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pretty things, bad decisions, and clark kent. âĄ
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currently obsessed with: âś clark kent / superman âś old hollywood glamour âś yearning
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find me somebody to love
clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader
summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.
word count: 21k (iâm so sorry⌠the plot was plotting)
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clarkâs pov, teacher!reader, readerâs in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, introspection, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.
a/n: iâll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clarkâs head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: youâre a mastermind, and iâm beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!
Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, itâs usually the complete opposite.
Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clarkâs already saying, âNo. Thank you.â
âHello to you, too,â Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. âYou havenât even heard what I was going to say.â
âI donât need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.â
âWell, aren't you smart?â
âIf smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.â
Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. âCome on, Kent! Youâre going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.â
Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. âYour brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.â
âNow why would you say that?â
âItâs just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.â
âThatâs not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.â As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. âNever mind. But you have to trust me on this one!â
Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. âAlright. What is it?â
âSo thereâs this girlââ
âHere we go again.â
ââwhich is totally your type.â
âYou said that last time.â
âBut this time I mean it.â
âYou said that the time before last time.â
âWell, Iâm not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.â
âI donât recall ever asking you to do this.â
Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. âTechnically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, itâd be nice to have somebody. Iâm all alone. Iâm miserable.â He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clarkâs, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
For the record, he hadnât exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.
Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. âBuddy, thatâs mine,â he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.
Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. âGod bless caffeine.â
Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. âJust because you heard me saying it once doesnât mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.â
âI still wanna do it,â Jimmy argues. âIâm telling you, that girlâs out there, and itâs my duty as your best friend to find her.â
That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.
It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.
They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.
âIt must be nice to be in a relationship,â he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. âIâm sorry, I donât mean to ruin the mood. Iâm really happy for you guys.â
Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. âYou want to date?â
âSure. Why not?â
âAnd here I thought you werenât the dating type,â Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. âI mean, you never have any free time outside of work. Youâre constantly in a rush. In fact, Iâm surprised youâre even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?â
In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. âIâd figure it out. But of course Iâd like to be with someone.â
If other people could have it, why couldnât he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasnât like anyone else. He wasnât even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.
As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. âBabe, donât you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?â he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.
Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. âA great deal.â
Jimmyâs gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. âThen consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.â
Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. âYou donât have toââ
âI want to! Itâll be fun.â Jimmy clapped a hand on Clarkâs shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. âYou leave it to me, and Iâll set you up with the love of your life.â
That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.
In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Mollyâs friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he wouldâve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.
The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:
Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.
Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked âunconventionalâ. She said she often wondered why natural selection didnât eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.
Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didnât stick around to hear the rest of her theory.
Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than heâd thought. Jimmy often tells him heâs too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesnât consider being meticulous a flaw.
Years ago, heâd come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.
Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.
Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each otherâs apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.
Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.
The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Mollyâs friends, and itâs starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?
Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. âEarth to Clark. Whereâd you go?â
âSorry,â Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. âI canât believe Iâm even considering this.â
âI can always create you a Hinge accountââ
âWeâre definitely not doing that.â
Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. âAlright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.â
Clarkâs expression sours, going poker-faced. âIs it because sheâs the last option you have?â
Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. âYou always think so badly of me.â
Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasnât even struck nine-thirty yet. âCan I at least see a picture of her?â
âNope. Itâs a blind date. Exciting, right?â
A crease forms between Clarkâs brows. âYou canât be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I donât know what she looks like?â
âThat sounds like a you problem,â Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. âDoes tonight work for you?â
âWellââ
âPerfect. Iâm so glad youâre not busy saving the world or whatever. Iâll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about⌠the thing.â
Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmyâs sleeve, tugging until heâs leaning down so theyâre eye-to-eye level. âWe said we wouldnât talk about the thing at the office.â
âI know. I just still canât believe it! Youâre Supââ
ââSuper committed to my job? Yup. Love it. Iâm a big fan of newspapers,â Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.
Across the bullpen, Lois asks, âWhat are you two whispering about over there?â
âSomeoneâs got another date lined up!â Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.
âPoor thing,â Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. âI thought you were done with those.â
âMe too,â Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.
Grinning, Jimmy adds, âI could help you next time, Lois.â
âIâd rather die alone, but thank you.â At that, she strides off, and Jimmyâs mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.
Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. âJust imagine the double dates weâll go on, CK!â
Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.
