’s hands tease underneath your shirt, squeezing and touching over all the skin he can reach before he’s pushing a hand underneath your bra and taking your mouth with his again. He can’t help the groan that escapes as he grinds up against you, the feeling of your bare skin making him come undone. “Ah– I,” Clark’s head falls back against the couch as you press down against him, creating a pace against the hard-on in his pants. “I, I don’t do this, usually.” He wants to elaborate, wants to tell you he really does prefer a first date because he wants to earn this, earn you, but he can’t get much else out as he watches you on top of him.
“Uh-huh.” You're lost in the feeling of dry humping with him, throat tight. Your pussy aches every time his clothed cock rubs just right. You can only imagine how big, how girthy he is if he feels this way through his pants. Your hands are gripping at his shoulders as you rut against him, his hands still kneading your breasts.
His hands are pulling your top over your head, undoing your bra so he can get at more of your skin with his hands and his mouth. He takes extra care to make sure no piece of your skin goes untouched.
“Come on, Clarkie, please.” You beg, the usual teasing nickname slipping out without a thought, wanting to feel his hands where you really need them. It seems to work as his large hand slips underneath your pants, fingers swiping down to feel your heat through your underwear. He can feel the wetness seeping through your panties. His fingers tease, paying attention to your clit, giving it an experimental rub through the cloth to see your reaction. Your hips buck, losing whatever rhythm they might have had as you cry out. It’s been awhile and you’re so sensitive, you go to explain just as his fingers shove the cloth aside and touch with no barrier. “Ah, oh, fuck.” Your hips stutter again, his fingers slipping toward your entrance.
“Oh, wow, honey.” He breathes out, mouth kissing at your chest as his fingers tease at your slick entrance. His fingers swipe through your folds before sinking in a single finger. He barely has to push in before you sink down onto it fully without a second thought. You’re so wet, a second finger slides in as easily as the first, he can feel the way your pussy throbs at the intrusion. “Feel good?” He cuts through your foggy mind, his fingers sloppily moving in and out as his mouth returns to claim yours. You give a slight nod, lost in the feeling. “You still gonna let me take you out?” His thumb joins in, lightly rubbing at your clit.
“Yes, you can take me out on a stupid date.” You push your lips harder against his, moving your hips against his hand, the sound of his fingers fucking into your slick heat fills the room. The feeling in your stomach tightens, close to release. Of course you’ll go out with him especially if his fingers feel this good. Oh gosh, if his fingers feel like this, what will his cock feel like?
Clark’s fingers keep nudging at your clit, his fingers inside of you feeling over that spongy part, petting, coaxing. He is keeping a steady rhythm as he tunes into the sound of your breathing, the steady thump of your heart. Every time he senses a slight stutter, he keeps the steady rhythm going. His eyes rake over your body, his other hand holding your hips in place the more they want to rut against him. He can’t focus like that. His cock is throbbing in his pants, but he thinks he could cum just watching you like this. With his senses so in tune with yours. “You gonna come, baby?” A kiss presses to your neck, “You gonna come on my fingers?” You choke on your words, your pussy tightening with the feeling in your stomach. It’s about to snap every time he speaks. “Let me see it,” He begs, somehow his voice sounds nearly as wrecked as you feel, “Please.” Clark’s voice cracks, holding you to his chest just as the band in your stomach snaps. You fall forward, gripping at his clothed chest.
“Ah, ah, ah, fuck, Clark.” You gasp, his fingers slowing down their assault, but working you through your orgasm till your body twitches and your hand shoves at his wrist, “Ha, Clark, quit.” You breathe, hiding your face in his neck. His fingers slowly leave your panties, not too fast. He can tell how sensitive you’re feeling. He wants to laugh, but only from the sense of happiness building in his chest.
“Good?” His voice is hoarse, deeper than usual. One hand slides to your back, rubbing small circles.
You nod sleepily. “God. Great, Clark.” Your voice is breathless. Even after your orgasm, you aren’t unaware of his cock still pressing into your clothed core. You aren’t unaware of how big it feels. You aren’t unaware of the ache still in your pussy, needing him to really fill it. You’re still sensitive, but your body is still curious as your core makes another swipe over his lap, testing, teasing.
His hands are quick to grab at your waist, holding you still. “Ah, ah, I–.” He laughs, head dropping back to the couch as he stares up at your face, glasses crooked. A small, knowing grin adorns your face. God, did you get prettier? “I, uh–” He glances at the clock on your wall. He had plans. Superman duties. And he really does want to take you out first. His cock twitches. You can see the inner battle on his face. Was this Kansas boy serious? He really did want to take you out? “I have to go and I really do want to take you out first.” He’s sheepish as he says it, a light blush dusting his cheeks. As if it’s something to be embarrassed about. As if he didn’t make your heart squeeze and give you the best orgasm you’ve had in months.
“You mean it?” You tease, your lips press a small kiss to the side of his mouth.
Clark nods, those matching grins adorning your faces again. “I mean it.”
—
6:00 PM. Saturday.
The click of shoes against hard wood. Again. Again. Pacing. A glance at the clock. A glance at the calendar.
6:30 PM. Saturday.
A sigh, shoes dropping to the hard wood. You slump on the couch, glancing at the last texts you exchanged with Clark this morning.
pick you up at 6 pm on the dot :)
Clark was rarely late and when he was, he made up for it. You try to remember that.
7:00PM. Saturday.
You fight the urge to text him. Is he okay? Surely he wouldn’t stand you up. That would be silly.
7:30PM. Saturday.
Would it?
9:20PM. Saturday.
No, not silly. No text and a no show. You want to text Lois, ask if she wants to go out to the bar. I mean, you got ready and for what? But your heart actually breaks a little. A little told you so to yourself. I mean, he couldn’t even close the deal so what did he really get out of it? You grumble, sinking into the couch. Stupid feelings and stupid chances. How are you supposed to face him on Monday? Maybe that’s on him. Maybe he can deal with the death glares you stare into the back of his head now. Did he do this on purpose? Did he know you really did not want to fall for his stupid little act and somehow got you to anyway?
“Ugh.” You throw your phone onto the cushion beside you, heading falling back just as a knock startles you in the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You’re quick to rise from your spot on the couch, even quicker to rip the door open. You can’t even speak before Clark is apologizing. “I am so, so, so, sorry.” His eyes meet yours as soon as you open the door, the kicked puppy look is on full blast. “Please, don’t shut the door.” He begs, one hand extending to you, the other holding a bouquet of flowers.
“Are you serious, Clark?” You want to scream, but your voice is low. Lethal.
His eyes plead with you. “I got caught up in, in, — I mean, have you seen the news? I was on the other side of the city and there was an attack, I mean it was just like the one from a few months ago, you remember the one, right?” He’s rambling, he knows it. He means it. He wouldn’t have missed your date unless he had good reason. It’s not like he has to tell you his secret, not after one missed date. “There was this huge explosion and all the transit had to stop, and, you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” He saves himself the embarrassment and stops talking as you pull out your phone and see the news.
Okay, so you spent 3 hours sulking around the house without checking the news. Is that on you or him? And God, Clark probably stuck around to help cats out of trees and old ladies under rubble. You’re almost sure of it. “Oh.” You say dumbly, looking back up at him before your eyes narrow. “No text? Not even one?”
He shrugs, that sheepish look on his face as he holds up his phone, the screen black. “No battery.”
You roll your eyes, tugging him into your apartment. “Okay, fine. You’re forgiven.” You point a finger at him, poking at his chest. “For now.”
—
So you reschedule for next weekend. This time, there’s even less pressure on it. You had planned a dinner and movie at your place. There were too many deadlines lately at work this week and you hadn’t wanted to go out. Clark agrees with the promise that he’ll take you out somewhere really nice once work isn’t as stressful. Not even a first date down and he’s already planning the other ones. Quite sure of himself, you think, as you finish getting ready.
You had already ordered the pizza and he was due to be at your apartment in about 15 minutes.
It’s starting to feel like a repeat of your first plans when 30 minutes go by and the pizza begins to grow cold on the table. You played it safe this time too and let the news play while you waited. Just in case.
You want to cry when another hour goes by. How did you let yourself get your hopes again? You sit on the couch and let it happen. There’s no use pretending that your heart wasn’t feeling the way it was. You liked Clark. Like really liked him. You liked the stupid way he wrote your name on the coffee cups with the stupid smiley faces and you liked the way his eyes searched for you in the morning at work, you liked the way he texted you his stupid thoughts and dumb fun facts. He was genuine and goofy. Like stupidly so. But he was also opinionated and never afraid to stand up for what was right. You liked the way his hands would linger on your back when he held the door open for you, you liked the way he started sneaking kisses on the elevator at work.
You hope he shows up at the door still. You hate yourself for it, too. There was a reason you didn’t want to get your hopes up about Clark Kent because you would be stupidly in love if you did.
You fall asleep on the couch crying yourself to sleep. No fist knocking against wood wakes you up.
The sun rises another day.
–
Can we talk?
You want to throw your phone across the room. Can we talk? Really? He wants to stand you up and thinks you can’t take the hint? Now he wants to break it off in person? I mean, what was there to even break off? You’ve only been seeing each other for a week, if you can even call it that. There was no date. Just secret kisses, secret touches in the elevator and the copy room and the stairwell and– you groan, unsure of what to even say. Did you owe it to yourself to see him again? To tell him off?
ok. u can come over in an hour
–
Maybe you’ve shot yourself in the foot. As Clark sits across from you on the couch, you lose all the fight you once had. You’re just sad. Because Clark Kent is perfect in nearly every way except he can’t show up to a date on time to save his life.
He’s nervous. You have no idea why he’s nervous considering he already did the hard part and stood you up twice. No better way to tell a girl that you’re not really interested. “I, um–” He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact.
How do you tell the girl you like that you're Superman? Clark wishes he could bring out his phone, bring up the notes app he had jotted ideas down on. The words came easier to him in writing. There was no easy way to get this out. Clark Kent had no excuse for missing his dates with you. Superman did. How does he separate the two? How did he ever believe he could? How selfish could he be? There was a reason he didn’t date. But it was different when it came to you. He felt like he could be himself, as much as himself as he could be without really telling you about Superman. Did this have to be so convoluted? He trusted you. He knew you had integrity. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing, but bring more understanding between the two of you. He knew if he told you, this could really happen. Everything might fall into place.
The real selfish thing was not allowing Clark Kent to love. He owed it to himself to let love in. What else was there? The most human thing of all.
“This isn’t easy for me.” He clears his throat finally looking up at you. He wants to reach across the couch, take your hand in his, pour his heart out. But he doesn’t deserve that. Not yet. “I, uh, don’t deserve your forgiveness.”
You roll your eyes. “Just spit it out, Clark.” There’s a venom in your voice that breaks his heart, “I expected this. I mean, really? I should’ve known it was all an act.”
Clark frowns. “That’s really what you think of me?” His emotions seem to be getting the best of him. He knows you don’t mean it. You’re hurt. He’s hurt you.
“I mean, really? How else do you explain this?” You move your hands around the air between the two of you. “You wanted a little secret, office romance or whatever. I don’t know!” You’re exasperated. “You don’t want the, like, real thing.” You frown. “It’s fine. Just stop dragging it out.” You can feel the tears sting at your eyes.
“That’s not at all what this means to me.” He looks at his hands, wrings them together. “You- I, –” He runs a hand over his face. “You remember when I missed the first date we had?” Clark makes eye contact with you again, watches you nod, watches the first tear drop. “I wasn’t just caught in the middle of all of that, I mean, I was. But not in the way you think.” He swallows, brings his hands up to his face. “I was– I am–” He rips the glasses off his face, watching recognition dawn on your face.
“Clark.” You are at a loss for words. “I mean, what?” Your hands reach forward to grip his face in yours, thumbs sliding across his cheeks. He’s your Clark, but he’s Superman. The man from work who had driven you up the wall from how perfect he had this act down. The man who was respectful to a fault. The man whose values were worn on his chest and his heart on his sleeve. The man you knew as Clark Kent makes so much sense now like two pieces of a puzzle finally creating the full picture.
Clark laughs, unsure of himself. Unsure of how to be these two things to you at once. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m usually on time. Just two really ill timed alien monsters attacking and you know, it’s kinda–” You cut him off with a kiss.
“Thank you for telling me.” You shake your head still unsure of if you’re seeing things right. “I can’t imagine.” You're still holding his face in your hands, in awe, watching in real time as these two personalities come to meet in the middle, meet in the man before you. How do you blame a guy for missing a couple dates when he’s saving the world? Especially when he makes it up to you in so many other ways. “I can’t imagine what you have to carry on your own.” You frown, hands sliding from his face to his chest. You imagine the suit as your fingers run over his chest, the beacon of hope that those colors carry, the hope he has to carry for the world.
Clark can’t keep his hands from you anymore as he moves one to cup your cheek. “You’re not mad?” He smiles, “You can still be mad.” He reassures, pushing your hair to tuck behind your ear. “There is nothing in the world that can truly keep me from you, not anymore.” His lips are close to connecting with yours and those words alone have you closing the distance.
There is so much between you. The sadness you were feeling washes away into something entirely different. Deeper, stronger. Admiration, longing, a trust that settles in your bones. “Don’t make me wait again, Clark.” You tease, “Superman.” Your words are laced with the emotions you’re feeling, dripping with something you can’t quite name.
Clark eases you down onto the couch, his lips still capturing your own as his fingers explore your body. They run along your thighs, your legs, reveling in the fact that you’re still here, that you know him. That you still want him. “I mean it. I’m gonna do my best with you. I promise. As long as you’ll let me.” And his words have a different meaning. You share him with the world, but know him more intimately than the world ever could.
Your body arches into his touch, his fingers dancing along your skin. He tugs off your shirt, his own following as he gets to know your body, slowly, surely. “I’m not going anywhere, Clark.” Your voice is breathless as his fingers slip in between your bodies, under your pants, a familiar ache in your bones as his fingers gather up your slick and make circles around your clit. You can feel him pressing against your inner thigh. Your own hands explore down his chest till they’re running over the outline of his cock through his pants, your breath hitches as you feel how big he is. At the same time, he’s pushing two fingers into you, slowly easing them in and out, searching for that soft spot deep inside you, the spongy spot that has you cooing.
He’s quick to draw an orgasm from you once he gets your pants off, peppering kisses over your face, your torso as he works you through it. “I got you, come on, let me have it.” He’s kissing over your neck as you come down, “So pretty.” He praises, his other hand running up and down your side.
“Clark.” His head is tucked into your neck. “Clark.” You're laughing, his fingers tickling the skin of your thighs. He’s still hard, you can feel him pressing against your naked core, but he makes no effort to address it. “Are you gonna fuck me, Clark?” You whine, pushing back up into him.
His lips return to yours briefly before he’s looking down at you. “You’re sure?”
“I think there’s nothing that I want more right now.” You give him a push of your hips to make a point.
Clark groans into your mouth, nodding. “Okay, okay.” He sits up, slowly unbuckling his pants and pushing them down with his boxers. His cock springs free.
Oh.
Oh.
He’s bigger than you could’ve imagined. Longer than you felt. Thicker than you felt. You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his cock. It’s almost embarrassing. Clark’s hand is rubbing the back of his head, looking at the way you’re ogling him. “I, uh–” You swallow, “Is that even gonna fit?” Your eyes flit up to his own before looking back down. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him working his way into you. “I mean, Clark–” Your laugh is breathless.
Clark is leaning back over you, his fingers finding your wetness again, pooling even more than before from your orgasm and the sight of his cock. “She’s wet enough to take it.” He mumbles, fingers gathering your wetness before he’s smearing it onto his cock and spreading the pre-cum that has gathered from his leaking, red tip. He pumps his cock a couple times in his fist, his other hand squeezing at your waist. “You trust me, don’t you?” Clark purrs with a few lingering kisses against your neck. You nod, at a loss for words as the tip of his cock pushes through your folds, nudging at your clit. The feeling makes you jolt. Clark’s eyes are locked on the sight of his cock glistening with your juices, rubbing along the length of your slit, teasing, testing, eyes glancing up at your face to gauge your reaction.
You whine, hips stuttering against his own, needing him to fill the ache between your legs with the length of him. “I told you not to make me wait again.” You hiccup, bottom lip jutting out.
Clark hisses as his tip nudges at your entrance, your hips seeking where you want him most. His tip catches at the soft ring of flesh, sinking in as your hips continue to tease him. It’s easier than you thought, a soft squelch filling the living room as he gives you the first inch. Your slick lets him in easily as your pussy begins clenching around him. “How’s that feel, sweetheart?” His cock stills in you, not pushing in until you adjust to the thickness of him. You’re nodding, unable to speak from how good it feels. “Use your words.” He urges, voice steady despite how wrecked he feels, his hand sliding down your body, thumb finding your clit.
“Yeah, yes, Clark.” You choke out.
“Good.” He answers, pushing in the rest of the way as your pussy gives way. It’s snug and your pussy clenches around his cock. He can feel your walls stretch, accommodating his size. When he reaches the hilt, he groans out, “I knew you had it in you.” His thumb is still toying with your clit as he begins to move in and out. He’s slow with it at first, letting you adjust to the feeling of his cock fully sheathed inside you. “You’re taking me so well.” It’s constant praise as he’s shoving his cock in and out, the lewd sounds filling the space; his balls hitting your ass he picks up the pace.
“Clark, I– Oh, fuck.” You’re drunk from the fullness of him. You live and breathe Clark Kent. If you thought his kisses were all consuming, there’s nothing compared to the feeling of his dick splitting you in half, his lips capturing yours in a kiss as his pace picks up. His thumb rubbing small circles at just the right pace, the right pressure. It’s better than you could’ve imagined. Your throat is tight, your entire body clenching from the pleasure of it, just waiting to snap.
“Come on, baby.” He’s urging you, cock pushing as far as he can, his body snug against your own as he ruts into your pussy, grinding his length deep within you. He’s losing his resolve. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold onto his semblance of sanity here. How long he can keep his strength in check as his fingers squeeze onto your waist. It stings, but only adds to the pleasure.
The only thing you can feel is Clark. His fingers on your waist, squeezing, his thumb toying with your clit, his cock shoving in, his mouth kissing along your throat. “Come with me.” He’s begging, voice cracking, but you can’t tell. Too lost in the feeling of him, your fingers clawing at his back, legs wrapped around his waist, clutching him as close as he can humanely get. You have no idea how badly he needs this, lives for this.
It snaps. “Oh, Clark.” Your thighs tighten around him, the tightness in your body evaporating as you come, body shivering as he works you through it. He’s following behind you, his cock coating the inside of your pussy with his spend. His hips grind into yours, working his cum deeper and deeper into you as you both cling onto each other, his cock kissing your cervix as he comes down. Both breathless, both completely spent. There was no way you were getting Clark Kent out of your bones, out of your head. You’re thinking it’ll only be easier to forgive him if every apology is like this.
His arms are on either side of your face as he peppers kisses across your skin. “Okay?” Clark is softening inside of you, the rest of him visibly melting at the sight of you, he’s not sure if he can handle seeing you like this, so pliant in his hands, so in love. “I’m gonna move, sweetheart.” A soft sound fills the room as his cock slides from inside you. His body is moving from a top of yours and your hands grip at his biceps, a pleading look in your eyes.
“Don’t go, Clarkie.” Your voice is small, almost sad. You’re not sure you can ever give him up.
Clark shakes his head, gathering up your body against his. It’s effortless on his part. “Don’t plan on it.” He promises. The rest of the day is for you. The rest of the night is for making up for the mistakes he’s already made. And oh, Clark Kent always makes up for his mistakes. He would make sure he earned every single piece of you, every day. That is the only way he knew how to do it. He only knew how to live by being all in and completely dedicated.
ok bye lmk if u like it... i hate writing an ending
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
this is just a quick(ie) little smut.... i was inspired by supergirl but there's not any spoilers i just got an idea... please.... send me some more ideas for clark... i cant stop thinking about him... and ive been watching smallville again too :P
warnings: piv, creampie, clark talks you thru it always, multiple orgasms, i need him so bad
Each of your words is punctuated by a kiss. “I mean, I really am glad Kara’s staying. Don’t get me wrong.” You assure, fingers sliding to grasp onto Clark’s curls. “It’s just—“
He’s nodding along with your words, “Uh-huh. No privacy, honey.” He’s kissing along your neck now, fingers teasing at the bare skin when your shirt rides up underneath him.
“And if it’s not her, it’s the dog.” You grumble, throwing your head back in exasperation, but giving Clark more room to suck a hickey into your neck. He bites just right till he’s soothing the pain with his tongue, licking a long stripe back up your neck.
“Uh-huh.”
It’s not that Clark doesn’t want to keep talking, but he knows he only has so much time with you. It’s been quickies or risky sexy for the past week. At least Kara is apartment hunting now, but considering he had unrestricted access to you before; now it’s nearly impossible. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on like this.
Especially now, a hand slotted against your mouth as he ruts into you after pulling as many orgasms he could from you before the throbbing of his cock was impossible to ignore. She’s not home yet. His ears haven’t picked up on the sound of the lock turning, but if his hearing goes so far, he can only imagine hers. “I know, pretty.” He reassures, watching the way your pupils dilate. Your breath comes out of your nose, fast and hard, trying to contain yourself. The room is soft groans, whimpers, his words glide over your skin like a secret. You’ve become so used to moaning Clark’s name like a prayer. “I want to hear you. You know I do.” He grunts, his words accompanied by his thrusts.
Clark’s hand unfortunately can’t cover the lewd sounds filling the room as your pussy grips him. There’s a small puddle of slick underneath you from the other orgasms he had pulled out of you. There was so much pent up want and need between the two of you. It wasn’t much of a challenge for him. You’re soft and pliant beneath his hands now. “Come on, sweetheart. Give me another one.” He’s pleading, wanting to chase after your release with his own. There was no better way than feeling the way you throbbed around him after an orgasm. Just the right amount of pressure, your body alight from his actions. Your pleasure became his own.
As soon as you succumb to the pleasure, he’s following soon after you, whispering praises along with his sloppy kisses. “That’s it, that’s my girl.” The squelch from his own spend and yours fills the room as he pushes his come further into you with his thrusts. “Gotta give it all to you. Don’t know when I’ll get a chance to do it again.” And Clark after an orgasm is even more touchy, wanting. His hands teasing your sensitive skin. He’s lost in it. All he can see is you. All he can feel is you.
The hand against your mouth is forgotten, his mouth is slotted over your own instead. You practically swallow his words. His cock is still hard inside of you as he begins teasing the bundle of nerves between you. You’re so sensitive, you hiss. “Clark. I–”
summary: You have to see your ex boyfriend everyday in the Daily Planet. You don't talk to each other until one time your both stuck at the office late.
a/n: baby's first fic bare with me. 🤗
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Living in Metropolis was even more hectic than you think it would be. Car horns filled the streets constantly, helicopters buzz overhead, and every week was a new headline-worthy disaster that had everyone in the office typing up a storm.
You needed something to ground you, and after getting out of a 5 year relationship, anything would be helpful.
Even seeing your ex again.
Which you did.
Every single day.