Perhaps being single wasnât the worst fate after all.
While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. Itâs a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.
Youâre ten minutes late to the date, which isnât much, not really. After pacing the block twice, heâd arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.
Already, heâs read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnishâ
âClark?â
His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
âHey,â he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. âIâmâYes. Hi. Hello.â
Golly.
Heâs temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. Itâs beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.
You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. âJimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when heâs sitting, but youâre way taller than I expected.â Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. âThat sounded weird, didnât it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.â
A nervous laugh escapes his throat. âItâs alright. Iâve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.â
Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. Heâs convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now youâre genuinely laughing at what heâs just said. It feels authentic, and for him, thatâs unbelievable.
Then he realizes he still hasnât let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much heâs sweating.
âIâm so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldnât find a place to park.â You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. âDid I make you wait too long?â
Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. âI, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.â
âThen I suppose youâll have no problems ordering for me.â
Heâs left flabbergasted. âButâHow?â
âI like almost everything, thatâs why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,â you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.
A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?
Soon youâre talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him youâve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmyâs friends, you turned it down.
ââSo I thought Iâd try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.â You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. âThen Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and⌠well, here I am.â
âIâm glad you didnât lose all your hope,â he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. âJimmyâs a pretty⌠chatty guy, donât you think?â
âHeâs great! Plus, Iâve never seen Molly this happy.â
âYouâre right. They look good together.â
âAnd he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.â
âDoes that mean you know more about me than I know about you?â
âMaybe.â Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. âBesides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.â
His expression falls. Thereâs a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he canât help but blink owlishly. âWait, did⌠did Jimmy actually pay you?â
âIâm kidding!â you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. âThat was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I donât think Iâll ever be good at jokes.â
âIâm no better. Want proof?â
âGo on.â
âWhy are colds bad criminals?â
You lift your brows. âWhy?â
âBecause theyâre easy to catch.â
Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. âThat was⌠terrible.â
âOh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.â Clark laughs.
âAnd lie to you? Never.â
âYouâve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.â
â⌠Which is?â
âPursuing a career in comedy, obviously.â
Youâre laughing. Again. He thinks heâs never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.
Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: âSo, you work at the Daily Planet, right?â
He nods. âMostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as wellââ
At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonightâs specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.
Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. âIâve read some of your piecesâSome of the interviews with Superman, for instance.â
âOh.â He hums, with an air of shock.
âSorry. Youâre probably tired of people bringing him up.â
His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. âNo, not at all. Itâs just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.â
âWell, youâve got an avid reader here.â Your lips curve knowingly. âSo⌠is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?â
That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. âWhat makes you think that?â
You ponder, wrinkling your nose. âWell, when someone has that much power, itâd be easy to slide into arrogance.â
His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. âI believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldnât say heâs arrogant.â
You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. âHeâs not so fond of the media, though, right?â
âThatâs because some have chosen to distort his image.â
âI see youâre a Superman apologist,â you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. âSo tell me: if heâs not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?â
In situations like these, Clark realizes heâs been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?
âI justâŚ. happen to be in the right place at the right time. Thatâs all.â
You give him a lopsided grin. âDonât be so modest! Give yourself some credit. Youâve given him a voice no one else has. I think itâs admirable.â
Thereâs a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he canât look at you properly while speaking, as if heâs staring straight into the Yellow Sun.
It seems almost unreal that youâre here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.
Youâre beautiful. And heâs petrified of making the wrong moveâof saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.
âI wouldnât say weâre friends or anything like that,â he adds after a beat. âItâs strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.â
He isnât too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurdâGosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.
But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Arenât those the very things that canât be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?
Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.
Cutting off Clarkâs mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.
He sets the glass down. âAnyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.â
âI teach,â you say, your tone softening. âPrimary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.â
âThat sounds like a lot of responsibility.â
Your eyes brighten a little. âIt is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What Iâm meant to do.â
His lips quirk before he even speaks. âShould I confess then that I havenât read a fiction book in years?â
âHow are you still going on with your life?â You jest, taking a sip of your water.
âI manage just fine.â
âLucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.â Itâs like youâre half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, âNot like Iâm forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. Iâm only saying that if youâre interestedââ
Jimmy wonât believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.
His heart sings as he answers, âThatâd be nice.â
While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:
Youâve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.