Clark worked right next to you. Literally right next to you. No one at the Daily Planet was willing to move their desk that they'd been sitting at for years, even for the sake of your well-being. Your best friend Lois tried not to laugh and Jimmy gave you headphones as if they could solve the problem of Clark being stuck in your mind 24/7.
He would usually get to the office a few minutes late. Coffee in one hand and a stack of notes in the other. He smiled at everyone on the way in. Even you. How he could be so casual about your breakup was unknown, but it gave you hope.
Which you hated.
It had been nearly six months since the breakup and you still noticed every small detail about him. The way his glasses would always slip down his face when he was focused on his work. You could recognize his laugh when he was in a different room. When you would end up on the front page you'd turn to him ready to share the exciting news, forgetting he wasn't yours to tell anymore.
You hated how he was so normal about it all. Never cold, never angry, the same old Clark you once knew inside and out. The same man you once told your secrets too and the same one you imagined growing old with.
As if five years together was folded nicely and put right into a drawer.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
By 8 o'clock, the office looked completely different.
The constant ringing of phones had stopped hours ago and the lights were dimmed. The light of the skyline glowed beyond the windows with white and yellow lights filling the night.
You should have left by now. Instead you were stuck staring at a half-finished article that wasn't gonna write itself.
A yawn escaped as you rubbed your eyes.
"You know," an all too familiar voice came from behind you "most people would've called it a night by now."
You froze.
Clark.
You hadn't realized everyone else had left.
Looking around the office you see empty desks and abandoned coffee cups left on desks from the busy morning. The realization of it hit.
It was just the two of you.
"Some of us don't have first hand experience in the latest Superman story, you know." you muttered. Your words slipped out before you could stop them.
Clark laughed softly.
The sound hit you like a flood of memories.
For a moment, neither of you had any words.
You continued to focus on your screen. Clark focused on his. The silence between the two of you wasn't uncomfortable, just familiar.
After a few moments, Clark got up from his desk and made his way to the break room. You tried not to watch him walk away but failed.
He returned with two cups.
One was placed beside your keyboard.
Your stomach flipped.
"You still take it with two sugars?" Of course he remembered. Six months and he still remembered.
You stared at the cup.
"Yeah"
"Good."
A simple exchange that shouldn't have hurt, but somehow it did. It reminded you of the time you once shared together. The time he once knew everything about you.
Your favorite movie.
The songs you'd sing in the shower.
The exact face you would make when you watched a sad movie.
He knew you. Every inch of you.
That's what made losing him even worse.
The time on the clock ticked slower than usual.
8:17
8:18
8:19
"Clark"
He stopped typing.
"Yeah?"
You swallowed hard, almost regretting saying the name running through your mind for months.
You told yourself to not ask it, but you do anyway.
"Do you ever think about us?"
The time had felt like it stopped now. The room felt thicker, too small for the two of you.
He slowly turned toward you.
For the first time in months you looked each other in the eyes. He looked more tired than you've ever seen him. More vulnerable.
"Everyday."
Your breath hitched.
Because for the first time since you broke up, he sounded just as heartbroken as you.
The confession hung in the air for a moment.
You just stared, trying to decide if this made things better or worse.
You wanted to ask another hundred questions.
Clark cleared his throat.
"Its getting late"
You glanced towards the windows and back at your computer.
"Come on" Clark smilies faintly.
"What?"
"Home"
"I think I know how to get to my own house, Clark"
His smile only grew.
"I wasn't questioning your sense of direction"
You roll your eyes.
"Then what are you questioning?"
"Your ability to stay awake."
As if on cue, you let out a slight yawn.
The two of you laughed just like old times. You grabbed your bag before getting up and following Clark to the elevator.
The ride down was quiet. Strangely quiet.
You couldn't remember the last time you had spent this much time with Clark.
Outside, the city still buzzed with life despite the late hour. Cars still filled the streets and neon signs still lit up the sidewalk.
You start walking the direction of your apartment, only to hear footsteps following you. You look behind to see Clark.
"What are you doing?"
"Walking"
"You live the other way, Clark."
"I know."
You fought the urge to smile at him.
"You don't need to walk me home."
"I know."
He responded immediately to you, as if there wasn't any other option.
It made your stomach twist.
For years he had walked you home every time you worked late. Sometimes talking the whole way and sometimes in comfortable silence. Tonight felt like once of those same memories. Neither of your mentioned how familiar it felt though.
Halfway to your apartment, Clark pointed to a small food cart on the corner.
"You still like those pretzels?"
"You remember?"
"You bought one every time we passed this street"
"That is so not true" you laugh
"It absolutely is"
The fact he remembered something so small made your heart ache even more. Forgetting would've been easier for both of you.
By the time the apartment came into view you wished the walk had been longer.
A dangerous thought.
One you definitely shouldn't be having about your ex.
Clark stopped at the bottom of the steps.
For a moment neither of you moved.
"Well" you said
"Well" he echoed quickly after.
You hated how nervous this made you feel.
"Thanks for walking me home"
"Anytime" he said naturally
Not you're welcome not goodnight
Anytime
Like he planned on being there. Like he still wanted to be there.
Clark looked away first.
"Goodnight."
You watched him turn and start down the sidewalk.
Somehow seeing him walk away was worse than spending all day sitting next to him. Maybe because for twenty minutes it felt like nothing had changed.
And now it was over again.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
Baby's first time writing on tumblr and she's only a little nervous 😣
Lmk if i should write more but prob u prob wont. 🫣🫣
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x clark kent, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, severe kryptonite/magical injury, radiation poisoning symptoms, blood, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, medical trauma, near-death experience, panic, guilt, references to clark’s survivor guilt/kypton, emotional distress, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist
word count | 12.2k
Clark Kent knew what it meant to be breakable. People forgot that. They saw the cape first. The shield. The impossible body cutting across the sky faster than sound. Bullets flattened against his chest. Fire bloomed harmlessly over his shoulders. Buildings groaned, planes fell, oceans rose, and still Superman arrived with steady hands and a voice that made people believe the world had not ended yet.
He understood why people forgot. Most days, it was easier if they did. Easier if the child trapped under rubble saw the red cape and thought, safe. Easier if the terrified man on the bridge looked up and believed someone unbreakable had come to catch him. Easier if the League could turn toward him when the blow was too heavy for anyone else and know he would stand between it and them.
Clark did not resent that. He chose it. Every day. He chose to be the thing between danger and everyone else. He chose to hold up the falling roof. He chose to take the hit. He chose to smile afterwards and say, “I’m alright,” because most of the time he was.
Most of the time, the bullets did not hurt. Most of the time, the fire was only warm. Most of the time, being Superman meant absorbing the world’s terror and giving hope back.
But there were exceptions. Kryptonite. Magic. Red sun radiation. Grief.
You, somehow, were all four.
Not because you hurt him. Because you could. Not with a blade. Not with green stone. Not with a spell carved from old gods. You hurt him by standing too close to his pain and refusing to look away.
The first time Clark met you, he was bleeding green. That was not a metaphor. It had been a League mission in Coast City. Some weapons dealer with more money than wisdom had bought a shard of kryptonite, ground it into powder, and loaded it into bullets.
Hal had called it “deeply tacky.” Bruce had called it “predictable.” Clark had called it nothing, mostly because one of the bullets had lodged between his ribs and breathing had become an extremely complicated group project.
The Watchtower medbay had been bright and cold around him. Diana stood at his left, one hand on his shoulder. Bruce was at the monitors, jaw locked, pretending his worry was data analysis. J’onn lingered near the doorway, his expression quiet and grave. Clark lay on the exam table and tried not to tremble. He failed. Green veins crawled under his skin from the wound, branching outward like poisoned lightning. Every breath dragged fire through his lungs. Sweat gathered at his temples. His hearing flickered in and out, catching fragments.
“Shard is embedded.”
“Radiation levels rising.”
“Can’t cut without exposing him to more.”
“Lead-lined tools?”
“Not enough.”
Clark closed his eyes. The room tilted. He heard Bruce say your name. Then he heard your footsteps.
Not fast. Not frantic. Steady. That was the first thing he noticed about you. Not your face, not your voice, not the warmth of your hands. Your steadiness. You came into a room where Superman was dying by inches, and you did not panic.
Clark opened his eyes. You stood beside the table, looking down at him with an expression that was gentle but not afraid. That surprised him. People were afraid when he was hurt. Not only for him. Of him. Of what it meant. If Superman could bleed, then maybe the sky was not as safe as everyone thought. You only looked at Clark.
“Hi,” you said softly.
He tried to smile. It probably looked awful. “Hi.”
Bruce moved closer. “He was shot with a kryptonite round. Fragment remains lodged between the seventh and eighth ribs. Radiation is spreading through his bloodstream.”
“Rude place to put it,” you said. Clark huffed a laugh. It hurt. You looked at him. “Sorry. Bad time?”
“No,” Clark managed. “Good distraction.”
“Great. I have many terrible jokes.”
Bruce’s stare could have frozen lava. You ignored him entirely. Clark liked you immediately. Which, in hindsight, was the first warning sign.
You held your hands near the wound but did not touch.
“Clark,” you said, “I can help. I need to touch the wound. Is that okay?”
He blinked. People did not always ask him that. Not because they meant harm. Usually, because he was Superman, and Superman’s body was treated like a tool in emergencies. Armour. Shield. Rescue equipment. Something useful and indestructible until suddenly it wasn’t. But you asked. Like his pain was his. Like his body belonged to him even when it was failing.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Your hands settled over the wound. The pain changed. At first, it sharpened. Clark gasped, back arching off the table. Diana’s hand tightened on his shoulder. Bruce snapped your name like a warning. You did not move.
“Clark,” you said, voice steady. “Look at me.”
He did. Your eyes held his. Warm. Human. Determined.
“I’ve got you.”
Heat bloomed beneath your palms. Not solar heat. Not sunlight. Something else. Something soft and impossible.
The kryptonite burn receded. The green veins faded under his skin. The shard pushed itself out of his body into your waiting hand, slick with blood and glowing faintly. The wound closed. His lungs opened. The poison drained from his bloodstream so quickly that the relief was almost painful.
Clark inhaled. Fully. He heard everything again. The hum of the Watchtower. Bruce’s heartbeat. Diana’s breath. Your pulse.
Too fast. Your pulse was too fast. You stepped back, dropping the kryptonite shard into a lead-lined tray Bruce thrust toward you. Your hand shook. Then you folded it behind your back and smiled.
“There,” you said. “Better?”
Clark stared at you. He could still feel your hands on his ribs.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” You turned to Bruce. “He’ll need rest.”
Bruce looked deeply offended by the concept of someone else issuing medical orders in his medbay. Clark nearly smiled. Then he heard it. A tiny shift in your breathing. Controlled. Suppressed. Pain. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
Your gaze flicked back to him. For half a second, your expression went blank. Then the smile returned. “Just tired.”
Lie. Clark heard it. Not in your heartbeat. Not exactly. It was not always that simple. Heartbeats changed for many reasons. Fear. Pain. Embarrassment. Relief. But your voice had gone too careful. Like you had wrapped the lie in gauze before handing it over.
Bruce noticed too. Clark saw the way his eyes sharpened. But you stepped back from the table, already looking toward the next injured hero, and the moment passed.
Clark let it. He had just nearly died. You had just saved him. He was tired.
That was what he told himself. Later, he would hate that.
You became part of the League’s rhythm after that. Not officially at first. You were called in for emergencies. Then difficult cases. Then anything involving injuries too strange for standard medicine. Magic burns. Alien venom. Psychic backlash. Curses. Broken bones from battles fought in gravity fields human bodies were not meant to endure.
Eventually, people stopped saying, “Should we call them?” They just called.
Clark saw you often. In medbays. On battlefields. At disaster sites. In the quiet hallways after missions, when everyone had stopped bleeding and started pretending they were fine. You were good at seeing through fine. Mostly because you said it so poorly yourself.
He noticed that too. Clark noticed many things. People assumed his powers made him observant, and they helped, of course. Hearing through walls, seeing microscopic cracks, smelling ozone before lightning struck — useful, all of it. But journalism had trained something different in him. Attention. The patient kind. The human kind. The kind that looked at a person and asked, What are you not saying?
You were not saying a lot. After healing Barry’s fractured femur, you leaned on the medbay counter for exactly twelve seconds when you thought no one was looking. After healing Diana’s sword wound, you walked with a stiffness in your side that lasted the rest of the day. After healing Hal’s concussion, you wore sunglasses in three different Watchtower corridors despite the fact that the lighting had not changed. After healing Bruce from a magical burn that had eaten through three layers of armour, you vanished for six hours.
Clark found you in the observation deck afterwards. Not because he was spying. Mostly. You stood with one hand pressed against the glass, looking down at Earth. The planet turned beneath the Watchtower in impossible blue silence, cloud systems curling over oceans like brushstrokes. Your shoulders were tense.
Clark stopped at the entrance. “Can I come in?”
You turned. Surprise crossed your face first. Then something softer. “Of course.”
He entered slowly, giving you space. He had learned that about you. You gave everyone space and did not seem to know what to do when it was offered back.
“You disappeared,” Clark said.
You smiled faintly. “That sounds dramatic.”
“You vanished from Batman’s medical follow-up schedule.”
“Ah. So I committed a felony.”
“At least three, I think.”
Your smile widened. Clark felt absurdly proud of that. He came to stand beside you, not too close. Earth glowed beneath both of you.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Tired.”
“Only tired?”
You looked at him. There was no accusation in his voice. That seemed to make the question harder for you.
Your gaze moved back to Earth. “Mostly tired.”
Clark nodded. He did not push. You seemed to relax by a fraction.
“I know you can hear when people lie,” you said after a moment.
“Not always.” Your eyes flicked toward him. He smiled slightly. “It’s not magic. Heartbeats are complicated. People can lie calmly. People can tell the truth while terrified. Sometimes I hear that someone is upset, but not why.”
“Huh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No. Relieved.”
Clark looked at you. That was honest. It hurt more than the lie would have. He rested his hands lightly on the railing. “I try not to listen unless I need to.”
“That must be hard.”
“It is.”
“Especially in rooms full of injured people.”
“Yes.”
You were quiet for a while. Then, softly, “Does it hurt? Hearing that much pain?”
Clark breathed in. The question was not one many people asked. He looked down at the Earth.
“Yes,” he said.
Your expression changed. “What do you do with it?” you asked.
Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Some days? Fly faster.”
“And other days?”
“Go home. Call Ma. Make soup. Write something no one will publish because it’s too honest.”
You smiled. “Reporter problems?”
“Reporter problems.”
“I’d read it.” Clark looked at you. You looked back. The quiet between you changed shape. Then you glanced away, clearing your throat. “For the record, Bruce’s burn was worse than he admitted.”
“He’s bad at hiding pain.”
“He’s excellent at hiding pain.”
Clark’s mouth curved. “He’s bad at hiding from me.”
You laughed softly. It warmed the room more than the Earth’s reflected sun.
After that, Clark started finding reasons to talk to you outside of emergencies. Sometimes it was coffee. You liked yours with too much sweetness, which delighted him. He brought it once after a mission and tried to pretend it was incidental.
You took the cup, read the label, and looked at him with raised brows. “Clark Kent, did you memorise my coffee order?”
“No.”
“You are lying very badly for a journalist.”
“It was a lucky guess.”
“My name is written on the cup.”
He glanced down. It was. In bold marker. With a tiny heart next to it because the barista at the Watchtower café had apparently chosen violence. Clark adjusted his glasses, which he was wearing despite being in uniform because he had come from the Daily Planet and forgotten to take them off.
You smiled into the lid. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Later, he found tea waiting for him outside the debrief room. Chamomile. Honey. A sticky note attached to the cup. For when the world is loud.
Clark kept the note. Not in a sentimental way. Obviously. Just folded neatly in his wallet behind his press badge.
Normal behaviour. Entirely normal.
Diana noticed.
“They are kind,” Diana said one afternoon, watching you from across the training room as you argued with Guy Gardner about whether “walking it off” counted as a medical plan.
Clark looked up too quickly. “Who?”
Diana’s smile was terrible. “Subtlety does not suit you, Kal.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.”
Across the room, you poked Guy in the chest and pointed sternly toward the medbay. Guy, astonishingly, went. Clark smiled before he could stop himself.
Diana’s expression softened. “You are fond of them.”
Clark looked down at his hands. Fond was a small word. Safe. Manageable. It did not cover the way his attention found you in every room. The way your tired smile stayed with him long after missions ended. The way his chest tightened whenever you swayed after healing someone. The way he wanted to know what made you laugh outside emergency lighting.
“I am,” he said.
Diana did not tease. That was how he knew she understood it was serious. “Be careful,” she said.
Clark’s smile faded. “With them?”
“With yourself.” He looked at her. Diana’s gaze was gentle and ancient. “You have spent your life being the shield,” she said. “It is difficult, sometimes, to let another stand before you.”
Clark looked back toward you. You were laughing now, head tipped slightly back, light catching on your face. His heart ached.
“I know,” he said.
Diana touched his shoulder. “I suspect they know too.”
The first kiss happened in Smallville. Clark had not planned it.
He had planned many things that day, actually. He planned to introduce you to his mother because Martha Kent had asked about “that healer you keep smiling about” enough times that avoidance had become impossible. He planned to show you the farm. He planned to not look too pleased when you immediately fell in love with the barn cats. He planned to make dinner with his mother and not use heat vision for shortcuts because she always noticed and called it cheating. He planned to fly you back to Metropolis before midnight.
He did not plan to kiss you in the cornfield at sunset. That part just happened.
“You grew up here?” you asked, standing between the rows as evening light turned everything gold.
Clark walked beside you, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “I did.”
“It’s beautiful.”
He looked at the fields. The farmhouse. The horizon. You.
“Yes,” he said.
You glanced at him. He looked away too late.
Your smile softened. “You’re different here.”
Clark laughed quietly. “Different bad?”
“No. Different like…” You searched for the word. “Quieter.”
He considered that. “I learned how to hear the world here,” he said. You slowed. Clark stopped with you. “When I was young, everything was too loud,” he continued. “Heartbeats. Insects under the soil. Planes miles overhead. People talking in town. My own blood moving. I didn’t know how to separate anything.”
You listened with your whole body. That was something you did. Made attention feel like a place to rest.
“Ma would bring me out here,” he said. “She’d tell me to find one sound at a time. Wind through corn. Tractor engine. Her heartbeat. My Pa’s boots on the porch.”
Your eyes shone.
Clark smiled faintly. “It helped.”
“I’m glad.”
The words were simple. They landed deep.
You reached out, fingers brushing the sleeve of his jacket.
“Can I?” you asked. His breath caught. It was only his arm. He could lift planes. He could hold collapsing bridges. He had survived bullets, bombs, alien invasions. But your hand hovered near his sleeve, asking permission, and Clark felt undone by it.
“Yes,” he said.
You touched him. Lightly. Your fingers rested over his forearm, warm through the fabric. “You’re always so careful with everyone,” you said.
Clark looked at you. “So are you.”
Your smile faded a little. “Occupational hazard.”
“Is that all it is?”
The question came out softer than he intended. You looked toward the horizon. Gold light gathered along your profile.
“No,” you said.
His heart changed rhythm. Truth. Not the whole truth. But truth.
Clark stepped closer. You did not move away.
“Sometimes,” you said, “if I’m not careful, I think I’ll disappear into what people need from me.”
Clark knew that feeling. God, he knew it.
“The healing?” he asked.
You looked back at him. “Everything.”
The word held a door inside it. Clark wanted to open it. Instead, he said, “You don’t disappear when I look at you.”
Your breath caught. Clark’s face warmed. That had sounded smoother in his head. Possibly because in his head, he was less farm-boy-in-love and more responsible adult man with emotional coordination.
You stared at him. “What?”
“I mean,” he said, then stopped. Nope. No recovering. The cornfield was silent except for crickets, wind, and his mother’s heartbeat from the porch, where she was absolutely pretending not to watch.
Clark cleared his throat. “I mean I see you.”
Your face changed. The way it had on the observation deck. Like the words hurt because they mattered. “Clark.”
He loved the way you said his name. Not Superman. Not Kal-El. Clark. The name his mother called from the kitchen. The name written on bylines. The name that belonged to flannel shirts, broken tractors, coffee-stained notebooks, and a boy who once hid in cornfields because the whole world was too loud.
“I see you too,” you whispered.
Then you kissed him. Or maybe he kissed you. It became difficult to assign responsibility afterwards. Your hand slid up his arm. His palm found your waist. He bent carefully, always carefully, even though you tugged him closer like you were not afraid of his strength at all. The kiss was soft. Then not. Then soft again, because Clark smiled into it and you laughed against his mouth.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“Was that okay?” he asked.
Your eyes opened. Your smile was devastating. “Clark, you floated.”
He looked down. His boots were four inches above the dirt. “Oh.”
You laughed.
From the porch, Martha Kent called, “Dinner’s getting cold!”
Clark dropped to the ground so fast you laughed harder. His ears burned.
“Your mom saw.”
“Ma sees everything.”
“She’s smiling.”
Clark glanced toward the house. His mother waved with the supreme confidence of a woman who had raised Superman and feared nothing.
You waved back. Clark covered his face.
You kissed his cheek. He decided embarrassment was worth it.
Loving Clark was not difficult. At least, you made it look easy. That frightened him sometimes. Not because he thought you were careless with love. Because you were careful with it. You learned the difference between Clark and Superman without ever making him feel split in two. You did not treat his softness like a secret identity or his strength like a performance. You understood that both were real.
You sat beside him while he wrote articles at two in the morning, your legs tucked under you on his couch, editing his sentences with ruthless affection.
“Too noble,” you said, pointing at a paragraph.
Clark blinked. “It’s about city council corruption.”
“You still made it sound like a moral epic.”
“It kind of is.”
“It’s zoning laws.”
“Zoning laws matter.”
“Clark.”
He leaned over your shoulder. “What would you write?”
You thought for a moment, then rewrote the sentence in the margin. It was better.
He sighed. You smiled. “Don’t pout. It’s unbecoming for a Pulitzer winner.”
“I am not pouting.”
“You are farm-boy brooding.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
You were also the first person outside his family to learn how he listened when the world became too much. Sometimes he would go quiet mid-conversation, head tilting slightly. You would pause. “Emergency?” He would listen. Sometimes yes. Then he would kiss your forehead and leave in a blur of red and blue. Sometimes no. A siren already handled. A baby crying but safe. A car backfiring. A fight resolving without violence. On those nights, you would touch his hand and say, “Come back.”
Not from danger. From listening. From spreading himself across every cry in the city until Clark Kent became only a receiving station for pain. He always came back. For you, he came back. But he still worried. Because he noticed you, too. Your disappearances after major healings. The way your smile sometimes arrived half a beat late. The way you treated your own pain like an administrative inconvenience. He asked. You answered. Sometimes.
“Does it hurt you?” he asked one night on his balcony after you healed a burn across J’onn’s shoulder.
The city hummed below. You leaned against the railing, wrapped in one of Clark’s sweaters. It was too big on you. He had opinions about that. Several. None appropriate for the serious mood. “My power?”
“Yes.”
You looked down at your hands. “Sometimes.”
His heart tightened. “How much?”
“Clark.”
“I’m not trying to interrogate you.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me.”
You looked up. The city lights reflected in your eyes. “If I tell you it hurts, you’ll stop asking for help.”
“I don’t ask for myself often.”
“That’s not better.”
He sighed quietly. You touched his hand.
“There are costs,” you said. “But there are costs to doing nothing, too.”
“What costs?”
You smiled sadly. “You know those.”
Clark did. That was the problem. You were both too good at making sacrifices sound reasonable. He turned his hand and laced his fingers through yours.
“One day,” he said softly, “you’re going to have to trust me with the whole truth.”
Your fingers tightened. “One day,” you echoed.
Lie? No. Not exactly. Hope disguised as a delay. Clark let it rest.
He would regret that later. He would regret many things later.
The mission began with Lex Luthor. Technically, Clark could not prove that at first. Batman frowned upon “I know it was Lex because it has his emotionally constipated billionaire stink all over it” as evidence.
Still. Clark knew. The first sign was a tremor in the Arctic. The second was a burst of red solar radiation detected by the Fortress of Solitude. The third was the emergence of a black-market satellite network using stolen Kryptonian coding from one of Brainiac’s old probes.
By the time the League traced the signal to an abandoned observatory in northern Canada, Clark’s stomach had already tightened into a knot. Kryptonian technology. Red sun radiation. Unknown magical overlay. That last part had Zatanna concerned, which made everyone else deeply concerned because when Zatanna looked at a spell and said, “That’s rude,” things were usually about to get apocalyptic.
You came to the briefing. Clark did not want you there. He also knew better than to say that in front of everyone unless he wanted Diana to give him the disappointed-warrior-princess look and Bruce to silently agree while pretending not to. So he waited until after. You were packing a medical kit when he approached.
“No,” you said before he spoke.
Clark stopped. You did not look up. “I haven’t said anything.”
“You have a face.”
“I always have a face.”
“Currently it’s the ‘please stay somewhere safe because I love you and I’m terrified’ face.” His mouth closed. You glanced up. Your expression softened. “I’m going, Clark.”
“It’s Kryptonian tech. And red sun radiation. And magic.”
“I know.”
“That combination could affect your power unpredictably.”
“That combination could kill you.” He had no answer. You zipped the kit shut. “I’m not going because I think you’re weak,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’m going because if something hurts you, I want to be there.”
Clark looked down at your hands. Hands that had healed him before. Hands that shook afterwards. Hands he had kissed in his kitchen, in his apartment, in the cornfield where he first floated because you touched him like he was only a man and still somehow enough.
“I don’t want you hurt because of me,” he said.
Your face gentled. “That’s not a choice you get to make for me.”
He looked at you. The sentence would come back later. A knife thrown forward in time.
He almost argued. Instead, he stepped closer. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”
You smiled faintly. “I will be as careful as hero work allows.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. For a second, the Watchtower faded. Only you remained. Your heartbeat. His. The fragile, ordinary rhythm of two people who loved each other in a world addicted to ending.
“I love you,” Clark said softly.
Your hand touched his cheek. “I love you too.”
He kissed you.
Bruce walked in seven seconds later. “Are you done?”
Clark pulled back, ears burning. You smiled against his mouth. “Hi, Bruce.”
Bruce looked unimpressed. Or as unimpressed as a man could look while clearly relieved Clark had someone to kiss before dangerous missions.
“We leave in five,” he said. Then he left.
You laughed. Clark tried to smile. It did not quite land. You noticed. You squeezed his hand.
“Come back to me,” you said.
His chest tightened. “Always.”
Another promise that would soon become complicated.
The observatory stood beneath a dead sky. No stars. That was the first wrong thing. Clouds smothered the moon, but even beyond them, Clark could feel an absence above the facility. The air tasted metallic. Sound behaved strangely, swallowed at the edges by a field of red solar interference that made his skin prickle. The League approached in formation. Batman, Wonder Woman, Zatanna, Flash, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, Superman. And you, near the rear, protected but present, carrying a medkit and an expression that told Clark you knew exactly how often he glanced back.
“Stop checking on me,” you said over comms.
Hal snorted. “Trouble in paradise?”
Bruce said, “Focus.”
Barry whispered, “That means yes.”
Diana sounded amused. “Indeed.”
Clark closed his eyes for half a second.
You laughed softly into comms. The sound steadied him.
Then the observatory opened.
Not the doors. The building itself. Metal panels unfolded like petals, revealing a core of alien machinery beneath old stone. Kryptonian script crawled across black pylons, wrong and corrupted. Red light pulsed from the central tower, spilling over the snow in long, bloody shadows.
Zatanna inhaled sharply. “That is not just technologu.”
Batman’s voice was grim. “Magic?”
“Necromantic structure. Solar inversion. Something is using death as a battery.”
Clark’s blood went cold.
Then the first beam fired. Red sunlight lanced across the snow.
Clark dodged, barely. The beam struck a ridge behind him and vaporised stone.
“Scatter!” Bruce snapped.
The battle became chaos. Diana flew toward the central tower, shield raised. Hal constructed a barrier around the medical evacuation point. Barry blurred between pylons, planting disruptors. J’onn reached out telepathically and recoiled with a hiss of pain. Clark flew high, scanning for the source.
He found it beneath the observatory. A chamber carved into the mountain. At its centre stood a Kryptonian crystal engine wrapped in chains of spellwork and threaded through with kryptonite.
Green veins. Red sun core. Black magic.
Clark’s stomach dropped.
A voice came through the tower speakers.
Lex’s voice filtered through something else. “Hello, Superman.”
Clark hovered midair. Batman cursed softly.
“Luthor,” Clark said.
“Predictable, I know. I’d apologise, but neither of us would believe me.”
The red solar field intensified. Clark’s flight faltered. He dropped ten feet before catching himself.
You said his name over comms. He heard the fear.
He looked toward you. You stood near the rear line beside Zatanna, eyes fixed on him.
“I’m okay,” he said.
Lie. You knew.
“Kal,” Diana warned.
The mountain shook. From beneath the observatory emerged something shaped like a man but built from wrongness: armor plated in lead-black metal, veins glowing kryptonite green beneath transparent sections, a core pulsing red in the chest.
Metallo technology. Kryptonian engine. Magic binding. A weapon designed by someone who knew exactly how to hurt Superman and had decided that was not enough.
The thing looked at Clark.
Its chest opened. Kryptonite light flooded the snow.
Clark fell. Not far. Diana caught him midair, but the radiation burned through him even at a distance. His muscles seized. His vision tunneled green. The red solar field stripped strength from his cells while kryptonite poisoned what remained.
He hit the ground on one knee.
The weapon advanced. Diana slammed into it with a force that cracked the mountain beneath them. It staggered, then drove a kryptonite blade into her shoulder.
She cried out.
Clark moved. He did not think. He never did when someone he loved was hurt.
He launched himself forward through the red field, through the kryptonite radiation, through every alarm his body screamed. He struck the weapon hard enough to send both of them through the observatory wall and into the chamber below.
The engine activated. Kryptonite spikes rose from the floor.
Clark rolled away from the first. The second punched through his side.
The pain was absolute.
He screamed. Far away, someone screamed his name.
You.
No. He tried to push himself off the spike.
Another red solar pulse hit him. His strength vanished. The weapon seized him by the throat and lifted him against the engine core. Kryptonite radiation poured directly into his bloodstream. Magic hooked into the wound, preventing his cells from closing around the damage.
He could hear his heart. Too slow.
He could hear the League fighting above. Too far.
He could hear you running. Too close.
No.
No, no, no.
“Stay back,” he tried to say over comms. It came out as a wet gasp.
The chamber doors blew open. Batman entered first, cape torn, armour smoking. Diana followed, bleeding gold-red from the shoulder. Hal’s constructs slammed into the weapon, driving it back. Barry blurred to Clark’s side and stopped with horror across his face.
“Clark.”
“Don’t touch the spike,” Batman snapped. “It’s saturated.”
Clark could barely focus.
Then you were there. You slid to your knees beside him, ignoring Bruce’s sharp command to stay back.
Your hands hovered over the wound. Your face was pale. Clark had never seen you look afraid like that.
Not for yourself. For him.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He wanted to smile. Couldn’t.
“Hi,” he breathed.
Your mouth trembled.
Bad. Bad if you could not hide it.
“Don’t,” he said.
You shook your head. “Clark—”
“Don’t.”
The kryptonite spike pulsed. Pain tore through him. His body arched, but the spike held him pinned.
You reached for him. Clark caught your wrist. Barely.
His grip had no strength. He hated that.
“You can’t take this,” he said.
Your eyes filled.
He knew. Enough from your disappearances. Your tremors. The lies. The way pain followed your miracles like a shadow with teeth.
“You don’t know that,” you whispered.
“It’s kryptonite.”
“I know.”
“And magic.”
“I know.”
“And red sun radiation.”
“I know.”
“You’re human.”
Your face broke. “No,” you said softly. “I’m yours.”
Clark’s heart stuttered. Not from kryptonite.
From terror. From love. From the terrible understanding of what you had already decided.
“Please,” he whispered.
Your hand touched his cheek. “I can’t watch you die.”
“You ask me to come back to you,” he said, voice barely there. “Don’t leave me instead.”
The tears spilled over. For one second, he thought maybe it was enough. Maybe you would stop.
Then the weapon surged back to its feet behind you.
Diana shouted. Batman threw a batarang that shattered one of the pylons.
The engine pulsed. Clark’s vision went almost black.
His heart stumbled. You felt it. Your face changed.
Not fear now. Decision.
“I love you,” you said.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Your hands closed around the wound. And you breathed in.
Clark’s world became sunlight.
Not yellow. Not warm.
White. Blinding. The kryptonite spike slid out of his body as if expelled by force. The wound closed. Magic snapped. Red solar weakness evaporated. His cells drank in the faint solar energy stored deep inside him and reignited.
Strength flooded back. Breath. Heartbeat. Heat vision flickering behind his eyes. He gasped and fell forward onto his hands. Whole. Alive.
Then you screamed.
Clark turned.
The sound ended the world.
You collapsed where he had been, one hand clamped to your side as green-black veins spread under your skin. Blood soaked through your suit. A wound opened beneath your ribs, not identical to his but close enough, deep and glowing faintly with corrupted light. Your body convulsed once as red solar radiation and kryptonite poisoning tried to translate themselves into human biology.
You were not Kryptonian. You had no cells waiting for yellow sun. No alien physiology built to process the poison. No invulnerability to slow the damage.
Clark caught you before your head struck the floor. “No,” he said.
It was not a word. It was a denial of reality.
Your eyes rolled, unfocused with pain. He cradled you against his chest, one hand over the wound, and felt blood slide between his fingers.
His blood. No. Yours. Because of him.
“No, no, no.”
Batman was beside him instantly. “Kal.”
Clark heard him. Barely. Diana and Hal fought the weapon behind them. Zatanna’s voice echoed through the chamber, spells unraveling the engine. Barry was moving so fast the air shook.
But Clark could only hear you. Your heart. Too fast. Too weak. Wrong.
“Can you hear me?” Clark asked, voice cracking. “Please. Please, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Your eyelids fluttered. You looked at him.
Relief.
Clark nearly broke in half.
“You’re okay,” you whispered.
“No.” His hand pressed harder over the wound. “No, don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that.”
Your mouth trembled. “Knew… it’d work.”
“You didn’t know you’d survive.” Your eyes drifted. He shook his head. “Stay with me,” he begged. “Stay. Come back to me.”
The words were yours. They hurt coming from his mouth.
Your fingers twitched weakly against the front of his suit. Trying to hold on. He covered your hand with his.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You had said that to him once. In the medbay. With green poison in his veins. He had believed you. Now he understood the cost of that comfort.
Your breathing hitched.
Batman’s voice cut through his panic. “The wound is radiological and magical. Watchtower medbay won’t be enough.”
Clark looked up. Bruce’s eyes were grim.
“Fortress,” Bruce said.
Clark did not wait. He gathered you in his arms and launched upward through the shattered observatory roof. Snow exploded around him. The sky opened.
He flew.
Clark had flown fast before. Faster than sound. Faster than bullets. Faster than disaster when he had no other choice.
He had never flown like this. The world became a blur of white and black beneath him. Cold air tore past his face. He shielded you with his body, one hand pressed to your wound, the other cradling your head against his chest.
“Stay,” he said again and again.
He did not know if you heard.
Your heart answered. Weakly.
Still there. Still there. Still there.
The Fortress rose from the Arctic ice like a memory of a world Clark had never truly known. Crystal towers caught the dim light and fractured it into pale, cold brilliance.
The doors opened before he landed. The Fortress recognised his distress. Or perhaps it recognised yours. Either way, Clark carried you inside.
“Kelor,” he called, voice breaking.
The Fortress AI responded immediately, calm and melodic. “Kal-El. Medical emergency detected. Patient is human. Severe radiation poisoning. Unknown magical contamination. Kryptonian cellular trauma signatures present.”
Clark stumbled. Kryptonian trauma. In your human body. Because you had taken it from him.
“Can you treat them?” he asked.
“Partial treatment possible. Human biology is incompatible with several injury markers. Recommend solar isolation chamber, magical contamination quarantine, and immediate stabilisation.”
“Do it.”
Crystal panels unfolded from the floor. A medical platform rose beneath golden lamps designed to simulate yellow sunlight for Kryptonian recovery. Clark placed you down as gently as he could.
Too gently. Not gently enough.
You whimpered. Clark flinched.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Mechanical arms moved around you, scanning, cleaning, sealing. A golden field lowered over your body. The wound in your side pulsed green-black. Clark stood beside the platform, hands stained with blood. Your blood.
“Radiation type resembles kryptonite but is altered by transfer through metahuman ability. Damage is less severe than original Kryptonian injury but remains critical.”
Less severe. Clark almost laughed. The sound would have been horrible.
Less severe did not mean survivable. Less severe did not mean fair. Less severe did not mean you had not taken a death sentence into your own body because you could not bear his.
His knees weakened. He gripped the edge of the platform. The metal dented beneath his fingers.
“Clark,” you rasped.
His head snapped up. Your eyes were half-open. Pain-glazed. Still searching for him.
He moved into your line of sight. “I’m here.”
You tried to smile. It failed. “Fortress?”
“Yes.”
“Pretty.”
A broken laugh caught in his throat. “Yeah. Pretty.”
Your gaze moved over his face. “You’re healed?”
Clark closed his eyes. Tears slipped free before he could stop them. When he opened them, you were watching him with aching tenderness.
“I’m healed,” he said.
“Good.”
“No.”
Your brow furrowed faintly. He leaned over you, careful not to interfere with the scanners.
“No,” he said again, voice shaking. “It isn’t good. Not like this.”
Your face shifted. Understanding. Guilt. Pain.
“I couldn’t let you die,” you whispered.
“And you thought I could let you?”
Your eyes filled. The golden lamps reflected in your tears.
Clark’s hands hovered uselessly. He wanted to touch you. He was afraid to. Afraid that even his gentleness would be too much for your damaged body. You noticed.
“Hand,” you whispered.
He stared. You moved your fingers weakly.
Clark broke. He took your hand with both of his, holding it as if it were made of breath. Your fingers were cold. They should not have been cold under artificial sunlight.
“Kelor,” Clark said, voice tight. “Why are they cold?”
“Circulatory instability. Treatment ongoing.”
“Fix it.”
“Treatment ongoing,” the android repeated.
Clark hated machines. Not always. Right now.
You squeezed his hand weakly.
“Bossy,” you whispered.
He laughed once through tears. “You’re one to talk.”
Your mouth twitched. Then pain seized you. Your back arched. The monitors shrilled. Green light flared beneath your skin, veins bright and horrible along your throat.
Clark froze.
Kelor’s voice cut through the alarms. “Magical contamination spike. Administering counter-frequency.”
The golden field brightened. You screamed. Clark almost shattered the platform.
Batman’s voice came through comms. “Clark. Status.”
Clark had forgotten the comm was still active. He could hear the League on the other end. Bruce, Diana, maybe everyone. The battle had ended. The weapon destroyed. The observatory collapsing into snow. He could not care.
“They’re in pain,” Clark said.
His voice did not sound like his own.
Bruce was quiet for half a second. Then, softer, “Are they stable?”
Clark looked at the monitors. He could read Kryptonian medical notation well enough. He wished he couldn’t. “No.”
You gasped as the spike passed. Clark bent over your hand, pressing his mouth to your knuckles.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
Your eyes fluttered. “Don’t… be mad.”
He went still. Then lifted his head. “What?”
Your lips barely moved. “Please.”
Clark stared at you. Something inside him, already cracked, gave way.
“You almost died,” he said. You blinked slowly. “I almost watched you die in my place.”
Your eyes shone.
“I’m angry,” he whispered, like confession. Like sin. “I’m so angry I don’t know what to do with it.”
Your breath hitched.
Clark shook his head quickly, tears falling now. “Not because you saved me. I’m grateful. God, I’m grateful. I’m alive because of you.” His voice broke. “But I’m standing here whole while you’re poisoned with something meant for me.”
Your fingers twitched in his. “I chose it,” you whispered.
“I know.”
That was the problem. That was the wound beneath the wound. You had chosen. Not accidentally. Not under ignorance. Not because you failed to understand danger. You had looked at him dying and decided your suffering was acceptable if it meant his stopped.
Clark loved you for it. He hated it. He hated that his body was grateful. He hated that his lungs opened easily while yours struggled. He hated that some shameful, relieved part of him had felt the first breath after healing and thought, I get to live. He hated that your pain was the reason.
“You should have asked me,” he said.
Your face crumpled. “If I had asked…”
“I would have said no.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
Clark closed his eyes.
The truth. The soft, terrible theft inside the miracle.
When he opened his eyes, you were crying silently.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
He leaned down and pressed his forehead carefully to yours. The golden field hummed between you like warm static.
“I love you,” he whispered. “And I am furious with you. I don’t know how to be both.”
“You’re doing it.”
A laugh broke out of him, wet and wounded. Even now. Even now, you gave him that. You gave him a way through.
Clark kissed your forehead.
“I love you,” he said again.
Your eyes closed. “I love you too.”
Then you lost consciousness.
Clark did not let go of your hand.
Time moved strangely in the Fortress. Maybe because there were no windows that showed normal weather, no clocks that ticked in human increments, no city noise pressing in from all directions. Only ice. Crystal. Machines. Artificial sunlight.
Your heart.
Clark counted that instead.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
He sat beside you while Kelor filtered the contaminated radiation from your bloodstream. He sat while the wound in your side stopped glowing. He sat while magical residue burned away in tiny painful increments that made your body twitch even in sleep.
The League came after six hours.
Bruce arrived first. He stepped into the medical chamber wearing a thermal suit beneath his cape, cowl down, expression carved into something too controlled to be calm. Diana came behind him. Then J’onn. Then, after a moment, Lois.
Clark looked up when he heard her heartbeat. He had not realised Bruce called her.
Lois took one look at him and crossed the room.
No hesitation. No fear of alien machinery or Arctic cold or Superman with blood on his hands.
She wrapped her arms around him. Clark nearly fell apart. He held her carefully, because he always held carefully, and buried his face briefly against her shoulder.
“They’re alive,” Lois said into his ear.
“For now.”
“For now is where we start.”
He let out a broken breath. When she pulled back, her eyes were red. She looked at you on the platform.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered.
Lois loved you. She had from the first dinner, when you corrected Clark’s overdramatic article draft, and Lois declared you “the only person in this room with taste.”
Clark had been offended. Mildly. For show. Mostly, he had been happy.
Now Lois stood beside your bed, one hand hovering near yours. She glanced at Clark for permission.
He almost laughed at the ache of it. Permission. Everyone was learning too late.
He nodded. Lois touched your hand gently.
Bruce stood on Clark’s other side. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “I should have known.”
Clark closed his eyes. “No.”
“Yes.”
Clark turned to him. Bruce’s face was grim. Of course he was already assembling blame. Of course he had found some way to make your secret his failure. Batman could turn sunrise into a contingency if given enough time.
“No,” Clark said again. “Not right now.” Bruce looked at him. Clark’s voice roughened. “I don’t have room to help you blame yourself. I’m using all of it.”
Bruce went silent. Diana stepped closer, her gaze full of sorrow.
“They have saved many of us,” she said.
“Yes.”
“At cost.”
Clark looked at you. “Yes.”
J’onn’s voice entered gently. “They carried pain in silence because they believed silence was kindness.”
Lois’s hand tightened over yours. Clark swallowed.
“It wasn’t,” he said.
“No,” J’onn agreed. “But it was love.”
Clark looked at him sharply. J’onn did not flinch.
“Love can be misguided,” he said. “Even harmful. It does not become hatred because it wounds.”
Clark looked down. His hands were still stained faintly red despite washing them.
“I don’t know how to forgive them for saving me,” he said.
The words entered the room and opened something.
Lois looked at him. Bruce looked away. Diana’s eyes softened.
Clark laughed once, broken. “That sounds awful.”
“It sounds honest,” Lois said.
He shook his head. “I’m alive because of them. And I’m angry.”
“Yes.”
“They almost died.”
“Yes.”
“I should be grateful.”
“You are,” Lois said. “You’re also scared out of your mind.”
Clark’s throat tightened.
Lois touched his arm. “Smallville, listen to me. You don’t have to make your feelings neat before they’re real.”
He looked at her.
She smiled sadly. “You love them. You’re angry. You’re grateful. You’re hurt. All of that can sit at the same table.”
Clark exhaled slowly. The Fortress hummed around them. Artificial sunlight poured over your still body. All of it at the same table.
Messy. Human. Hard.
He could do human. He had been raised human.
He nodded. Only once.
But it helped.
You woke on the second day.
Clark was the only one there when it happened. Lois had gone to sleep in one of the guest chambers after threatening Clark with bodily harm if he did not “at least close his eyes for ten minutes.” Bruce had returned to Gotham to investigate the remnants of the weapon. Diana and J’onn were coordinating with the League.
Clark sat beside you, reading aloud from a book of poems his mother had sent years ago. He did not know if you could hear him. He read anyway.
His voice stopped when your heartbeat changed. Your fingers twitched.
Clark set the book down immediately. “Sweetheart?”
Your eyelids fluttered. Opened. Your gaze wandered across the crystal ceiling, unfocused, before finding him.
Clark forgot how to breathe.
“Hi,” he whispered.
Your mouth moved. No sound came out.
He reached for the water. Helped you sip. You winced. He felt it like a blow.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Your eyes stayed on him.
“Sun,” you rasped.
Clark blinked. “What?”
“Feels… like sun.”
He looked up at the golden lamps. “They’re solar emitters.”
“Nice.”
A laugh escaped him. Small. Shaky. “Only you would review alien medical equipment.”
Your lips curved faintly. Then your eyes moved over his face.
Checking. Always checking.
“Are you hurt?”
Clark closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, you were watching him with worry.
Not relief this time. Worry. Progress, maybe.
“No,” he said. “I’m not hurt.”
Your face softened. He held up a hand before you could speak.
“But you are.”
Your eyes lowered.
The room went still. Kelor’s machines hummed quietly.
Clark leaned forward. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Everything?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He nodded. His chest felt too small. “I need to ask you something.”
Your gaze lifted. Fear moved through it.
He hated that. He hated more that he had to continue. “How long has your healing worked that way?”
You closed your eyes. Clark already knew. That did not make it hurt less.
“Always,” you whispered.
He bowed his head. The word landed with all the weight of every miracle he had accepted.
Always.
The kryptonite bullet in Coast City. Bruce’s magical burns. Diana’s sword wound. Barry’s shattered bones. J’onn’s psychic backlash. His own injuries, again and again.
Always.
“All of it?” he asked.
Your eyes opened, wet. “Most of it.”
Clark’s laugh was barely a sound. “Most of it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He stood. Not because he wanted distance. Because staying still had become impossible.
You flinched. He stopped immediately. The reaction cut through him.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly.
“I know.”
But your heartbeat had jumped.
Clark sat back down. Slowly. Carefully. He folded his hands together so he would not reach for you too quickly.
“You were afraid I’d stop you,” he said.
You looked at the ceiling. “Yes.”
“You were right.”
Your mouth trembled. “I know.”
“You lied to me. You let me believe healing me didn’t hurt you.”
Your eyes squeezed shut. “Yes.”
Clark inhaled. The air in the Fortress was crisp, sterile, cold beneath the artificial warmth. He could hear ice shifting miles away. He focused on that for one second. Then returned to you.
“Do you know what kryptonite feels like?”
You opened your eyes. Confusion flickered. Then understanding.
Clark’s voice stayed quiet. “I don’t mean now. I don’t mean after the transfer. I mean before. Do you know what it feels like for me?”
You shook your head slightly.
“It feels like every cell in my body forgetting the sun,” he said. Your face went still. “It feels like something inside me is being unmade. Not burned. Not cut. Unmade.” Tears slipped down your temples. “And you took that into your body without knowing if human biology could survive the translation.”
Your mouth parted.
No defense came. No soft lie. Only tears.
“I knew the transfer would change it,” you whispered.
“You hoped.”
You flinched.
Clark leaned forward, voice shaking now. “You hoped it would change enough.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I need you to say it.”
Your face crumpled. “Because I love you.”
The words hurt. They should not have hurt. Clark had heard them from you a hundred times by now. In his kitchen. Over sleepy phone calls. Pressed into his shoulder after long missions. Laughed into his mouth in the farmhouse kitchen when his mother pretended not to smile. Here, under artificial sun, with green poison still fading from your veins, they hurt.
“Love isn’t supposed to make you my shield,” he said.
Your breath broke. “You’re always everyone else’s,” you whispered. Clark froze. There it was. Your truth, sharp and shining beneath the wound. “You stand in front of everything,” you said, voice thin with exhaustion. “Bullets. Buildings. Monsters. Gods. Grief. You hear everyone, Clark. All the time. And you go. You always go.”
He looked down.
“I couldn’t stand there and watch the world finally be too heavy for you.”
His eyes burned. “I’m not the world.”
“You are to me.”
Clark’s breath left him.
You looked almost startled by your own honesty. Then you kept going, because apparently, pain had burned away whatever caution remained. “You’re Clark. You’re coffee rings on article drafts and half-burned pancakes because you use heat vision when you’re distracted. Your phone calls to your mom during storms. You’re pretending not to cry at dog adoption stories. You’re the way you say thank you to vending machines.”
“I do not—”
“You do.”
He closed his mouth.
“You’re not just Superman to me,” you whispered. “And I couldn’t watch you die like everyone had the right to ask it from you.”
Clark looked at you. The anger did not vanish. But love rose through it, terrible and bright.
“You think I could watch that from you?” he asked.
Your eyes filled again. “No.”
“But you chose it anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Because you thought my life mattered more?”
“No,” you said immediately.
Clark waited.
You swallowed. “Because in that moment, I thought I could survive it better than you could.”
He stared.
You continued, voice shaking. “And maybe that’s arrogant. Maybe it’s awful. Maybe it’s unfair. But I saw that thing killing you, and I knew my body might twist it into something less. Not harmless. Never harmless. But less.” Your uninjured hand curled weakly in the blanket. “I thought I could take enough of it to keep you here.”
Clark understood then.
Not forgiveness. Understanding. You had not thought yourself worthless. That might have been easier to argue against.
No. You had calculated pain like weather. You had seen a storm built to kill him and believed your body could break the wind. You had been right.
That was worse.
Because he was alive. And you were not dead. And some part of him, some grateful, horrified part, knew the math had worked.
He hated the math.
He reached for your hand. Paused. “May I?”
Your face crumpled. “Yes.”
He took it gently. Your fingers curled around his with weak desperation.
“I love you,” he said. You closed your eyes. “I love you so much that I don’t know where to put the anger.” Your hand tightened. “I’m grateful.”
“I know.”
“I hate that I’m grateful.”
A tear slid down your cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“I know.”
He lifted your hand and pressed it to his mouth. Artificial sunlight warmed both of you.
“You saved me,” he whispered against your skin. You breathed shakily. “And you hurt me.”
Clark looked at you. Both truths sat there. Neither erased the other.
“I know,” you said.
“I don’t forgive you yet.”
Your face twisted.
He leaned closer. “But I’m here.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“I’m not leaving,” he said. “I’m angry, and I’m here. I’m scared, and I’m here. I love you, and I’m here.”
You cried then. Clark stood and bent over you, careful of every wire, every bandage, every bruise he could see and every one he could not.
He kissed your forehead. You clung weakly to his hand.
“I’m here,” he repeated.
Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like the first thing he could give you that did not require either of you to bleed.
Recovery happened under yellow sun.
Not the real one at first. Kelor insisted you remain in the Fortress until your bloodstream showed no trace of transferred kryptonite radiation. Clark translated the medical explanations into human terms, then Lois translated them again into “normal person English” because Clark, despite his best efforts, had started saying things like “cellular resonance contamination.”
You laughed so hard you winced.
Lois pointed at Clark. “See? You’re hurting the patient with nerd behaviour.”
Clark pushed his glasses up. “I’m not wearing glasses.”
“Spiritually, you are.”
You smiled from the medical platform, pale but alive.
Clark would take the teasing. He would take anything if it meant you kept smiling.
The wound in your side healed slowly. Not like a normal human wound, according to Kelor. Not like Clark’s either. Something in your power had absorbed, translated, and muted the injury, turning a fatal Kryptonian trauma into a survivable human catastrophe. A phrase Lois hated.
“A survivable catastrophe is still a catastrophe,” she said.
You nodded meekly. Clark raised an eyebrow.
You pointed at Lois. “I’m scared of her.”
“Correct,” Lois said.
Martha came on the third day. Clark met her at the Fortress entrance and immediately folded into her arms like he was ten years old again.
She held him without comment. That was his mother’s gift. She knew when words helped and when they only made the wound echo.
After a while, she patted his back. “Take me to them.”
You cried when you saw her.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately.
Martha Kent looked at you in that way she had. Soft as pie crust, strong as a tornado shelter.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, sitting beside you. “I know.”
“I hurt him.”
“Yes.”
You flinched.
Martha took your hand. “And you saved him.”
Your eyes filled.
“And now,” Martha continued, “you’re going to have to do the harder thing and let him be hurt without trying to fix it.”
Clark stood near the doorway, throat tight.
You looked at him. Then back at Martha. “I don’t know how.”
Martha smiled sadly. “Most of us don’t, at first.”
She stayed the whole day. She brought soup, because apparently even alien fortresses benefited from soup. She made Clark eat. She made you drink tea. She charmed Kelor into raising the ambient temperature by two degrees.
“You negotiated with Kryptonian AI,” Clark said.
Martha shrugged. “I raised you. I’m used to stubborn alien things.”
You laughed. Clark loved both of you so much he had to look away.
That evening, after Martha and Lois had gone to sleep in the guest quarters, Clark sat beside you under the solar lamps.
You were more awake now. Still weak. But present.
Your fingers traced the edge of the blanket.
“Do you hear it?” you asked.
Clark looked up from the book he was pretending to read. “Hear what?”
“The world.”
He listened. The Fortress dampened most external sound by default, but not for him. Not fully. He heard ice shifting. Wind. Distant ocean. Farther, if he reached, the blur of civilization. Satellites. Planes. Faint cries and laughter and music scattered across the curvature of Earth.
“Yes.”
“Is it hard not to go?”
He closed the book. “Sometimes.”
“You’ve stayed here for days.”
“Yes.”
“Because of me.”
Clark looked at you.
“With you,” he corrected.
Your eyes softened. “That sounds nicer.”
“It’s also truer.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you angry right now?”
Clark appreciated the question. He hated the answer.
“Yes.”
You nodded. Your fingers tightened in the blanket. “Thank you for telling me.”
He set the book aside and leaned forward. “I’m less angry than yesterday.”
“That’s something.”
“It is.”
“Still not forgiving me?”
“No.”
Your smile was sad. “That’s fair.”
“I’m working on it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to punish you with it.”
Your eyes lifted to his.
Clark’s hands curled together. “I need you to know that. I’m not withholding forgiveness to hurt you. I just…” He exhaled. “I still see you on the floor when I close my eyes.”
Your face crumpled. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I still see you pinned to that machine,” you whispered.
Clark went still.
Your voice trembled. “I see the spike. The green in your veins. Your face when you realised I was going to do it.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I know I keep saying that.”
He opened his eyes. You looked broken open by it.
“I don’t want you to stop,” he said softly. Your brow furrowed. “Not because I want you to suffer. Because I need to know you understand.”
Your gaze dropped. “I do.”
“I know.” He reached for your hand. “And I need to keep hearing it for a while.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
Clark lifted your hand and kissed it. “Thank you.”
You looked at him with a tiny, wounded smile. “For apologising?”
“For staying honest when it hurts.”
Your eyes shone. “You make that sound beautiful.”
“It is.”
“It sucks.”
“That too.”
A laugh escaped you.
Clark smiled. Small. Real.
Your breath caught.
“What?”
“You smiled.”
His smile faded into something softer. “I do that.”
“You haven’t much.”
“No.”
You looked at your joined hands. “I missed it.”
Clark leaned closer. “I missed you.”
“I’m right here.”
“I know.” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “I missed you while you were here.”
That made you cry.
He kissed your forehead and stayed close while you did.
No healing. No taking. No miracle. Just tears beneath artificial sunlight, and Clark learning that sometimes the brave thing was not stopping pain but remaining beside it.
The first time you tried to stand, Clark hovered. Literally.
You opened one eye from the medical platform. “Clark.”
His boots dropped silently to the floor.
Lois, sitting nearby with a tablet, smirked. “Busted.”
“I wasn’t hovering.”
“You were six inches off the ground.”
“That’s not hovering. That’s…” He searched for a word. You raised an eyebrow. “Vertical concern,” he finished.
Lois snorted. You laughed, then pressed a hand carefully to your side.
Clark moved forward. Then stopped.
You saw the effort. Your expression softened. “I’m okay.” He gave you a look. You sighed. “I am sore. Dizzy. Slightly nauseous. My side feels like it lost an argument with radioactive evil. But I am medically cleared to attempt standing.”
Kelor’s voice chimed, “With assistance.”
You pointed upward. “See? The house agrees.”
Clark did not like thinking of the Fortress as a house. Except maybe, with you in it, it had become one.
He came to your side. “May I help?”
Your face softened again. “Yes.”
He placed one hand at your back and offered the other for you to hold. You leaned on him heavily as you swung your legs over the edge.
Clark kept his strength carefully checked. Enough support. Never force.
You stood. For three seconds. Then your knees buckled.
Clark caught you instantly. You gasped, half from pain, half from frustration.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You went very still in his arms.
He realised too late.
Those words. Yours. His. The wound between you.
He started to let go.
Your hand grabbed his shirt.
“No,” you whispered.
He froze.
You looked up at him, eyes wet. “Say it again.”
Clark’s throat tightened. He held you carefully. “I’ve got you.”
Your face folded. This time, the words did not mean you had to bleed. They meant someone else could hold the weight.
You buried your face against his chest. Clark wrapped both arms around you, gentle as sunlight.
“I’ve got you,” he said again.
Your shoulders shook.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his suit.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know.”
You huffed a weak laugh against him. “Say that again too.”
His eyes warmed. “I love you.” Your hand tightened in his shirt. “I love you,” he said, softer. “I love you. I love you.”
Outside the crystal walls, Arctic wind screamed across the ice. Inside, beneath yellow lamps, Clark held you upright. You trembled. He stayed steady.
That was something he could do. Not as Superman.
As Clark.
The League meeting happened one week after the mission.
You hated it. Clark also hated it.
Bruce insisted. Lois agreed. Martha said, “Secrets don’t heal just because you tuck them under the bed,” which ended the debate more effectively than Batman ever could.
So you sat in the Watchtower conference room wrapped in a soft sweater, one hand pressed protectively near your still-healing side. Clark sat beside you. Diana sat across from you, gaze kind but serious. Bruce stood behind his chair because apparently sitting remained a moral defeat. Barry fidgeted with a pen. Hal looked unusually subdued. J’onn’s expression was gentle. Zatanna watched you with the careful sadness of someone who understood magical costs too well.
You explained. All of it. The transfers. The pain. The way injuries changed inside you. The way some wounds softened and others didn’t. The way emotional and psychic pain could sometimes be taken, but unpredictably and dangerously. The way you had hidden symptoms because you believed everyone would refuse if they knew.
No one interrupted. That made it harder.
Clark could hear everyone’s heartbeat. The grief in the room had a rhythm.
When you finished, silence sat heavily over the table.
Then Barry said, very quietly, “My leg.” You looked at him. His voice shook. “After Gorilla City. You healed my leg.”
Your eyes filled. “Yes.”
Barry looked down. “I thanked you and ran six laps around the medbay.”
“You were relieved.”
“You were limping later.”
You said nothing. Barry closed his eyes. Hal leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face.
“I made jokes,” he said.
“You always make jokes,” you whispered.
“Yeah, well, now I feel like an ass.”
Diana reached across the table and placed her hand over yours. You looked at her.
“You should have told us,” she said.
“I know.”
“Your choice to bear pain does not erase our right to understand it.”
Your face crumpled. “I know.”
Diana squeezed your hand. “And still, I am grateful to be alive because of you.”
You sobbed once. Clark’s hand tightened under the table.
Bruce spoke next. “We need consent protocols.”
You let out a watery laugh. “Of course you already have a folder.”
Bruce’s eyebrow lifted. “Three.”
Hal muttered, “That tracks.” Clark almost smiled.
Bruce continued, “No healing without informed consent except in pre-authorised emergency conditions. Everyone will establish directives. Injuries must be disclosed afterward. No solo high-risk transfers. Mandatory monitoring.”
You looked exhausted just hearing it.
Clark leaned closer. “You don’t have to solve all of it today.”
Bruce paused. Then nodded. “Not today.”
That was Bruce being gentle. You seemed to understand, because your expression softened.
“Okay,” you said.
J’onn looked at you. “There is one more thing.”
You tensed. Clark did too.
J’onn’s voice remained calm. “You are more than the pain you can carry.”
The room went quiet. You looked away.
Clark wanted to wrap himself around you.
He did not. Not here. Not unless you asked.
J’onn continued, “Many of us have relied on your gift. We must now learn to rely also on your personhood.”
Your eyes closed.
That one landed. Clark knew because it landed in him too.
Your personhood.
Not power. Not function. Not miracle.
You.
The meeting ended slowly. Not cleanly. There were tears. Apologies. Awkward hugs. Hal made one terrible joke and looked relieved when you laughed. Barry cried openly and then apologised for crying, which made you cry, which made him cry harder.
Bruce handed you a tablet with the draft protocols. You stared at it. Then at him.
“Three folders?” you asked.
“Four now.”
You smiled faintly. “You’re a menace.”
“So I’m told.”
Clark waited until the room emptied. Then he turned to you. “How do you feel?”
You leaned your head against his shoulder. “Tired.”
“Only tired?”
He felt your smile against him. “No.”
Progress.
“I feel scared,” you said. “And guilty. And relieved. And like everyone is going to look at me differently now.”
Clark rested his cheek against your hair. “I do.”
You went still.
He lifted his head and looked at you.
“I look at you differently because I know you better.”
Your eyes searched his. “Not because you love me less?”
“No.” His voice softened. “Never that.”
You nodded. A tear slipped down your cheek. Clark wiped it away.
“May I take you home?” he asked.
“Fortress or apartment?”
“Smallville.”
Your face changed. “Really?”
“Ma has been texting me soup emojis for two hours.”
You laughed. Clark smiled. There it was. A small patch of sunlight through the ache.
“Smallville sounds good,” you said.
Smallville healed differently than the Fortress.
The Fortress had alien medicine, yellow lamps, crystal diagnostics, and an AI that could identify seventeen forms of radiation poisoning in six seconds. Smallville had Martha Kent. Which was better, in several ways.
You stayed in Clark’s childhood room because Martha insisted, and because Clark turned very red when you pointed out the little wooden airplane still sitting on the shelf.
“It’s cute,” you said from under three quilts.
“It’s old.”
“It’s cute.”
“It was a gift from my dad.”
Your teasing softened.
Clark picked it up carefully. His father had carved it by hand. The edges were worn now from years of a little boy’s fingers tracing the wings.
You watched him.
“He loved you a lot,” you said.
Clark smiled, sad and warm. “Yeah. He did.”
You patted the bed beside you. Clark sat. The bed creaked. Your eyes brightened with amusement.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it.”
“I thought you are very big for this bed.”
He laughed. You smiled, triumphant.
That night, Clark slept in the chair beside you and woke to find Martha draping a blanket over him with the long-suffering tenderness of a mother who had absolutely expected this.
“Clark Joseph Kent,” she whispered. He opened one eye. “You are not guarding the national treasury.”
He blinked sleepily. “No. Something more important.”
Martha’s expression softened despite herself. Then she smacked his shoulder lightly with the folded edge of the blanket.
“Bed. Guest room. Now.”
“I’m fine here.”
“You are six-foot-whatever and folded like laundry. Move.”
You stirred, eyes half-open.
“Listen to your mom,” you mumbled.
Clark looked betrayed.
Martha smiled. “I like them.”
“I’m injured,” you added. “You have to listen to me too.”
“That feels manipulative.”
“It is,” you whispered.
Martha laughed quietly.
Clark went to the guest room. Mostly because both of you were terrifying.
The days that followed were slow. You walked through the kitchen with one hand on the counter while Clark hovered within acceptable ground-level parameters. You sat on the porch in the morning sun, eyes closed, letting real yellow warmth touch your face. You helped Martha shell peas one-handed and complained that Clark kept trying to do everything for you.
“He gets that from me,” Martha said.
Clark looked up from the sink. “I’m right here.”
“I know, honey.”
You grinned.
He loved seeing you at the farm. Loved it so much it scared him. You looked softer there, wrapped in one of his flannels, sunlight on your knees, bandage hidden beneath fabric. Not healed. Not untouched.
But safe. Or as close as the world allowed.
One afternoon, he found you standing in the cornfield. The same place you had first kissed him. You wore his jacket over your shoulders and held one hand lightly against your side.
Clark approached slowly. “You okay?”
You looked over. “I think so.”
He stopped beside you. The corn rustled around you both. For once, the world was not screaming. Clark could hear cows in the distance. A truck on the road. His mother humming in the kitchen. Your heartbeat, stronger now.
You turned toward him. “I need to tell you something.”
He nodded.
You took a breath. “I don’t regret saving you.”
Clark’s chest tightened.
You continued quickly, “But I regret how. I regret not telling you the truth before. I regret taking your choice. I regret making you wake up to my pain.”
His throat worked.
“I don’t regret you being alive,” you said. “I don’t think I ever could.”
Clark looked down. The corn moved in long, golden waves.
“I don’t regret being alive,” he said. Your eyes filled. “But I regret what it cost you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely okay with it.”
“I know.”
“And if it happened again…”
You went very still.
Clark looked at you. “I don’t know what I’d choose either.”
That startled you. He gave a sad smile.
“I want to say I would respect your no. I want to say I’d let you make the choice and accept it. But if you were dying in front of me and I could stop it?” His voice lowered. “I don’t know…I think,” Clark said slowly, “that’s why I’m so angry.”
You whispered, “Because you understand.”
“Yes.”
He hated admitting it. Needed to.
You stepped closer. “Where does that leave us?”
Clark reached for your hand. You gave it to him.
“In progress,” he said.
A faint smile touched your mouth. “That’s very journalist of you.”
“It’s also true.”
“Do we make rules?”
“Yes.”
“Protocols?”
“Yes.”
“Bruce is rubbing off on you.”
“Unfortunately.”
You laughed softly. Clark lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
“But more than rules,” he said. “We keep telling the truth. Even when it’s ugly. Even when it doesn’t make either of us look noble.”
“I can try.”
“So can I.”
You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll always see me on the floor.”
Clark’s hand tightened around yours.
“I will,” he said.
Your face fell. He touched your cheek.
“But I’ll also see you here.” Your eyes lifted. “In my mom’s kitchen. On the porch. In the cornfield. Rolling your eyes at my drafts. Laughing at Lois. Falling asleep with three quilts because you say the farm gets colder than the Arctic, which is objectively false.”
“It does emotionally.”
He smiled.
“There,” he said. “That too.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I don’t want the worst thing to be the only thing,” he said.
You leaned into his palm. “Me neither.”
Clark bent and kissed you. Gently at first. Then with all the careful longing of the days he had spent afraid to touch you too much.
You kissed him back with your uninjured hand curled in his shirt.
He did not float this time. Progress.
Then your mouth curved against his. “You’re trying very hard not to float.”
Clark’s ears warmed. “I am grounded by discipline.”
“You are grounded by trauma and corn.”
He laughed, startled and helpless. You smiled. The sound moved through the field, small and human and alive.
Clark kissed you again. This time, his feet left the ground by maybe an inch. You noticed. You did not mention it.
Kindness. Mercy. Love.
All things with fine print, maybe. All things worth reading anyway.
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DUDE!!! I’d actually love this pleasee I’m begging you
HCs of Clark’s response to you calling him Kal-El in different tones/contexts please I love you
"Kal-El!" - Clark Kent x Reader
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Summary - Nobody ever calls Clark Kent by his Kryptonian name, only you really understood and loved that piece of him like no other. When you call him Kal-El he knows you mean business, but he also knows your genuine.
Warnings - Drabbles not full fic!, Suggestive themes, whiny + needy Clark, Clark Kent is sad, Kryptonite poisoning, He's mushy and golden retriever, my pictures are malfunctioning | WC: 1974
AN - First req, tysm! Office Crush Pt. 2 Will be written soon, but I really wanted to do this drabble. I also, I have to feed my other account because I neglected it so badly (Sorry Outsiders, I still love you a lot...). Anyway, sorry if this is repetitive, I kind of got carried away, so it feels less like a drabble, whoops!
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Kal-El, the son of Jor-El and Lara, was sent down to Earth to serve and protect the people living there. Naturally, he adapted to human nature, going by Clark Kent. Nobody ever reached the Kryptonian part of him, so when you called him Kal-El, he knew it mattered, and it made his heart melt a little every time—or fear for his life. Either way, it made him feel seen, for every part of him. Not just the part Earth sees.
Clark walks through the door after work, slipping off his shoes, setting his briefcase down. He loosened his tie as he ran a hand through his hair before he heard the undeniable sound of your feet on the hard wood, rounding the corner to tackle him. You crashed into his chest, “Kal-El!” He didn’t stumble, standing solid as his big arms swallowed you whole. He perked up at the name, a smile already spreading across his face. “Hi, sweetheart. You smell like cinnamon…” he comments, wiping a patch of loose cinnamon that was smeared across your cheek. “I made you apple cake, you said you’d wanted to try it,” you said, guiding him to the kitchen and he followed with no complaint. “I don’t recall saying that to anybody,” he mumbles, sitting at the island as you gave him the spatula caked in cream cheese frosting. “You didn’t, you marked it in your little cook book.” You said it so casually, his cheeks warmed, licking the rubber utensil in his hand as he watched you work that little apartment kitchen like a professional.
Clark had invited over his work friends after a long time of you asking, you wanted him to have people around, to have friends other than you. So he invited Jimmy, Steve, Lois and Cat over. He had said, “Let yourselves in!” when inviting them. They were due to come in 30 minutes, so you were helping him cook and get drinks together before getting distracted by the radio, twirling each other in the kitchen before it ended in you kissing his face, leaving little lip gloss stains on his face. The front door swinging open stopped you both, when his friends rounded the corner they all laughed. “Did we interrupt something?” Jimmy asks. Clark looks at the confused, fixing his glasses. He touched his cheek, lip gloss coming off, his ears started to burn at his friends' laughter. You joined in, guiding him to the bathroom to wipe it off for him. Quietly you mumbled, “Don’t tell me you're embarrassed, Kal-El. As if you don’t save the world in bright red underwear on the outside…” The teasing made him get redder and furrow his brows. “You told me you liked it,” Clark said, watching your lips for any sign of the name Kal-El leaving them again. “I do, still a little silly,” you replied, the sound of his friends chatting in the living room stole his attention away, you casually walked out, sitting with them and passing around wine.
Clark had a few quirks that drove you up the wall, he breaks things easily from his strength, or apologizes for everything, even for dropping his spoon—but the thing that annoyed you most? When he got out of the shower and dripped water everywhere. He would step out of the shower, get it all over the floor, water all over the counter when he did his hair, his curls would be sopping wet after a shower. You lay in bed, watching a show on TV, the screen lighting up your bedroom. He climbed in next to you, grabbing his book. “What’re you watching?” he asked, opening to his book marked page. You look over at him, water dripping from his curls. “Gilmore Girls… Do you not dry your hair with a towel?” you asked, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. He looks at you confused, tilting his head. “Oh… I mean I do. Not very well, I guess,” Clark shrugged before shaking his head a little, harsh and quick, the cold droplets pelting you, landing on your nose and forehead, even on your shoulder. When he stopped he noticed you staring at him irritably. “Kal-El!” you snap, your brows furrowed. Clark stopped quickly, looking at you wide-eyed, and giving you a guilty grin. You look over at the floor and notice the trail of water from the bathroom. “There’s water all over the house!” you continue, sitting up. He got up quickly, and he could tell you meant it. “I’m sorry, honey…” He froze for only a second at the sound of his Kryptonian name before his eyes darted to the trail of water he’d left behind.
He always works hard at Daily Planet before putting time in as Superman for days on end without any rest. During this, when he’s home he can get snappy, or he loses that positive attitude that you love so much about him. Clark promised tonight would be the night he takes a break, you made him swear it, but after you went to sleep, he caught himself going out anyway, helping take down a Luther corp robot in minutes. When he landed on that balcony, sliding the slider open, he was greeted with you, arms crossed on the couch waiting. “Kal-El. Where have you been?” You asked, your voice stern but the undertone of worry he didn’t miss. He took his boots off before moving to the bedroom to change back into his pajamas. “I heard something… Lex doesn’t stop at night.” When he turned around you were close, standing solid and intimidating despite him towering over you. You learned that his height wasn’t intimidating because of the little puppy that was underneath it all. “You’re over working yourself, and don’t say you don’t need to sleep. Even if you are an alien with superpowers, you have to, Kal!” you lectured, guiding him to bed. Clark held his head down, and he felt bad immediately. You were just worried, hearing his name made his heart hurt a little, he had let you down and he’d hurt your trust a little. “‘M sorry… Tomorrow I’ll be off, all day. Promise,” he whispered, climbing into bed before pulling you close. The stern tone, “Kal-El.” rang through his head a few times before he drifted off, feeling more comforted in the warmth of your arms around him.
When Mr. Terrific delivered Clark to you, his veins were a deep green, clashing with the sweet ivory of his skin; you were in near shambles. Lex Luthor had poisoned him to the brink of possible death; how he managed, you were unsure, but it was a few days of no contact from Clark, and you were worried. You were in contact with Mr. Terrific immediately. He tracked him for you; he could tell by how worried sick you were. “Oh, thank you so much… Is he going to be okay?” you ask, stroking Clark’s face. He was in a deep sleep; his suit was dirty and smelt of smoke. He was limp in bed, making your head feel like it was going to explode. “He should, just don’t let him go anywhere, get some sun and rest…” he replied, before leaving—leaving you to worry how you worried best. With a struggle, you got his suit off, his body twitching in his sleep. The green veins ran in rivers all over his body, down the muscles of his chest and stomach, his legs, even to his fingertips. “Oh, Clark, come back to me…” You whisper. He was out cold for 2 excruciating days. You kissed his cheeks, tucked him in while he slept, and worried sick. When you heard him shift in bed for the first time, you rushed in, stroking his forehead. “Sweetheart…” you whisper, tears starting to roll down your cheeks in relief. His eyes fluttered open, comforted by your warm voice. He weakly moved his hand to yours and gave you a soft smile. The sunlight shining through the window warms his skin. The green veins were close to gone now. “You scared me, Kal-El. So bad…” You cried, pressing kisses on his face. He took them, his heart kick-starting again. Hearing his Kryptonian name in your voice grounded him. The sound of Kal-El in your voice settled something sweet inside him. It wasn’t Superman you were relieved to see. It was him. “Lex… tricked me. I’m sorry,” he croaked out. You shook your head, “Don’t say sorry…” you whispered.
At work, he had a busy day. Perry had sent him back to rewrite his article three separate times. Lois still landed the front page after all that work, only scoring the third page. Then, while helping a civilian as Superman, he managed to pull a Clark Kent and clipped the corner of a building. He’d taken the hit instead of the civilian, but the embarrassment stung right to the core, more than the impact ever could. He came into the apartment, head down, looking at his shoes, his hair messed up, a few curls flat, and his shirt all ruffled, ink-stained up the white sleeve. “Clark!” You yelled excitedly, and when you rounded the corner to see him with his head down, very upset, you changed, your eyes softening and brows furrowing. “What’s wrong...?” you asked, watching him take off his shoes and carelessly toss his briefcase by the front door. He sighs, looking at you with his big blue eyes filled with guilt and disappointment. “Nothing went right today… I was so clumsy, and I just felt like a big oaf,” he mumbles, walking off to the bedroom without even a kiss to your forehead. You padded behind him and wrapped your arms around him from behind as he unbuttoned his shirt. “You aren’t a big oaf… I’m sorry, honey,” you said quietly, your eyes looking up at the back of his head. You reached up to ruffle and adjust the curls in the back, how he liked it. He walked to the bathroom, using the restroom before coming back out. Clark looked at you, feeling miserable. “Come here, Kal-El,” your tone soft, and you opened your arms for him. He looked down, your arms empty and waiting for him. Without another thought, he crossed the room, melting into your embrace and holding you tight. It was all he needed to hear, that soft tone and feel your arms around him. He knew that at least he had you—and that was all he needed at the end of the day. The world expected Superman to be invincible. The Daily Planet expected Clark Kent to be brilliant. You expected neither. You only asked him to come home in one piece.
As you two watched a movie, the rain slid down the windows. He lit candles for the occasion, a romantic night at home, where you ordered takeout and put on a corny romance. Over a bowl of ice cream, feeding each other, it evolved into kissing. Where the movie was forgotten, and the only thing you were conscious of was your lips moving together in a perfect rhythm. His hands on your hips, his back sinking into the pillows as he allowed your tongue into his mouth, your sweet thighs squeezing around where he was starting to need you most. “Mm, sweetheart…” he groans into your mouth. You felt the unmistakable outline of his incoming erection on your legs, making you grin. “Oh, Kal-El, you dirty, dirty man,” you tease, running your hands down his chest, moving against him, making him whine in place at the roll of your body against his. “Please, don’t tease me, it’s so mean!” he complained, the flirty tone of his name on your tongue making him harder, making him strain and squirm in his boxers like it physically hurt.
Thinking about Viking King Steve and his Queen. I'm pretty sure he had lovers before. Perhaps even one who is of higher status and thought he might pick her to sit beside his throne.
So what if she visits unannounced, claiming she came to pay respects to the new queen, but obviously she's subtly flaunting herself in front of Steve. After all, she says, it's not uncommon for a Viking to have lovers...
Of all the asks in my inbox, I'm not exaggerating when I say that around 20% of them are for this AU, and half of those ask about what you would do when another woman comes into play, but THIS ASK is the one that finally gave me and the muse a lightning strike of how to specifically attack this eventuality... Thank you for sending, Eva!
It Rises with the Fall [For the King & Conqueror]
Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steven x curvy Female Queen!Reader
Word Count: 7.5k
Summary: Visitors from other viking shores stretch your bonds and bring new facets to light between you and Steven in the dark.
Content/Warnings: DARK established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), anal play, unprotected vaginal and anal intercourse, insemination; cockwarming; use of pet name (little wife); dare we say some actual feelings?
Author Notes: Bahaha, had y'all known it was our viking king in this poll, I'm sure the results would have been different. But here he is, bringing Valensmut to a close.
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Astrid weaves your hair with an almost priestly focus, her long fingers working the intricate braids while she hums an old cradle tune, soothing as you sit as patiently as you can. Strands of bright blue ribbon, the same shade as Steven’s clan, glimmer in the plaits, spiraling through your hair like a frozen river. It is the first feast of the year to welcome outsiders—envoys and traders from the southern coast, men and women who do not know your face or your story, who will judge only by what they see. The knowledge stiffens your shoulders with a tension Astrid mistakes for excitement.
“You look like a goddess of the old stories,” she says, catching your gaze in the silvered glass. “Vidar agrees.” She gestures at the orange cat, who has perched himself upon the window ledge and watches your reflection with the gravity of a child awaiting a bedtime tale.
He hops down and jumps into your lap, clearly knowing his own name. You smile and stroke his ears, then peer up at Astrid as your scalp tingles with each gentle tug. “Remind me not to sway my head too much. I’m afraid your artistry might come undone.”
“It would take a storm at sea to ruin this braid, my queen.” Astrid ties off the end with a precise knot, then leans back to admire her work, face split by a grin too wide for the room. “Though you should know—Helga says there’s trouble in the kitchens. The foreign ships arrived with more mouths than expected.”
Before you can ask what “trouble” means—spoiled meat, missing wine, or some new spat among the bread-maidens—Helga herself enters with her customary briskness, skirts swishing in determined arcs. She is flushed, but not winded, and you know immediately that she is holding onto information, but holding back from immediately tossing it at your feet.
Helga closes the door behind her, not with a bang but with a soft, purposeful click. Her gaze flicks first to Astrid, then to you, but she doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she dusts her hands on her apron, glances out the window, and then reaches to smooth a stray lock of hair at your temple.
You steel yourself for news of some disaster: a fire, a sour barrel, an insult from the southerners that could spark a feud. What you do not expect is for Helga to say, quietly, “There is a woman among the southern guests. She travels with their lord, but she is not his kin. Nor is she a simple companion.” Helga’s voice is even, but her eyes flick up to meet yours, sharp as a kestrel’s. “They say she once belonged to your husband. In ways that matter.”
It’s not the information itself that unmoors you—of course Steven would have had lovers, many of them, maybe a line of them stretching along the spine of the continent. You’d guessed it not only in the way he took you in the beginning, but in how skilled he was, how voracious his appetites were. But this, the fact of a woman from his past making landfall here, clutching an invitation to your table, is different.
And what matter should it be to you? Both of you had lives before he carried you away from your old one and forged you into his.
You raise your eyebrows just enough to suggest curiosity, not concern. You even manage a small smile. “Thank you, Helga,” you say, and you stroke Vidar’s back to steady your hands. “Has the woman caused any concern?”
Astrid, eager to defend your honor, clenches her fists, and you see her glare in the reflection. “Is she here to undermine our queen? To make a spectacle?”
Helga lifts a hand, stilling the younger woman with a look. “No spectacle, not unless someone makes one. She holds herself apart. Wears no clan colors. But she has not taken her eyes off your husband since they arrived.”
Helga is still watching for a reaction, so you ask, “Did she give her name?”
Helga nods. “Inga of Storn.” She says it cautiously, as if delivering the name will levy more of an impact.
You ask the only question that really matters. “Has the king acknowledged her presence?”
“He has not spoken to her publicly,” Helga replies. “He may choose not to. She has withdrawn now, as have the others, to prepare for tonight’s festivities.”
You nod, and preserve as much of your wits as you can. You try manage the slow, spreading heat that comes from knowing you will soon be obliged to share a room, a table, perhaps even the throne, with the shape of the woman who held your husband's heart—or, at least, his body.
Astrid is still fuming. “If she tries to speak to you, my queen, you need only give the smallest glance—”
“No,” you say, not so sharply as to wound, but enough to plant your feet in this moment before it runs away from you. “She is here as a guest. As long as she is so, there will be no pettiness.”
Astrid huffs, as if she wishes she could personally bar the door against any ghost of Steven’s past, but she relents somewhat in her fire. You marvel at her loyalty, but you’re not a child. If there’s any power dynamic to be threatened here, you intend to stay abreast of it, not be held at its mercy.
“I’m grateful, Helga,” you say, pressing a thumb to Vidar’s chin to make him look at you. “We’ll show our guests the courtesy—and strength—of this hall tonight.” You rise, skirts crackling as you straighten them, and the orange cat leaps gracefully from your lap to pad after you.
The final hour before the feast passes in a cloak of anticipation. The sun falls lower until the halls are rimmed in copper, and servants light the torches, fanning the smoke with sprigs of dried sage. In the antechamber, you stand with the other women of the household, conscious of every movement, every tilt of your chin, as if the very air is a lens through which every soul will judge you tonight.
The horns sound, and you file in. The hall is pulsing with voices and color and music. The main table, set up on its dais, is resplendent with silverwork and dressed in the king’s blue. The guest tables are alive with a cheerful chaos of strangers’ laughter, a thousand tiny dramas swirling in the air. Steven stands at the center of it all, hair bound with a leather cord, his tunic blue to match yours. But he is already deep in conversation with the lord of the southerners, and beside him stands a woman, draped in gray and gold, her hair the kind of pale that seems to catch and hold the last of the sun. She is neither beautiful nor plain—her features are sharp, her gaze even sharper.
You allow yourself a single moment to look—the way she turns her face up to him, the quick curve of her mouth, the deliberate way she does not touch his arm but lets her presence fill the space between them like perfume.
You feel Steven’s gaze slide to you a moment later. The cut of him is remarkable. Your king is nearly a head taller than any man in the hall and so broad at the shoulder that even his finest tunic strains to contain him, but tonight it’s the angle of his eyes, the directness of his claim, that makes you catch your breath. He gestures you forward with an imperceptible tilt of his chin.
You cross the main floor of the hall, the clamor dimming as you approach. The southerners bow their heads, the ring of their movement perfectly choreographed—each body turning just enough to show deference, but not servitude. The pale woman, Inga of Storn, nods to you with a correctness so precise it almost scalds.
You keep your chin up, expression schooled into the perfect image of hospitality—welcoming, but not wishing to betray any nerves.
“Queen,” she says, her voice low, clear. “It is an honor.”
You answer carefully, “You honor our hall with your presence.” You smile, enough to be diplomatic, but not enough to offer welcome to someone you must see as rival, remnant, or both.
Steven’s gaze darts between you and Inga, then back to the lord of the southerners, a shrewd man he introduces as Tomas. He looks to be older than Steven by some twenty years, but by no means born down by age, but instead a strong and vibrant force of a man.
Tomas’s eyes crinkle as he bows to you, the movement fluid, practiced, and just the right side of unthreatening. “Your majesty. It is a fine hall and a finer welcome, especially in the dark of the year.”
“Not so dark tonight,” you observe, glancing at the torches and the banners and the armies of candelabra above. “We strive to make it warm for our guests even when the snow stacks to the eaves by sunrise.”
He smiles wider at that, revealing slightly crooked teeth—a flaw that only makes him more approachable. With everyone now present, you take your seats, you and Steven at the head table, though not seated next to each other this night. Tomas sits at his right hand—as is fitting for the highest ranking guest of honor—and to your unease, Inga is placed at his left, but you square your shoulders and determine to put it out of your mind.
Bowls of wild carrot soup are ladled out to begin the feast, warming those who trekked in through the chill outside. Both Tomas and the southern guests seated on your other side are warm and jovial, and full of many stories. The feast unfurls in courses—cured fish, roasted fowl, the first of last year’s turnips and winter apples. Conversation swirls: trade, adventure, discovery and battle stories. Tomas’ expression and manners are warm, almost fatherly, and it strikes a pang of longing for your own father, left behind in your former life.
You do your best to contribute lightness to the conversation, steering the southern guests to delight in the oddities of northern cuisine. The men at your table are charmed by your wit, and you can feel the subtle undertow of approval in the way even the local men listen when you speak. You pay careful attention to Inga’s end of the table, however. She appears to be quiet but captivating, attentive but reserved. She confers with Steven in sparse, low exchanges, always too brief for you to catch more than a murmur. When their eyes meet, Steven’s gaze is unwavering, but if there is emotion in it, you haven’t the skill to name it.
As the feast progresses, the warm haze of mead and full bellies softens the edges of the hall’s tension, and by the time the musicians strike up their first tune of the night, the mood is jubilant.
Steven eventually stands, towering above the crowd. He raises his drinking horn and with a voice that rolls over every torch and table, calls, “Tonight we honor old friends and new! Raise your cups to the bonds that hold us fast, and to the storms that make us stronger.” The hall erupts in a shout, the echo near deafening. He sweeps his gaze over the assembled, and though the words are for all, the message is for you as much as for Tomas, Inga, or anyone else present: This is a show of unity, of mastery, of tradition. There is no room for ghosts here unless Steven himself invites them to the table.
And there is at least one ghost at this table, which, for your own sanity, you can not blow bellows to the tiny flares of envy or jealousy. You must exist beyond the clutches of it.
So you raise your own cup, letting the warm thrum of solidarity pulse through your hand and into your chest, focusing on the other visitors in the hall.
But as you lower your cup from your lips, for the first time in the night you meet Inga’s eye. You think she is about to smile at you—something sly, almost conspiratorial—but the moment is gone before it can fully form. She turns her attention to Steven, saying something that makes him laugh, his baritone booming over the harmonies from the musicians’ corner. You can’t help but study her in the periphery—every tilt of the head, every calculated calm. Is she a threat? An echo of what Steven once needed, or proof that he has changed appetites—for the better or worse, you can’t say. And as the queen, you do not wish to give any obvious behavior for anyone to speculate over.
You notice Inga does not drink heavily, does not indulge in the flirtatious banter that is a currency among the guests. She listens as much as she speaks, and when she does, the table grows quiet, as if all sense recognize the gravity of her voice. Even then, she never once attempts to draw Steven away from conversation, or even to claim his attention. Her very restraint feels like a challenge, and you find yourself equally determined not to betray any agitation, keeping your laughter easy, your conversation nimble.
You are grateful for the music, for the tartness of apple cider that follows and the way the children of the hall begin darting between the tables, snatching sweet buns and giggling, unburdened by the weight of any history. Their laughter is a buffer, and you use it to steady yourself between exchanges.
At the first coaxing notes of the next song—a lively dance tune from the southern coast—Tomas stands and extends a hand to you. “Will the north’s most gracious queen honor an old man with a dance to beckon spring to hurry its speed back to us?” he asks, grinning widely.
You’ve never danced formally in this hall. For a split second, nerves coil in your belly, but then you consider the alternative: remaining at the table, a passive spectator to the silent communication running like a tide beneath Inga and Steven’s every movement. You’d rather risk a stumble on the slick flagstones than be left to chew over every possibility.
You stand and take Tomas’s hand, a ripple of interest moving through the guests as he leads you out into the open before the hearth. A gap opens in the crowd, and the musicians punctuate the moment with a flourish of strings and drum. Tomas bows with exaggerated solemnity, then sweeps you into a measured turn.
You follow his lead, surprised by your own ease. Tomas is a practiced partner, gentle with your hands but confident, never once jerking or crowding your stride. His feet are silent on the stone, but his voice is not. “You’ve the poise of a born queen.”
You tilt your chin, keeping the smile soft at the corner of your mouth. “I was not born for this, but I endeavor to do my part now that I am here.”
You spin across the stones, and as you do, you scan the tables. Steven’s eyes are on you. For a moment the music and the crowd dissolve, and there is only him: his gaze, steady and measuring, tracking your every motion. You do not falter. You let Tomas spin you and cross-step backwards right up to the hearth, recalling the reels of your childhood, the feel of packed dirt and summer wind and the memory of a future you never lived. The steps come back to you, and you find yourself smiling for real, alive in the exertion and the quickening of your own pulse.
“Grace alone is never enough for a court like this,” Tomas murmurs, leaning close during a tight turn. “You have mettle. Not the kind acquired by accident, either.”
You search his face, but his tone is light, his intentions wrapped in courtly ambiguity. “If that’s meant as counsel, my lord, I am ever eager for the wisdom of those who have weathered more storms than I.”
Tomas’s steps never falter, though his grip on your hand tightens a fraction. “That is good. If you ever need a friend at court, or anywhere else, you would do well to keep my confidence.” The dance brings you in close, and you catch the glint of honest intent in Tomas’s eyes. “There will be many storms, and you must endeavor to discern which storms require bolting the doors, and which are best met with open arms.”
Whether it is a warning, an offer, or simply a kindness, you do not know, but you incline your chin in acknowledgment. “Thank you, Tomas of the south. I will remember the counsel.”
“I believe between you and I, we are cut from the same cloth. Perhaps a finer, softer weave than these old bones, but the same resilience deep in the thread.”
The dance ends, and he bows you out with a flourish. There is a round of applause from the assembled guests, followed by a ripple of laughter from you and the others who joined you in dance, and Tomas gently guides you back toward your seat.
But before you make it, Ursa intercepts you, her eyes wide with the thrill of the moment. “My queen, you were glorious,” she whispers, then slips away as quickly as she arrived, swishing back into the tide of party.
The song ends. Tomas bows you out, guiding you back to the table with a flourish that leaves your head slightly spinning. As you sit, Inga of Storn is watching you, chin propped on the backs of her fingers. She offers you a nod, measured and dignified; you answer with the same, nothing more, nothing less.
The courses roll on. Dishes change rapidly as servants whisk away battered platters and empty bowls and refill goblets at a tempo that keeps the feast in perpetual motion until honeyed cakes and dried fruits are brought around at the end.
You’ve barely savored the last morsel when Steven appears at your side, towering, the heat of his body radiating through the cold of the hall. He takes your hand, enveloping it in his, and tugs you gently but inexorably away from the crowd, ignoring any final etiquette or protocol the occasion may actually have called for. Not a single protest is raised. You can feel the tension radiating off him, and you can only imagine the intensity that must be written on his face. No one will challenge this man in this moment.
You expect him to drag you, as he sometimes does, straight to the bed, or to pin you against the wall and ravish you before the echoes of the feast have even faded. Instead, Steven releases your hand the moment you cross the threshold of your chambers and crosses to the hearth, where the fire is guttering low. His movements are restless, unrooted. He throws a handful of pine boughs onto the embers, and the fresh pitch cracks and blooms with the flames and the sweet, sharp scent that you always associate with midwinter.
He neither speaks nor turns, only begins to unlace the collar of his tunic, then pulls it over his head with a movement so forceful you hear the threads strain. He works at the bindings of his arms and wrists, then his belt, and a tremor in his hands betrays the force of his mood. You watch, uncertain—half expecting him to turn on you with that voracious hunger that rarely seems to be quelled. He continues undressing until he’s stripped down to the waist. He is all muscle and shadow, scarred and beautiful in his brutality, but there is something closed off inside him, a storm clouded rather than spent.
Finally, you move further into the room and commence your own nighttime preparations, beginning with removing bracelets from your arms and slipping out of your shoes, still keeping an eye on him.
He seems to sense your scrutiny, shoulders rising in a slow, controlled breath. “You handled yourself well,” he says. The words are measured and strange. “Better than some would have, in the presence of a woman like her.” He can only mean Inga of Storn.
“She is your past, not mine,” you say, and you mean it—or at least, you want to mean it. “Why should I rise or fall for her presence?”
He turns at last, blue eyes catching the full flare of the firelight, and he studies your face like a puzzle he cannot put together. “You should,” he says. The words are hard, unyielding. “It is the nature of things, little wife. Inga is a woman who inspires envy—and not on accident.”
You bristle, the spark of his challenge igniting something that had lain carefully banked all night. “Is that what you wanted? For me to make a scene? Douse the table in your mead and tear her hair out, so the court thinks I am threatened by a pretty ghost?”
His jaw sets, the muscle in his cheek ticking. “Not a scene. I expected you to care.” He spits the last word like a barb, as if it offends him to say it. “You did not flinch, not a blink, when she looked at me with hunger in her eyes.”
It angers him. Truly angers him—not the cold, analytical anger you’ve seen him summon in anger or as a tool of command, but a real, burning, personal need that you see so rarely in him.
“You did not ask me to care. Nor do you seem to require it.”
He stalks forward, bare from the waist up but for the scars that mark him as both king and conqueror. The fire newly lit gives his skin an uncanny glow, as if he’s built from the gods’ own rage and spit. “So that is what it is for you?” he asks, not waiting for response. “A matter of requirement?”
You don’t answer, not directly. You stand your ground and begin to unfasten the heavy belt at your waist, the traditional blue and white sash Astrid had wound and knotted. The silk slips loosely between your hands before you lay it over the back of the chair at your vanity. You undo the laces of your dress, and slip out of it, leaving you in only the simplest of undergarments. “What am I except your conquest? The treasure you brought here? I am scarely more than a trophy fucked and paraded as your queen. I did not know there was an allowance for feeling.”
Steven closes the distance, the air heavy with the pine smoke and the tension you can nearly taste on your tongue. He stands in front of you, massive and imposing, every inch of him radiating heat and intent. “You think that is all you are to me?” he says, voice low and dangerous. “After so many months, you still believe you are just a prize?” He snatches the discarded silk sash and—too fast for you to resist—loops it around your wrists, pulling tight, binding them before your body as if you are a lamb readied for ritual. There’s nothing gentle in the motion, but you drink in the shock and let your body summon the wariness that once governed everything here.
He drags the length of blue over his fist and yanks you forward. You crash against the wall of his chest, the heat of his body a living fire, but his hands do not grope or clutch at you—he holds you at arm’s length, searching your face for something you cannot name.
“I could have any prize, have had many,” he breathes, but it’s fire and not flattery. “I do not keep what I do not want. I have never yearned or sought for more from a woman the way it was from that very first evening.” He leans in so close you smell the salt of his skin, the iron of his mood, and for a moment all you can do is match the wildness in his eyes.
“And even when I have you, I am not satisfied. You become more.” He lets go, not with violence, but in a way that makes the lack of his touch ache.
He circles, pacing almost, the blue silk still twisted around your wrists. "When I look at you," he says, softer now but fiercer too, "I see every dream I have ever had for this hall, this land, my blood. And still it is not enough." He shakes his head, wild with a need that cuts deeper than desire. "That is what you should know, little wife." The last two words rumble from his chest, not dismissive but desperate, as if it is the only truth worth clinging to.
And with that, he drops to his knees—in front of you, not as a servant or a slave but as a king stripped to his hunger. He presses his forehead to your bound hands, inhaling as if scenting your skin might save him. The heat of his breath is humid against your knuckles. For a moment you see the massive hands that have destroyed and built so much now trembling at your command, your body.
But then his hands close around your hips and jerk you forward, so abruptly your knees buckle and you nearly overbalance. He grips you—hard—and rakes both hands up your thighs. The snowy white of your chemise is no hindrance to him: Steven seizes it in both fists and, eyes burning up at you, and rips it from the hem up to your hips with a force that shocks even you, the fibers surrendering in a gasp of threads. The rush of air is cold against your bare skin, but his hands are instantly on the flesh of your thighs, spreading them, and you stagger, almost lose your footing on the rug, except he holds you firmly enough to pursue you poised there as he wishes you to be.
He does not hesitate. He presses his face into the junction of your thighs, beard scraping your bare skin, his mouth finding your cunt with a hunger absent of delicacy but not of skill. He holds you in place by the blue-silked wrists and licks at you, slow and then quick, the heat of his mouth blazing against your skin, beard rough at the crease of your thighs. You gasp, the sound escaping you as a broken little cry, and he drags his tongue up your slit, thumb grinding the bud of your clit until your head tips back and you are moaning, open-mouthed, at the ceiling.
Steven twists you by the hips, turning you, commanding your body how he wants it. He bites your flank, then lower, sharp teeth grazing the swell of your ass, and you yelp, a sound you try to muffle in your own shoulder but which makes him laugh against your skin. He kneads the flesh in handfuls, then thumbs your cheeks apart, spreading you so bluntly you want to disappear into the floor, but you cannot because Steven is behind you, greedy and intent.
The next sensation shocks you: the wet, hot press of his tongue at your tightest opening, circling and probing, and you buck against the sensation, a strangled gasp tearing from your lips. Though Steven has claimed all your holes, he does not torture or pleasure your tightest hole frequently. The shock of his tongue there is always a violation so intimate you might burn to ash beneath from his ministrations.
He sucks at you, his tongue sliding into places ever dared even imagine you would be touched before him. Even now the crudeness of it alone would have made you weep from shame if not for the fact that your knees are shaking with the need to be filled, to have him utterly claim every part of you. Your body responds to him with the swiftness of a summer storm—one touch and you're drenched in need, lightning coursing through nerves that know only him. Months in his bed have carved these pathways of pleasure to flood at his command.
He pulls you down and you end up kneeling on all fours. You whimper—it is all you can do—and Steven holds you steady, his hands bruising your hips as he works his tongue over both your cunt and the tight ring of muscle, switching between them until you’re trembling, the world reduced to blue silk, candlelight, and the raw, obscene wet slickness of your own arousal. You do not have the wherewithal to care if any hear you cry out. There is only your need, the way Steven’s mouth and hands erase everything but the edge you’re teetering on.
He shoves your knees wider, so wide you sway in the joints and nearly collapse—except there is his arm, corded and firm, braced across your hips like you are some wild animal being tamed. He licks at you, fucking his tongue into your cunt, then back to your ass, alternating with a rhythm that leaves you panting, open-mouthed, on the rug. You feel a fresh rush between your legs with each circle of his tongue, and Steven groans as if the taste of you is his favorite mead, his favorite honey, his only holy thing.
Suddenly he stops, and you have just enough time to register the loss, the ache of missing his touch for even a heartbeat, before he’s looming over you, rising to his knees and fitting the wide, hot head of his cock to your entrance.
He doesn’t push in yet. He slides the tip up and down, teasing, painting the slick of your arousal along your cunt and further back to your ass, pressing just enough that you feel the hint of promise, the threat of it, a stretch you both want and dread.
“Steven,” you gasp, your voice gone hoarse, “please—”
He braces one hand at the base of your neck, thumb pressed to your nape, and with the other, guides himself in, slowly, filling you inch by inch until you’re gasping, blinded by the fullness, the impossibility that this act never grows less shocking. He drags it out, slowly, making you feel every notch and ridge, until he bottoms out inside you, hips flush to your ass.
He holds you like this, utterly open and claimed, and rocks his hips forward. The first thrust is slow, almost reverent, but it is a brief moment of gentleness before the pace sharpens. His cock drives in and out of you, using your cunt as an anchor, but every third thrust, you feel the blunt head of him nudge against your other opening, slicked with your own arousal and the wet residue of his mouth. The pressure is relentless, an inexorable stretching, and then—without further warning—he is pushing inside you there too, just the tip at first, but widening you, forcing the tight ring of muscle to yield.
You cry out, the sound raw and wild, and Steven laughs, low and dark, as he works both holes—one with cock, the other with a ruthless finger slicked in spit and your own juices. You can barely process the sensation, pleasure and pain crashing in waves, every nerve in your body tuned to the twin pulses of pain and satisfaction.
He fucks you like this, both cock and fingers filling you, setting a rhythm that is brutal and perfectly pitched to bring you to shattering. The force of his thrusts pitches your body forward, but Steven follows, his hand bracing at your shoulder, yanking you back to impale yourself on him again, again, until you’re wrung out, body bowed, the blue silk biting into your wrists. Your moans are so loud you think you must be heard down the hall, maybe in the kitchens, maybe in the snow fields beyond the fortress walls, but you are past caring.
He leans over you, chest against your back, the scratch of his beard burning your neck, and you hear him snarl into your ear, “Mine. Only mine.” He bites down, hard but not breaking skin, a mark of claim to your own. The heat of his mouth and the iron grip of his arm send you over the edge, your body convulsing, the orgasm crashing through you like a wave ripping a cliffside to ruins. Your cunt milks his cock desperately, and Steven groans, a sound that vibrates through your whole body. He presses further, thrusting as if he could drive his soul into you through pure force of will, matching each spasm of your core with a savage, punishing pace.
He does not let up. Not when your legs collapse under you, not when your cries go ragged and raw, not when you sob for breath and for mercy and for more in the same voice. He ruts your ass until he feels you tremble again, the pain and pleasure indistinguishable now, and then he yanks out, slides his slick length back into your cunt, and fucks you until you scream his name.
Finally, when you are empty of everything but your voice, Steven shoves in hard and stills, cock pulsing as he finally spills into you, a rush of heat so intense you weep from the fullness of it. He slumps forward, folding you beneath him, pinning you to the rug so you cannot move, cannot even think to move, and for a long moment there is nothing but the roar of your heartbeat in your ears and the heat of his breath at your neck.
He doesn’t speak. He stays, spent and trembling against you, his sweat slick at your back, his cock softening but held inside as if to keep you forever tethered to the earth and to him. The pine boughs in the hearth spit and crackle, the only sound in the chamber aside from your twin gasps for breath.
After what feels like an age, Steven rolls you to the side, still bound, and gathers you up before rising himself and carrying you to the bed. He lays you down, then produces a knife from where exactly you know not, and cuts away the remnants of your chemise. Only then does he descend, moving in behind you, pressing your back to his naked, sweat-slicked chest. He slings one burly arm across your belly, cinching you to him, as if he suspects you might unravel and slip away, vanish into the night unless physically anchored. The other hand, still holding the blue silk binding your wrists, brings them to rest at your breastbone, a possessive knot over your heart. He nestles his nose into the braid of your hair, breathing in the sweat and salt and whatever trace the night has left on you. For a long while, he is silent, letting the wet heat of your bodies leach into the linen, letting both your hearts hammer back toward something like peace.
This is not uncommon, a ferocious fucking, and then a decent into slumber, but then he does speak before you’re too far gone.
He speaks as if you are not there, as if he is confessing to the dark, beard rasping your neck. “If it was merely your body I wanted, I could have stolen and kept you as a concubine, a pet for the king and his men.” He draws your bound hands to his mouth, presses a kiss to the ribbon cinching your wrists. “But I saw in you a queen who would have strength and the wits of survival. You proved it through your actions in ushering your women, children, and elderly to flee into the forest and hide. You were only caught because you were the last to leave, the rear of the pack.
“And I think maybe I knew—” He laughs, the sound gruff and incredulous, “—the moment you stared down a blade and spat in the dirt at my men, you had the bone in you that could survive me, could take all I would give and not break."
You want to tell him that’s not what you feel now—not breaking and survival, but the slow, hot flare of something more dangerous and enveloping. But you cannot move your mouth, cannot move your hands. The warmth, the utter exhaustion, pins you like an insect in amber. It’s the truth, though: you can take all Steven gives and more, and even when he breaks you, you reform, sharper and surer than before.
He pulls your braid loose and combs his fingers through your sweat-damp hair, unbraiding it section by section, as if to erase the ribbons and colors the court braided into you and replace it with only his mark. He works methodically, with the patience of a hunter skinning his prize, so slow you feel every drag of his thumb at your nape, every careful untwining.
When his hands have untangled every ribbon, when your hair spills wild and loose as the night he first took you, Steven says, voice raw and unguarded, "Do you want him?" The question is a blade, unexpected, honed to a perfect, silent edge.
It is not the kind of jealousy you expect from him—Steven, the conqueror, the unmoved, the one who’s consumed, enthralled, and conquered you. But there’s a new, black hunger in the way he says it, a need to know if you can be swayed, if Tomas’ gentler words or softer eyes could tempt your loyalty a finger’s breadth from Steven’s grasp.
You twist to look over your shoulder, wrists still bound, and see the truth of it in his expression. He is not angry, but something deeper: haunted. You know then that he could trust you with his life, but not with his terror of being abandoned. “You like the southern lord Tomas.”
His tone is feral, a warning note you know instinctively not to ignore. You lie propped against the iron of his arm, your heart thrumming against the knot of blue silk, and wonder if he will truly believe any answer you give.
You do not play coy. That would only make it worse. “He reminds me of someone,” you say.
A pause. The heat of him presses in at your back, more tense, and you can sense his mind tearing through every possibility, every motive. “Someone you would have preferred to me?” The words are almost spat, but beneath the venom is a tremor—a thread of vulnerability that stuns you.
“My father,” you say quietly. “He was… kind. He asked questions. He listened.” The ache that trembles there in your voice, you know it will not land gently for him or for you. You go on anyway, the words catching like thorns in your throat. “I miss him. I miss my mother, my sisters.” You swallow, hard. “Tomas is nothing like you. He can see through a room and set those around him at ease. It reminds me of how my father was. I don’t want him. I want…” You pause, the word refusing to come, but you force it out, soft as a bruise. “I want not to be alone.”
There’s a long silence. Steven’s breath rasps in your ear, ragged, and you feel the strong pulse of his heart beating. The words hang between you, heavy as the furs that swathe the bed. For a long time, neither of you moves. You expect Steven to snarl, to snap, to claim you again with hands or teeth or cock, but he only tightens his arm around you, pressing you close enough that your breath stutters in your chest.
“Alone,” he finally echoes, as if this is a thing he has never truly named. His chin presses into your shoulder, and the scrape of beard is almost tender. “You have never been alone since the day I brought you here. Not a single night, not a single dawn.” The words rumble out of him, half accusation, half vow.
But you know what he can’t know, what no one here could possibly understand, and you find yourself trembling as you say, “It’s not the same.” The words are small in the dark, nearly swallowed by the thick cocoon of the bedding and the iron of his arms and the weight of him still half inside you.
He stiffens, but you press on, voice hollow with a truth you have never let touch air, have scarcely allowed yourself to acknowledge since the early days of your new life. “You think I am not alone because you are always here, because I have servants and duties and… an entire kingdom to help care for. But every face is new, every wall echoes with the absence of the home that was mine.” You swallow, steeling yourself. “Every kindness here is suspect. Every affection is one I must earn, or keep, or defend.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, raw and truer than anything you’ve ever let him see.
Steven is very still behind you, considering. You feel his hand, slow and careful, splay over your belly. “And me?” he asks. “Am I only… a conqueror to you, even now?”
What can you say? You have wanted, desperately, to hate him, to let yourself be ice and stone, but every night you share this bed, every morning you wake pressed close to him, his heat and his hunger and the unexpected moments of care. “You are a conqueror,” you admit, “and there are days I loathe you for it.” You turn, finally, within the cage of his arms, and this time the blue silk is support, not restraint. “But you are also the root the grows all I have now,” you admit, the words dry as bone, the last of your pride crumbling with them. “Everything I was is gone, except for how you see me, the life I’m building here only because of you and my position as your queen.” The confession is everything you know how to give. You expect him to seize it, to use it as leverage or to brand you with it in the way only Steven can. Instead, he is silent, haunted by the truth of it, and you sense a shift in the air.
He searches your face, eyes dark and wild and unmoored, and then something in him gives. He closes his eyes, a long, shuddering exhale bleeding out of him, and then, with the patience of a stone altered by centuries of wind, he gently unwinds your bound wrists and brings your hands to his lips. He kisses the inside of each palm, one and then the other, callused hands cupped around yours to hold them steady for the ritual. You think he means to claim you again, to turn every declaration of weakness into a demonstration of strength, but instead Steven just holds your hands to his heart, bared and thrumming fast and fragile against your skin.
He presses his brow to yours, the heat of his body incandescent, a lighthouse in the storm. “I see you,” he says. “I saw you from the first, and I will not let you vanish, not even if you wish it.” The words are a cord binding you, not to the palace or the kingdom, but to the man beneath the scarred skin and steel beneath. The admission is not in words, but in the slow pulse of his heartbeat under your palm, the way he curls his hand around your head to keep you there, to keep your face pressed close, as if proximity can substitute for explanation.
You are swept by a wave of exhaustion, not the clean fatigue of sated pleasure, but a deep, marrow-tracing depletion, the kind that comes from exposure more than exertion. For a time neither of you moves, except for the hot, desperate breaths that collapse in your lungs and then shudder out of you both, braided together and matching pace. You close your eyes, feeling the scrape of his thumb over your cheekbone, and tell yourself you don’t care that you cry a little. How many times have you shed tears in his presence? Of fear, of frustration, of pleasure, of longing.
There is nothing left to say this night. You surrender to the thickness of the moment, to Steven’s hands redrawing every line of your body, as if this is the first and last night he will ever have you. You shudder against him, not from cold, but from the slow-mounting realization that love, even the broken, brutal kind, has taken root where only survival grew before.
viking themed divider by @saradika-graphics
So? Thoughts? Feelings?
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first read through, i don't think i was ready to see the hints of Steve's...remorse? revelation? That it has sort of hit him more squarely how much he took away from his queen in order to have her and build something with her.
also -- jealous king steve is quite the handful. 🙄😆
a re-read is always a massive compliment to hear! so thank you!!
what was interesting is that I had some ideas of what I wanted to have happen when I set out to put this chapter together, but - AS SEEMS TO BE TYPICAL FOR THESE TWO - so much more ended up developing while I was moving through each of the things that played out, and I think that's an exciting place to be in an AU/with characters as a writer. so much of their conversation alone evolved as they spoke each bit of their dialogue to each other, but it all felt very real to them and what's happened so far.
I’m thinking, dad!clark. Like fresh, baby just born dad!clark. You both probably spent three days in the hospital, with a little girl of course, and you are just beaming. The birth all went okay, and Clark was holding your hand, kissing your cheek, your forehead, and your shoulder, muttering sweet nothings and words of encouragement the whole time.
When she was first born, both of you were in tears. Clark’s hand immediately went to the back of her head as she screamed her little heart out, and you were choking out little sobs, sniffling “hi, little one.”
Baby was a little early, and she looks so teeny tiny on clarks chest. His second favourite thing is holding her on his bare chest while she’s just in her little newborn diaper, just regulating her temperature. His favourite thing of course is watching you with the baby. Whether it’s talking to her, feeding her, or just holding her, he just loves watching you bond.
He definitely helped you shower after the birth, and didn’t bat an eye at the full on adult diaper you’ll probably need to wear for the foreseeable future. He just pulls on your clean pyjamas, and puts some nice skincare on your face, because come on? You deserve to be pampered. Well, he believes you deserve world, but that’s all he can do tonight. He doesn’t complain once about the uncomfortable chair (it probably doesn’t bother him, superhero and all) he just grabs you drinks, snacks, and extra blanket or pillow, sorts your socks out because the corner keeps itching your toe, pulls your hair out of your face when you get too hot.
And when you finally get discharged, he’s totally doing the hot dad walk out the hospital. He’s dressed in well-loved sweats, a tight fitting white tee, and some beat up running shoes, holding the baby in her car seat (with the cutest little coming home onesie on) in one hand, your hospital bag in the other, with his backpack on his back over one shoulder. He looks hot, and if you weren’t hobbling a couple feet behind with one hand on the handrail, still very very very sore from the birth of your daughter just three days ago, you’d be jumping on him to make another. (Clark is very very very cautious about conceiving again after baby 1 and waits the recommended 18 months before even thinking about trying again)
This is my thought of the day. Let me know if you have any more thoughts about dad!clark because I’d be very very very willing to do this again.
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend.
tags: smallville!reader, photographer!reader, best friends to lovers, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, comedy of errors type miscommunication (nothing serious or overly frustrating i promise)
warning(s): suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader
word count: 9.2k
note: did i get the inspiration to write this while rewatching smallville for the first time in years? why yes i did 😌
masterlist
You stepped out of the taxi, your new camera bag slung over your shoulder, nerves swirling in your stomach. The Daily Planet’s globe gleamed above you, obscenely big and just as intimidating. Standing by the entrance was Clark Kent, already waiting for you.
An absurdly large grin was on his lips as he stood there, adjusting his glasses nervously. His tall, broad-shouldered frame was familiar, even under his office suit, but his face wasn’t quite how you remembered it. You knew that behind his black frames, a pair of startling blue eyes shone with excitement.
“Hey,” Clark greeted you when you closed the taxi door behind you. “You made it!”
You broke into a smile, jogging up to him and throwing your arms around his shoulders. Clark laughed, catching you easily and hugging you so tightly your feet left the ground for a moment. “Of course I made it. I couldn’t miss my first day.”
When Clark released you, you took a step back to take him in properly. He held onto the strap of your camera bag like you might run back to Smallville if he didn’t physically keep you in Metropolis.
Then, theatrically, you squinted up at him. “I’m sorry, who are you again?”
Clark rolled his eyes fondly. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
You chuckled. “Clark Kent doesn’t wear glasses. You don’t look like you.”
His mouth tilted into the shy smile you remembered. “I told you, they make my face look different so people don’t recognise me,” he said quietly.
“Yeah, but I’ve known your face my whole life,” you teased, leaning closer. “I’ve known it since your Ma gave you a botched haircut in first grade. I’d recognise you in a police line-up in two seconds flat. These,” you reached up to push his glasses up his nose, “Just make you look like a knock-off Clark Kent.”
“A knock-off? Really?” Clark said. The grin on his face made his mock-scolding expression unconvincing.
You nodded, expression solemn. “Discount Clark. Buy-one-get-one-free Clark.”
He ducked his head, but the tips of his ears went pink. You hadn’t seen that look in over a year, and it warmed you from the inside out. “I missed you,” Clark confessed quietly, with a smile. “A lot.”
You beamed. “I missed you too,” you promised. “Who knew having thousands of miles between us would make me finally decide to leave Kansas.”
After graduating from high school, you and Clark went your separate ways. You stayed in Smallville to help your family, attending community college for photography. Clark went all the way to Delaware to study journalism at Metropolis University. You’d been long-distance best friends for years, and landing a job at The Daily Planet was the perfect excuse to move to the same city as him.
Little did you know, Clark had been in love with you back in high school.
He would have told you, too, if you hadn’t chosen futures that scattered you across the country. At first he told himself the distance was a blessing. Maybe it would give his heart enough space to cool off, until whatever he felt for you dulled into nothing. But he’d been wrong. No matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how many times he tried to convince himself it was just a silly crush, he never stopped loving you.
Clark looked at you like he always did—steady, unwavering, as if you were the only thing in the world worth focusing on.
Oblivious, you adjusted your bag and nodded to the doors. “So, are you gonna show me around? Or do I have to storm the newsroom on my own?
“Pretty sure storming the newsroom gets you fired on your first day,” Clark mused.
“Then it’d be a record,” you joked. “Imagine the headline: ‘Shortest tenure ever held by a Daily Planet photographer.’”
“Writen by Clark Kent,” he added.
“Rude,” you muttered, without any real bite. Clark led you inside, making sure to stay close enough that your shoulder brushed his arm with every step. You glanced up at him, speaking in a sing-song tone, “You’re doing it again.”
He looked back, puzzled. “Doing what?”
“The thing where you hover like a worried dad every time I have something important going on,” you supplied. “Your Ma and I call you Helicopter Clark behind your back. She thinks you get it from your Pa.”
Clark laughed softly, a little sheepish. “Maybe I just like having you around.”
You nudged his arm. “Cute. You’ve always been sappy.”
He gave a small laugh, but his chest tightened. If only you knew how right you were. “Yeah, guess I am.”
“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” you squealed as you entered the elevator. “This place is legendary. You’ve been walking into this building every morning like it’s normal, and now I get to join you. It’s crazy!”
Clark watched your excitement with something softer in his eyes. “Yeah. Crazy.”
When the elevator doors slid open onto the bullpen floor, you let out a gasp. It was almost like a cathedral, ceilings impossibly high and crowned with coffered squares edged in gold. The building was a heavy marble and stone, making it feel historic, though it was filled with modern sounds—phones ringing, keyboards clattering.
After introducing you to the receptionist, who snapped your picture and handed over a still-warm badge, Clark guided you forward with a hand lightly pressed to your back. That same quiet protectiveness he’d always had in Smallville hadn’t dulled with distance.
You clutched your new badge, eyes darting around. “So,” you said, glancing up at him with a grin, “are you going to introduce me to your friends, or do I just start shaking hands like I’m running for office?”
Clark laughed, the sound soft but fond. “Alright, alright. Let’s start with Lois—”
“Standing right here,” came a crisp voice behind you.
You turned. A woman with sleek dark hair approached, folder tucked under one arm, coffee in the other. Her eyes narrowed slightly as they swept over you, then softened with the faintest flicker of amusement. She looked like the kind of woman who could save your life and then write your obituary if you annoyed her.
Clark fumbled, already flustered. He knew exactly why she was giving you that look. If there was one thing everyone at the office teased him about, it was the fact that he spoke about you too much. Lois and Cat were convinced Clark was in love with you, and he was having a hard time trying to convince them otherwise.
“Lois, this is—”
“The famous best friend from Kansas,” she cut in, sticking out her hand before he could finish.
Your brows shot up. “He’s been talking about me, huh?”
“All the time,” Lois said flatly. “Honestly, I thought you might be imaginary.”
That got a laugh out of you, nerves dissolving instantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time Clark invented a friend to make himself seem popular,” you joked, shaking Lois’s hand.
Clark gave you a look, half mock-offended, half helpless affection. Lois chuckled, sipping her coffee like she was watching a very entertaining sitcom.
“You’ll fit right in,” she said, and patted Clark’s arm before she swept off toward her desk.
The moment she was out of earshot, you turned to him. “She seems cool.”
Clark grinned, though his shoulders still carried tension. “Don’t tell her that. She’ll only use it against you later.”
You laughed and followed him deeper into the chaos.
That’s when you saw him: boyish grin, camera strap slung across his shoulder like it belonged there. Jimmy Olsen. Average height, wiry, chestnut hair that refused to stay put, posture like he’d never once taken gym seriously but always got the last word. He had that indefinable something. Not movie-star handsome, not intimidating, just magnetic. Approachable. Like he could charm a parking ticket out of a meter maid.
Jimmy leaned against a filing cabinet mid-story, making a whole crowd laugh. Then he looked up, saw you, and lit up like you’d just walked in carrying a Pulitzer.
“No way!” he bounded over, hand outstretched, grin wide. “It’s so nice to finally meet Clark’s other best friend. I’m Jimmy.”
His energy was so warm you laughed before you even touched his hand. “‘Other best friend’? Try the original.”
“Clark talks about you all the time,” Jimmy said, deadly serious. “I figured you were either a childhood friend or his nemesis.”
“Both,” you said. “Depends on the day.”
Jimmy laughed warmly. The next thing you knew, you were giggling through his wild gestures as he explained how he’d almost been locked in the darkroom overnight. He was ridiculous, magnetic in that paradoxical way of being sweet but charming.
Clark stood a step back, watching. He shouldn’t have been surprised. You were both his best friends, after all. But the way you were already leaning into Jimmy’s orbit, laughing with your whole face, made something in his chest twist.
You doubled over at the end of Jimmy’s story, tears threatening. “Clark totally undersold you, you’re hilarious!”
Jimmy raised his brows and eyed Clark. “Undersold me? Clark, how could you?”
You turned, expecting Clark to leap to his own defence, but instead of his usual grin, you caught a strained smile, his shoulders drawn tight. Before you could puzzle it out, Jimmy launched into a rundown on the other photographers, earning your rapt attention.
Lois strolled past, a smirk curling on her lips. She nudged Clark’s elbow. “Looks like Jimmy turned on the usual charm for your Smallville bestie,” she commented. “How does he do it?”
She’d said the words casually, but Clark froze, throat bobbing.
You leaned toward Jimmy. “So,” you asked eagerly, “what’s your favourite lens? Do you stick with prime or—”
Jimmy lit up and dove into an enthusiastic explanation, hands flying as he talked about his 35mm. You nodded along, grinning like you’d just found a kindred spirit. Behind you, Clark’s smile faltered another fraction. He shoved his hands into his pockets, stomach twisting.
“Okay,” Clark broke in at last, voice just slightly brisk. “You’ve got orientation in five. Don’t wanna be late.”
You straightened, still grinning, and gave Jimmy a cheerful wave. “Catch you later!”
Jimmy shot back a two-fingered salute, grin dazzling. You turned happily to follow Clark, not noticing the tightness in his jaw as he guided you toward the conference room.
“I can see why you like him so much,” you said, breathless with laughter. “He seems great. I can’t wait to work with him.”
Clark said nothing. Because Lois’s voice still echoed through his head, over and over again, about how Jimmy had turned the charm on for you.
For dinner, Clark picked out a diner that looked unchanged since 1954: red vinyl booths, neon buzzing faintly above the counter, waitresses who called you “hon.” He swore up and down they had the best burger in Metropolis, and you believed him—because when had Clark Kent ever lied about food?
You sank into the booth across from him, shrugging off your jacket, cheeks still warm from the day. “Okay,” you said, stabbing the straw into your soda with a decisive jab. “Jimmy Olsen.”
Clark’s brows lifted. “What about him?”
You leaned forward, grinning. “He’s adorable. I totally get why you talk about him so much. He’s so funny, Clark, and he’s actually good. Like, really good. We were talking about lenses earlier and we have the same favourites, can you believe that? And he knows all my favourite photographers. And today, on my first day, Perry actually liked my pitch on the immigration photo essay! Guess who helped me polish it before the meeting?”
Clark’s smile stayed on his lips, but it dimmed a little in his eyes. “Jimmy.”
“Jimmy,” you repeated with a laugh, holding up your glass in a mock toast. “My desk is right next to his, and I think we’re going to get along well. He’s got that… that thing, you know?” Clark knew exactly what you meant. Jimmy might as well have been the most charming man in Metropolis. “It’s magnetic.”
You didn’t notice the way Clark’s shoulders drooped, or how he fussed with the paper wrapper on his straw until it was shredded into tiny curls.
“Well,” he said after a beat, voice pitched a little too cheerful, “sounds like you’ve had a pretty swell first day.”
You beamed. “The best. Honestly, I was so nervous this morning. But between you, Lois, and Jimmy, I think I’ll be alright.”
Clark swallowed, nodded, smiled. All those things at once. It looked effortless if you didn’t know him. Unfortunately for him, you knew him better than anyone.
You tilted your head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, gaze darting to the laminated menu. Clark had never been good at lying to you, but avoiding eye contact might give him a chance. “I’m just glad you’re settling in. Really glad.”
You hesitated, straw between your teeth, suddenly aware of how much you’d been talking. “I’ve been rambling, haven’t I?”
Clark chuckled warmly, shaking his head. “I don’t mind.”
You grinned sheepishly. “Well, for the record, my apartment’s great. A little bare still, but nice. And I get to walk to work now, which feels very grown-up and metropolitan.” You said the last word with mock grandeur, and Clark’s mouth curved at the edges.
“Didn’t you take a taxi today?” he teased.
“That was practicality,” you argued. “You try hauling a backpack and a camera bag full of photography gear on the subway.”
Clark smiled, and for a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m glad you like your place. My first place in Metropolis was a dorm, so anything should be a step up from that.”
You laughed. “True. My neighbour seems really nice, too. I think we’ll be friends. But honestly?” You paused, softer now, because you wanted him to hear this part clearly. “The best part of today was getting to see you, and knowing I’ll see you every day now.”
You meant it. The way you said it, so plain and true, made something flicker across Clark’s face. Something you couldn’t name before it vanished behind another of his earnest smiles. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other across the booth, soda sweating between your hands, the neon light turning his glasses a soft red at the edges.
“This feels a little like home, doesn’t it?” you said finally, nodding at the jukebox in the corner “Like that diner where I had all my birthday parties growing up.”
Clark’s mouth curved, almost shy. “With the paper hats.”
You grinned. “And the strawberry milkshakes.”
“I remember.” He tipped his head, studying you like he was turning back the clock. “You always wished for the same thing every year.” Then he chuckled, “Three more wishes.”
“Yeah.” Your voice softened as you leaned back. “Last year, I wished for this. For sitting across from you again. Getting to see you every day.”
Clark’s smile faltered, just slightly, like your words pressed against something tender inside him.
You ducked your gaze, tracing the menu with your finger. “I can’t wait to hang out at yours or mine soon. So I can see your face properly again, without the hypno-glasses.” You said it with a little laugh, but the truth slipped out in the quiet. “I just… miss seeing you. Not Superman, not the glasses. You.”
His throat worked around a swallow, glasses slipping a little down his nose. For a heartbeat, you thought he might actually reach across the table for your hand. Instead, Clark gave you one of those soft, heart-aching smiles that belonged only to you. “I’d like that.”
When you’d told him you were moving to Metropolis, Clark had been elated. You were the first person he’d ever trusted with the truth back in high school—his heritage, his powers, the fear, the whole mess of being different. Having you here felt like a gift, as if he could finally stop feeling so alone.
“Speaking of gifts,” you said suddenly, rummaging in your bag. “I almost forgot, your parents sent me with this.”
You pulled out a small pot with a leafy sprig of green, wrapped in brown paper and twine. Clark blinked at it, recognition dawning. “Is that—?”
“Native milkweed,” you declared proudly. “Your Ma said it’s good for butterflies. She wanted you to have a piece of home on your windowsill. She told me to tell you, and I quote, ‘Tell Clark to water it, because Lord knows he won’t remember without supervision.’”
Clark chuckled fondly, the sound easing out of him in a breath. “That sounds like Ma.” He reached out, fingers brushing yours as he took the plant, and you felt the warmth linger longer than it should have.
“She also packed me a pie for the trip,” you added slyly. “I already ate it.”
His mouth fell open in mock horror. “You ate a whole pie by yourself?”
“Don’t look so shocked, farm boy,” you scolded. “You’ve seen me at Thanksgiving. Besides, it was a four hour plane ride! I got hungry.”
That made Clark properly laugh, his head tipped back, clutching his stomach. The sight made your chest tighten unexpectedly. It was like catching the memory of summer sunlight on your skin.
The two of you fell easily into swapping stories after that. Your first terrifying photography professor, his late nights at the college paper, how you used to sneak into the Kent barn loft with a thermos of hot chocolate and talk about the future like you had any clue what it would look like.
“Do you remember,” you said between bites of fries, “when I told you I was going to be the next Annie Leibovitz and you said you’d write all my captions?”
Clark grinned, fork hovering in the air. “Still will, if you’ll let me.”
You rolled your eyes, though the fondness in your eyes was painfully obvious. “Such a nerd.”
His smile softened. If there was no red thread binding you together, he would grab a string and tie it himself. Clark Kent had been yours since the moment you’d leaned over the lunch table in middle school and whispered, Don’t worry, I think you’re normal even if you don’t.
You caught him staring and raised a brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Clark said, though it came out tender, almost adoring.
And you thought, God, what a nerd. My best friend is such a nerd. You refrained from saying it with barely controlled affection, hiding the way your stomach had gone hot under his gaze.
You found your rhythm in Metropolis faster than you thought you would.
The first week at The Daily Planet had been an exercise in clinging to Clark’s elbow like a human lifeline, smiling a little too hard at every person who passed, and trying desperately to memorise names and desk locations before someone caught you looking lost. But by the second week, you’d figured out how to blend in with the controlled chaos of the bullpen.
You were still “the new kid.” The one who double-checked the coffee machine instructions before daring to press a button, the one who made Jimmy sign off on all your captions even though he kept insisting you were fine. But you were speaking up more in meetings.
You’d made Cat laugh once, actually laugh, a sharp bark followed by an appraising look that made you feel like you’d just earned a medal. Lois was harder to crack, but there were moments when she’d pass you a file without comment or murmur a quick, “Good work,” and your stomach would flutter like you’d been given a blessing.
And then there was Jimmy. Going out on assignment with him was like being caught in a whirlwind. He walked too fast, talked too fast, gestured so wildly you half-expected him to topple into traffic. But he was brilliant with a camera. He’d see a shot before you’d even raised your lens, point it out with the kind of enthusiasm that made you laugh even when you were gasping to keep up.
The first time Perry ran one of your photos on the front page, Jimmy dragged you into the middle of the bullpen and announced it like a town crier.
The second time was even better. You’d somehow managed to snap a clean, perfectly framed shot of Superman mid-flight, cape fluttering against the light, looking every bit the hero of Metropolis. Perry slapped the proof down on the table and growled, “Front page.” You nearly fell over.
That night, you showed Clark, holding up the paper like a trophy. He nearly spat out his tea.
“You’re kidding me!” He was laughing so hard he almost fell off your sofa. “You—you got the Superman shot? After all the times Jimmy’s tried—golly.”
“Golly?” you teased, nudging him with your elbow. “What are you, a cartoon dad?”
“Don’t care,” Clark said, still grinning. “You’re incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
If you thought about that too long, you got a little lightheaded, so you mostly didn’t.
Metropolis itself was trickier. You’d been before to visit Clar, but living here was different. You’d grown up in Smallville, where everyone knew your name, your parents, and exactly what your dreams and goals were.
Here, you could be surrounded by hundreds of people and still feel invisible. The noise was constant: horns, chatter, music being blasted at ungodly hours. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d stood still without someone brushing past with an annoyed “watch it!”
The small-town friendliness didn’t exist here. No one waved when you crossed the street. No one offered to help carry your shopping up the stairs. People were in a rush, and you were in their way. But it wasn’t all bad.
It was exhilarating sometimes. You could wander two blocks and find ramen at midnight, or tacos from a cart parked beside a glittering theatre. You’d gone to a Metropolis Meteors baseball game with Cat and Lois last weekend, sat in the nosebleeds with a hot dog, and felt more alive than you had in months.
And you weren’t entirely alone. Your neighbour, Poppy, a Metropolis local your age, had practically adopted you. She showed you the best bodega for late-night snacks, where to avoid taking the subway after dark, and which coffee shops didn’t overcharge for lattes. She was sharp and kind and exactly the sort of friend you needed in a new city.
You caught yourself smiling one evening as you told her, “I might have the perfect guy for you.” You hadn’t said Jimmy’s name yet. You wanted to do your homework first, find out if he was single, or at least willing to be set up. But the idea stuck. Poppy’s easygoing nature and Jimmy’s goofy brightness would balance each other out perfectly.
Besides, wasn’t that what starting fresh was supposed to be about? Building connections, finding your place. Creating a home for yourself in the middle of all the noise. And maybe, just maybe, realising that the best part of your day was still the same as it had always been: sitting across from Clark, laughing until your sides hurt, wondering how you’d ever gone so long without seeing him every day.
It started casually.
You were leaning on Clark’s desk one afternoon, sipping lukewarm coffee and pretending not to panic about your deadline, when the words came out: “So… Is Jimmy seeing anyone?”
Clark almost gave himself whiplash from how quickly he turned to look at you. His eyes were wide behind his frames, his mouth slightly agape like he couldn’t believe what you’d said. “Uh—what?”
You tilted your head. “I just wondered. He’s cute. And funny. And I thought maybe—”
“He’s dating a model,” Clark blurted, too quickly. “Pretty sure. Yeah. Definitely dating a model.”
Across the bullpen, Lois didn’t even look up from her monitor. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend in months, Smallville.”
Clark blinked, red blooming in his cheeks, while you filed that information away with a pleased little hum.
A few days later, you sidled up to Lois at the coffee machine. “Does Jimmy like Italian food?”
She gave you a sharp look. “Are you asking because you’re planning a date?”
“No,” you said, too fast. “I’m just curious.”
“Jimmy likes any food. If it’s edible, he’ll eat it.” Lois stirred copious amounts of sugar into her mug, smirking. “If it’s not edible, he’ll probably still eat it. Man has no culinary standards.”
When you glanced at Clark’s desk, he was staring fixedly at his computer.
Later that week, you caught Clark in the elevator. “What’s Jimmy’s type?” you asked casually, as if you were inquiring about the weather.
Clark’s glasses nearly slid off his nose. “What?”
“Women,” you clarified. “What kind of women does he usually go for?”
Clark fumbled. “Uh—uh—tall? Or maybe short. Definitely one of those. And, um, brunette? Or blonde. Or—”
Lois, who’d slipped in just before the doors closed, rolled her eyes. “What isn’t his type?” she said dryly, and you laughed all the way up to the newsroom floor.
It became a running theme.
“Do you think Jimmy likes jazz?” you asked Lois one morning.
Clark dropped his coffee stirrer.
“Does Jimmy prefer dogs or cats?” you asked Clark the next afternoon.
He stammered something about fish before fleeing to refill his mug.
“Would Jimmy ever date someone who wasn’t in journalism?” you asked Lois the following week.
She sighed. “Kid, Jimmy would date someone who breathed near him too enthusiastically.”
By then, Lois had decided you were developing a crush on Jimmy. She gave you amused little glances whenever you brought him up, while Clark looked like he was one misplaced question away from combusting. And you, completely oblivious, just kept making notes in your mental file.
Jimmy Olsen: Not currently seeing anyone. Likes all food. (Easy win.) Has no real type, possibly open to anything. Jazz: inconclusive. Dogs vs cats: also inconclusive.
Perfect. Operation: Matchmaker was right on track.
Meanwhile, Clark Kent was wilting in slow motion at his desk, trying very hard not to imagine you and Jimmy in a romantic-comedy-style date montage. The thought of the two of you sharing a milkshake with two straws made him nauseous.
Friday nights had always been for movies. Back in Smallville, the tradition had been sacred. Every week, no matter what farm chores Clark had been stuck with or how swamped you were with homework, you ended up curled together on the worn sofa at the Kent farmhouse. Bowls of popcorn, one light left on in the kitchen, a stack of DVDs you rotated through endlessly.
Now, in Metropolis, the ritual lived on. Your new apartment wasn’t much, a little nest of mismatched furniture and thrifted lamps. On your third Friday in the city, Clark showed up at your door with takeaway and a grin. The moment you pulled him inside and saw him plop the food onto your coffee table like it was the most natural thing in the world, you felt the old rhythm sliding right back into place.
Tonight, you’d chosen The Princess Bride. Nostalgia wrapped around you like a blanket as the familiar dialogue filled your little living room. You half-watched, half-stole glances at Clark, because it was different now.
Clark looked domestic, comfortable in a way that made your chest ache. He’d taken his glasses off the second he walked in, setting them on your bookshelf like he always did when it was just you. His hair, usually in messy curls for the office, had softened through the day, a little wave falling into his forehead. He was in a simple white button-up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, and it hit you in a way it hadn’t in high school.
Clark Kent was handsome. Stupidly, unfairly handsome.
You remembered girls whispering about the “Kent charm” back then, how his smile made them blush. You’d never noticed. He’d been Clark, your Clark, the boy who stayed up with you until dawn studying, who carried your tripod when it was too heavy, who showed up at your window when you were sad. He’d been so close that romance never even crossed your mind.
Now you saw the way his shoulders filled out his shirt. The warmth in his cobalt eyes when he laughed at a joke you made. The gentleness of his hands when he handed you a napkin before you even realised you needed one.
You could picture him in a domestic life so clearly. Carrying groceries up your stairs, pressing a kiss to your temple as he passed, leaving his slippers by your door. The thought startled you, but it didn’t leave.
And then there was Superman. You’d grown up knowing Clark was different, but you hadn’t realised what that difference meant until years later. Since moving to Metropolis, you’d seen it all up close: the rescues, the headlines, the world depending on him. He was extraordinary, and yet here he was on your sofa, eating dumplings out of a carton and laughing at Cary Elwes’ line delivery.
You found yourself wanting to memorise him. The lines of his jaw softened by the lamplight. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The dimples in his cheeks when you reminded him of that one time he tripped chasing you through the cornfield when you were kids.
He was beautiful, and he was yours; not in any official way, but in the way that mattered. He was your best friend.
Across the sofa, Clark was having his own crisis.
He’d thought, once, that sending you postcards from Delaware and calling you every Sunday would be enough. That maybe the distance would dull the sharp twinge of wanting you, that maybe one day he’d wake up and feel free of it. He’d been wrong.
Now you were here, right next to him, laughing at the same movie you’d watched a hundred times, and he was so in love he thought it might undo him. He’d always admired you; your eye for photographs, your fire, the way you cared for people so fiercely. But seeing you here had floored him.
And yet, every time you mentioned Jimmy, his chest tightened. Lois’s teasing echoed in his head. He wanted to tell you everything: that he’d been in love with you since high school, that nobody could ever measure up in college, so he’d stopped trying altogether. But then you’d smile and gush about how funny Jimmy was, and Clark felt his courage crumble.
Still, as you leaned closer to him now, curled up with your knees tucked under you, Clark thought there was no way he could ever love you more than he did in this moment. You were his first thought in the morning, his last thought at night. And watching you glow in the soft lamplight of your new apartment, he realised something terrifying and wonderful all at once.
He could spend his whole life like this. Just being near you.
“You’re not even watching,” Clark teased, voice low so as not to disturb the cadence of the movie.
You flicked your eyes back to the screen, caught Buttercup mid-swoon, and shrugged. “Sure I am. True love, sword fights, Rodents of Unusual Size.”
Clark chuckled, but when you glanced at him again, you caught him looking at you instead of the TV. Heat crept up your neck. You reached for the popcorn bowl as a distraction, only to find it empty.
“You ate all of it,” you accused.
His brows shot up. “Me? You were shovelling it like you hadn’t eaten in a week.”
You smirked. “Well, at least I don’t hide behind hypno-glasses to trick everyone into thinking I’m some ‘well-mannered farm boy.”
Clark groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “You know that’s not why I wear them.” Then he smiled, almost shyly. “Are you saying you like me better without glasses?”
“Of course,” you said, not catching the way his chest tightened at your answer. “I missed your face.”
Something fond flickered across his expression. He reached for the remote, muting the TV, and you didn’t even notice until silence fell. You were too caught in the moment, too wrapped up in the ease of talking with him.
“You know,” you said, leaning back into the sofa cushions, “this kind of feels like we’re sixteen again. Friday night, bad lighting, too much sugar.”
Clark’s lips quirked. “Except you’re not falling asleep halfway through the film this time.”
You gasped. “That was one time.”
“Three times,” he corrected gently. “And you drooled on my shoulder once.”
You laughed, tossing a cushion at him. “Traitor. I trusted you to never bring that up again.”
Clark caught the cushion easily, hands big and sure, and hugged it to his chest with mock innocence. “Your secrets are safe with me. It’s part of my Kent charm,” he said, all faux swagger.
You snorted. “‘Kent charm.’ God, you really are a nerd.”
The words came out playfully, but there was something behind them you weren’t quite ready to name. Because, yes, he was a nerd, sitting here quoting his own reputation like it was a joke. But he was also, God help you, gorgeous. His hair falling into his eyes, his shirt stretched across broad shoulders, every inch of him radiating warmth and steadiness.
Clark shifted closer on the sofa, the air between you charged with something softer than electricity. “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
He hesitated, then shook his head, offering another smile instead. “Nothing. Just how lucky I am you’re here. Metropolis feels more like home now.”
You reached for his hand before you could think better of it, letting your fingers brush his knuckles. “I get it. Living in a new city with you feels more like home than living in Smallville without you.”
Clark stilled. You didn’t notice, too busy tracing the shape of his hand absentmindedly, like you’d done a thousand times back in high school without thinking twice.
“You really mean that?” he asked, voice rough.
You looked up at him, startled by the weight in his tone. “Of course I do. You know I wished for this; that I’d get to live in the same city as you again.”
Clark’s heart thudded in his ears. He wanted to say that he’d wished too, every night, for years. Instead, he swallowed and squeezed your hand lightly.
“You’re—” He paused, trying again, “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met.”
You blinked at him. “Clark—”
“I mean it,” he said quickly, earnest eyes shining. “I’m really glad I get to do everything by your side from now on.”
“Yeah,” you agreed, cracking a smile. “Me too.”
“Good,” he murmured, voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.
The silence stretched, not uncomfortable but a little heavy. You found yourself studying Clark, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his chest rose and fell.
Before you could stop yourself, you whispered into the quiet, “I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”
Clark’s breath caught. He ducked his head, cheeks flushed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
You smirked, leaning in just a little. “Don’t get used to it. I’ll go back to calling you a nerd tomorrow.”
He looked at you then, really looked, and thought, I could spend forever like this. And you, ignorant of the full weight of his gaze, thought, God, I think I’m in trouble.
Jimmy bounded into the bullpen like he’d just won the lottery, camera bag slung over his shoulder, grin wide enough to blind someone.
“Guess what?” he announced, leaning on the edge of Lois’s desk, practically glowing. “I’ve got a date tonight.” Jimmy’s grin stretched ear to ear.
Clark looked up from his notepad, a smile already forming. “Oh, hey. That’s great, Jimmy! I’m happy for you.”
Lois didn’t even glance up from her screen. “With a human or another one of your cameras?”
Jimmy clutched his chest. “Wow, Lois. For your information, yes, with a human.”
Lois raised an eyebrow, dry as desert air. “Let me guess. Five-foot-ten, legs up to here, and absolutely no idea you existed until five minutes ago?”
Jimmy smirked, playfully kicking Lois’s desk chair. “Not giving away any spoilers. But let’s just say, I’m pretty excited.”
Then, he glanced across the room, caught your eye, and gave you a wink. It was playful, teasing, nothing more than the kind of exaggerated gesture Jimmy made a dozen times a day.
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly, already used to his theatrics, but Clark froze mid-keystroke. The cursor blinked accusingly at his half-finished sentence.
A wink. Jimmy had winked at you.
Clark’s stomach dropped straight through the floor. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it lodged there stubbornly. He bent closer to his computer, pretending to type, though the words blurred into nonsense.
Lois didn’t miss a thing. Her gaze slid from Jimmy to Clark, and then slowly, knowingly, to you. She sipped her coffee like she was watching her suspicions confirmed in real time. “Well, well,” she murmured.
Clark forced a smile. “What?”
Lois tilted her head. “Guess we were right about Jimmy having a thing for your other best friend.”
His pulse kicked in his ears. “Oh—uh, well. Good for them, right? They’d—they’d make a great couple.” It came out so flat it could have been mistaken for sarcasm.
Lifting a brow and leaning back in her chair, Lois drawled, “Sure. If you say so, Smallville.”
Clark tried again, fumbling for enthusiasm. “I mean, Jimmy’s a good guy. You couldn’t ask for anyone more dependable.”
Lois hummed around the rim of her coffee cup, unimpressed but mercifully silent.
Clark turned back to his screen, jaw tight. The words on the page stubbornly refused to fuse together into sentences. Every time he glanced up, he saw Jimmy’s grin, your smile, and that wink. It was like a spark caught in his chest.
He should be happy for you. If that’s what you wanted, he should be supportive. He was supportive. But the thought of Jimmy leaning across a table tonight, making you laugh the way Clark always did, maybe walking you home—Clark pressed his palms against the desk until the wood creaked in protest.
Superman could stop trains, but Clark Kent couldn’t stop his own jealousy from eating him alive.
By the time Clark was back in his apartment that night, he’d tried his best to convince himself that you and Jimmy dating was a great idea.
Jimmy was kind, funny, and loyal. He’d never dream of hurting you. He was the type of guy Clark would trust with his life. But the thought of trusting him with you left something bitter and restless clawing in his chest.
He dropped his keys on the counter and sat heavily on the couch, elbows on his knees.
If only he’d just told you how he felt in high school. That thought circled him like a hawk, again and again. He’d been eighteen, hopelessly in love, and terrified of what that love might do to the best friendship of his life. You were already looking toward photography programs, weighing colleges and scholarships, and he’d known even then that Metropolis was calling him.
Different cities. Different dreams. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to ask you to tie yourself to him. So he’d swallowed the confession. He’d chosen friendship because it was safer, and because it meant never losing you. For years, he’d told himself he didn’t regret it. He’d repeated it until he believed it.
But tonight, sitting alone in his apartment while you were out with Jimmy, regret slipped its way in. What if Clark had said something back then? What if you’d smiled that radiant, disbelieving smile and told him you’d always felt the same?
Maybe you would have tried the distance. Maybe it would’ve worked. Maybe you’d be here now, living together, ordering takeout on the couch, falling asleep during a movie. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting here with an empty living room and a chest full of longing.
The fantasy was so vivid it almost felt real. The brush of your knee against his, your laugh spilling through the room, the easy certainty of a life where he hadn’t hesitated.
And then, as quickly as it came, the other side of the coin flipped. Maybe if he’d confessed, you would’ve said no. Maybe you would’ve told him gently that you didn’t see him that way. Maybe it would’ve shattered everything, left him without a best friend and without you. The risk had been too high then. It was still too high now.
Clark pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to will the images of a domestic life with you away. His heart was pounding too loudly, beating against the silence of his apartment.
Then, the faint metallic click of a key sliding into his lock sounded through his apartment. The knob turned. The door opened.
Clark’s head snapped up, throat dry.
You stepped inside like it was the most natural thing in the world, balancing two pizza boxes in your arms, hair a little windswept from the cold night air.
“Hope you’re hungry,” you called, nudging the door shut behind you with your hip. “They gave us extra cheesy bread.”
For one impossible second, Clark thought maybe he’d fallen asleep and the fantasy had followed him into a dream. But you were real. You were here.
Clark stayed frozen on the couch, still hunched forward, but his whole body was taut now, like a bowstring drawn too tight. You breezed in, the smell of garlic and melted cheese following you, chattering like you always did when you were excited.
“So, I placed a pickup order at Mario’s and somebody else must’ve grabbed it by mistake because when I got there, it was gone,” you explained, setting the pizza boxes on the kitchen counter and hanging up your coat. “Totally vanished. But they felt bad, so they remade the whole order with extra cheesy bread.” You grinned, holding up the little box for emphasis. “Free cheesy bread, Clark! If that’s not divine intervention telling us it’s a Ratatouille night, I don’t know what is.”
You were grabbing plates from his cupboard when you finally glanced back, words slowing. “Wait, what’s wrong? Why are you sitting like you just gambled away your life savings?”
Clark blinked. He hadn’t realised how pathetic he must look, folded in on himself, hands dangling between his knees.
His heart surged at the sight of you standing there in the doorway, but the words that came out weren’t the ones he wanted. “What about your date?”
You stopped in your tracks. “My what?” Then, your eyes lit up. “Oh, speaking of dates! How do you think Jimmy’s is going?”
Clark frowned, confusion doubling back on him. “I mean… Not very well if you’re here instead of there?”
You tilted your head, blinking slowly, like he’d just started speaking in Kryptonian. “What?”
Clark’s brain stuttered. “Wait—what?”
You stared at each other across the room for a long, disbelieving beat, until your expression shifted from confusion to dawning realisation.
You set the plates down on the counter, hands braced on either side. “Hold on. Did you think Jimmy was going on a date with me tonight?”
Heat crept up Clark’s neck, and he could feel his ears burning. “Well—I—he winked at you in the bullpen, and then Lois said—”
“Oh my god.” You dragged a hand down your face, groaning. “No, no, no, Clark. No. Jimmy’s on a date with my neighbour, Poppy. I’ve been trying to set them up for weeks.”
Clark just stared. His brain scrambled for purchase, trying to rearrange the facts into this new, blessed reality. “Poppy,” he echoed, words coming out slow and low. “Your… neighbour.”
“Yes. Poppy,” you confirmed. “She just got out of a long-term relationship when I moved to Metropolis, so she was hesitant at first. But I kept talking him up, and I showed her a couple pictures he took, and finally she agreed. Tonight’s their blind date.”
Relief surged through Clark so quickly that it made him dizzy. His hands twitched uselessly on his knees. He wanted to do something, say something, but all he could think was Thank God.
You didn’t notice the way his shoulders uncoiled, the way his chest expanded with a breath that felt like it reached his bones. You were still talking, animated now, explaining how you’d been stealthily gathering intel on Jimmy—his favourite food, his type, what kind of date he’d enjoy.
But Clark couldn’t hear half of it.
All he could hear was the rush of his own pulse. All he could feel was the giddy, impossible joy of knowing the future he’d been mourning just minutes ago wasn’t lost after all.
“Anyway, why—” You trailed off mid-sentence, really looking at him.
Clark wasn’t just listening. He was bracing, shoulders hunched like he’d been carrying the world on them and only now set it down. His breath came out ragged, too loud for the quiet of his apartment, and his eyes were fixed on you like you’d just saved him.
“Clark,” you said slowly, narrowing your eyes. “You okay?”
He swallowed, trying for casualness and failing spectacularly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just… relieved, I guess.”
“Relieved,” you repeated, folding your arms. You couldn’t stop your mouth from twitching into a grin. “What, did you really think I was sneaking around on a secret date with Jimmy Olsen? That I’d just, what, show up tomorrow morning and be like ‘oh hey Clark, by the way, I’m dating your best friend now, pass the sugar?’”
He gave a strangled little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You caught the flush spreading across his skin, the way his broad chest rose and fell too fast. Not embarrassment exactly, but something warmer.
Your grin softened. “You were panicking. Weren’t you?”
Clark shook his head, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “No, I just—I didn’t—”
“Uh-huh.”
You leaned on the counter, resting your chin in your hand, studying him. He was sitting forward on the couch like he might spring out of it at any second, like if he relaxed, something dangerous would slip loose. His big hands were clenched on his knees, the tendons in his forearms flexing as though he was holding something back.
And for the first time in your life, you realised maybe he was.
The thought made your pulse jump, heat curling in your stomach. Because now that you were looking, really looking, you saw how beautiful he was in that soft, undone way only you ever got to see.
“Clark,” you said again, softer now. “Why were you so panicked?”
He lifted his gaze then, finally meeting your eyes. And the look in them nearly knocked the breath out of you. Relief, yes, but threaded with something hotter, deeper.
You stayed by the counter, watching him. And then Clark stood—too fast, like he startled himself with the decision—and rubbed his palms down the front of his slacks.
“I—Golly, I don’t know how to…” His voice was low, rough. His eyes skittered away, then dragged back to yours like they couldn’t help it. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for years. I wanted to tell you when you first got here. But then Jimmy and—and then Lois, she joked, and I thought…”
“Thought what?” you asked, breath catching.
Clark hesitated, fists clenching like he was physically holding back words. Then, quieter: “That maybe I’d already lost you.”
You blinked. “Clark—”
“No, let me—just let me say this.” His hands came up helplessly, almost reaching for you before they fell back to his sides. “I’ve been in love with you since we started high school.”
The words hit you like a struck match. Excitement coiled tight in your stomach, dizzying, almost unbearable. You wanted to laugh and cry and throw yourself into his arms all at once, but all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed.
“I wanted to tell you before graduation,” Clark confessed. “But you were staying in Smallville, and I was moving across the country, and it felt like I’d ruin the best thing in my life by saying it out loud. I told myself distance would fix it. That maybe I’d get over you.” He laughed shyly, shaking his head. “But I never did.”
“Clark…” Your voice cracked, and you had to take a step forward.
He mirrored you without thinking, until there was barely a foot of air left between you. His chest was warm even at this distance, heat rolling off him like a furnace.
Clark took a shuddering breath. “You remember the milkweed my folks sent with you? The one Ma insisted you bring to the city?”
You managed a nod.
His mouth quirked, but his eyes were still raw, desperate. “She told me once, if you care for it right, the monarch butterflies will come. Doesn’t matter where you plant it—in Kansas, in Metropolis—it’ll bring them back. And I thought… that’s us. I thought, if I just kept caring for what we had, even if it wasn’t what I wanted, I’d get to keep you in my life. And that would be enough.”
He swallowed hard, adding, “But it’s not, and I can’t pretend it is anymore.”
You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing the back of his hand. Even that ghost of contact felt like a jolt of lightning. He froze, his breath stuttering, before his fingers twitched like he was fighting the urge to entwine them with yours.
“Clark,” you whispered, heart hammering. “In high school, I never… I never thought about you like that. Everyone used to talk about your dad’s ‘Kent charm’ like it was this thing you inherited, and maybe they saw it, but I didn’t. Not then. You were just Clark, my best friend.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, but gentled by the way he looked at you, as if he’d take even this.
You let out a shaky laugh. “But then you left. And you were still the one I called when I had a bad day, or when something amazing happened, or when I just wanted to hear a voice that reminded me I wasn’t alone. And then I came here, and I get to see you every day, and Clark,” your voice wavered, but you pushed through, “I’m falling in love with you. The reporter, the farm boy, the man who saves the world, the one who waters milkweed because he hopes butterflies will come home.”
Clark’s composure broke on a ragged breath. He surged closer, finally tangling his fingers with yours, gripping tight like he’d drown without it.
“You can’t just say that to me,” he rasped, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot on your lips. “You can’t say that and expect me not to—”
Your laugh hitched out on a sob. “You don’t need to hold back anymore.”
And he didn’t.
His mouth found yours with years of pent-up longing, searing, desperate, and impossibly sweet. You clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he gathered you into his arms like he’d been waiting his whole life for permission. Every brush of his hands over your back, every slide of his lips against yours, burned like fire meeting gasoline.
When you broke apart, breathless and clinging, he pressed his face into your hair and whispered, hoarse and unsteady, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”
For a heartbeat, you just stood there, staring at him. Some invisible red string between you snapped taut, pulling you forward before you’d even decided to move.
Clark’s hands came up, hovering like he was terrified of scaring you off, and that hesitation alone undid you. You closed the distance. It was years of unsaid things pouring out at once, your fingers clutching at the broad line of his shoulders, his hands finally claiming your waist like he’d been dying to all along.
He kissed you like he already knew every contour of your mouth, and in a way, he did. He knew you, every laugh, every secret, every sharp retort and soft glance, and now he was learning you like this, too.
You tilted your head, and Clark followed, perfectly in step, as though you’d rehearsed this in another life. Heat flared where his palm slid up your side, leaving you breathless, but when he slowed—just enough to press the gentlest kiss to your bottom lip—you felt the tenderness layered inside the urgency.
When you finally tore back just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched, his breath ragged against your skin.
His thumb traced your cheekbone, a shaky little caress that steadied itself as he whispered, “Been wanting to do that for half my life.”
Your laugh came out uneven, breaking against the swell of emotion in your throat. “Took you long enough.”
Clark smiled against your mouth, and then you were pulling him down to you again, hungry this time, eager.
Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging him closer like you couldn’t get enough of him. His mouth moved against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak, but there was still that softness beneath the hunger.
His fingers trailed down your back, sliding under your shirt, and you shivered against him. Every brush of skin was electric, and you found yourself gasping and moaning into his mouth, both of you laughing breathlessly when the heat of it was too much to contain.
Clark’s hands roamed freely now, memorising the curves of your body as if he were trying to burn them into memory. Your own hands were relentless, exploring the strong lines of his chest, the sweep of his shoulders, the way his hair fell into his eyes when he tilted his head.
You were discovering each other in a way you’d never imagined; familiar yet entirely new, and it made every touch searing.
The sofa became your anchor. Clark guided you down, careful but insistent, until you were sprawled together, limbs tangled, breaths mingling in the small space.
Clark’s lips left yours only briefly, just enough to whisper against your temple, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this.”
You smiled and whispered back, “I’m always happy to be in the business of making your dreams come true.”
His hands were everywhere, sliding under your back, across your hips. When you shifted slightly, sliding against him, Clark groaned low in his throat, a sound that sent shivers racing up your spine.
You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into him, biting gently at his lower lip, and he caught your face in his hands, thumbs stroking your cheeks as he kissed you with desperate hunger.
You both collapsed together fully, tangled and warm on the sofa, breathing hard, hearts hammering. Clark’s arm wrapped around you, holding you impossibly close, and your hand found his chest, fingers splayed against him, feeling the steady beat beneath his shirt.
“Finally,” you whispered, breathless, against his collarbone.
Clark chuckled low, a deep, vibrating sound that made your stomach flutter. “Finally,” he agreed, resting his chin on top of your head.
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summary: it takes ten weeks for clark kent and a shy, touch starved, you to fall in love. (or, 4 times clark touches you and 1 time you touch him.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week one
The Daily Planet only seems to employ lovely, outgoing people. You're convinced of it.
You don't know how or why they hired you after meeting some of the people here. Maybe your interview self had somehow managed to make you seem like you’d fit right for that thirty minutes.
Whatever happened, they hired you anyway.
For the past week you’ve tried so hard to settle in. To put yourself out there a bit more. It hasn’t helped much.
There's some faulty wiring in your brain, you're sure, that makes you awful and awkward and idiotic around people you don't know. And right now, you don't know anyone. At work or in metropolis as a whole.
Cat Grant has tried no less than five times to strike up a conversation with you. Which is nice of her and horrible for you. Every attempt leaves you fumbling through responses and replaying every part of it in your head for hours afterward.
To avoid inflicting your shyness on anyone else, you've got into the routine of taking lunch late. By the time you head to the breakroom. Most people have already finished theirs up.
With your head shoved so far into the refrigerator you might as well be looking for the opening of another reality in the back of it, you squint at the shelves. Where the hell is your cherry soda? You know you set it right next to your lunch box so it can’t have gone far. Unless someone took it. But putting it next to your lunch box kind of implies–
“Hey!”
You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.
“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”
You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.
You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.
Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots.
There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.
“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.”
You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.
“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”
He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.
“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”
You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply.
Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent.
“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”
His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before.
“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”
Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!
“Was it cherry?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”
You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.
When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.
It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.
Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week three
Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.
Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.
At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.
Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.
Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.
As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.
He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.
“Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.
Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.
“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.
He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.
“Can I walk you home?”
What is going on?
“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”
You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.
For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.
The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.
It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.
And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.
What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.
“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”
“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Really?”
“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.”
Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?”
He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed.
“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.
Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.
“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.
It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”
You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.
You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.
“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”
You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building.
You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.
“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest.
“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.”
When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.
This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week five
The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..
Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late?
Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.
You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward.
“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”
“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”
As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.
It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair.
“You look really nice, honey.”
That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.
“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.
Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”
“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”
As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not.
Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question.
“Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”
There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.
It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.
“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…”
You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.
“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”
Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary.
“You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”
You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.
“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”
The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all.
“Yeah, right.”
“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.”
Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning.
By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.
It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.
“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”
Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice.
“Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.”
The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.
The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.
“Thank you.” you say quietly.
Clark shakes his head almost immediately.
“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”
Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.
This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week seven
When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?
The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.
It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy.
With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–
There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now.
You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.
The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.
“...For me?”
The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.
“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”
“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”
Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.
“They made me think of you when I saw them.”
Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.
Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.
You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase.
When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again.
“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”
You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.
“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”
Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt.
“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”
“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie.
When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.
“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”
His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.
“That is relaxing to me.”
“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.”
“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”
Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.
“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.”
“Including you.”
All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.
The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you.
“Oh no.”
You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand.
The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.
“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”
Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right.
“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.”
“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”
“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.”
It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.
His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.
“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.
The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides.
One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.
It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Week ten
Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.
He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.
You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.
“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain.
Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically.
You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.
Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.
“Whats wrong?” he asks.
It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.
His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.
“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”
That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.
Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.
There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.