He learns that youâre not much of a drinker. Youâll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.
As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.
When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.
The moment he turns back, youâre holding your phone out toward him.
âIâd really like to see you again, if you want to,â you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. âThink you canâWould you give me your number?â
His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. âIâd love that. Of course. I mean, youâre great, and I thinkââ
A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.
He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.
âIt was a good first date,â he admits at last.
The silence between you deepens, and then you say, âIâm glad I accepted Jimmyâs offer.â
âHeâll be all over me at work tomorrow.â
You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. âTell him I said hi.â
âI will.â
Even so, thereâs a part of Clark that doesnât want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.
You both have responsibilities, and he knows he canât ask for too much when youâve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.
God, heâs already in so deep.
You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. âOkay, then⌠bye. I guess Iâll see you around.â
You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way youâre tilting your head, heâs pretty sure youâre planning on kissing him on the cheek.
He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.
Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, âA true gentleman.â You give it a firm shake. âNoted.â
âSorry, I justââ
âDonât worry.â You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. âGoodnight, Clark.â
He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. âIâll go first.â
You take two steps backward. âYup. Fine.â
Needless to say, when heâs a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.
âI need all the details!â
âJimmy, I swear to Godââ
âYouâre entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!â
Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. Theyâre right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.
âStop yelling, man!â Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmyâs as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. âYouâre scaring people, and you haveâWhat the hay, dude?!â
Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.
âDid you just lick me?â Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmyâs shirt. âHow old are you? Three?â
âI will not be silenced.â
âYouâre gross.â
âAnd Iâll continue to be if you donât tell me how it went last night,â Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clarkâs chest.
Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no oneâs eavesdropping their conversation. âI already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?â
âDid you kiss?â
âWhat?! No!â Now Clarkâs the one yelling.
âRelax. Itâs not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.â
A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clarkâs neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. âWhy are you more⌠unfiltered than usual?â
âKissing isnât a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,â Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.
He quickly follows after him. âBut itâs too early for a kiss. Weâve only been on one date.â
Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clarkâs glasses, blurring his vision for a second.
âYou notice how you're trying to control the situation? Itâs like you want to structure every single thing,â Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. âYou need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.â
Taken aback, Clarkâs brows snap together. âI donât âgo with the flowâ. And my planâs not stupid. I just⌠put a lot of thought into it,â Clark laments.
âHow many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?â
âIn my defense, she did it first.â
âOh! Fantastic. Looks like Iâve found someone who matches your freakiness.â
Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
He canât help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. Heâs been waiting all morning for this.
Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. âOh, man. Is it her? Tell me itâs her.â
Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text thatâs popped up:
I really hope you didnât give me a fake number last night.
Clarkâs thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, âRemember that sexting in public is gross!â
He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clarkâs direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. âHeâs joking, obviously,â he sputters, his head bent. âIâd never do that. Youâre all⌠safe.â
Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.
Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?
The typing dots appear right after.
You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?
Clark: I canât think of any good reason right now.
You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.
Clark: It was blue⌠and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.
You: Your eyes do work wonders.
Clark: Itâs the glasses. They take all the credit.
You: But is your memory always this good?
Clark: Only on important occasions.
Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop cafĂŠ youâve been meaning to try. Clarkâs determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.
Turns out you donât talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people donât consider Clarkâs quiet nature much of a virtue, but heâs never seen it that way.
He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldnât speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.
He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.
Itâs too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?
As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.
I donât think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.
Actually, Iâm not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.
Youâre kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.
All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.
The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. Youâd mentioned a certain movie youâd been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasnât wasting the chance.
Youâve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, wonât start for another ten minutes. Youâre devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.
âI didnât know you liked popcorn so much,â he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.
âI love it, but Iâm starving, too.â
âGuess youâll have to survive on popcorn for now.â He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. âBy the way, whatâs this movie about?â
He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.
âA love triangle,â you explain, crossing one leg over the other. âI hope itâs good. Iâve heard all kinds of opinions.â
It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascalâs character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnsonâs Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.
About halfway through the film, thereâs a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. Itâs heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isnât helpful at all.
The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.
Except it isnât there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, itâs gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.
Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.
He wants to say heâs sorry, that he didnât mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.
What he doesnât know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that youâre forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.
His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.
Heâs everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you youâre rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.
From then on, it all happens in slow motion.
Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.
The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until youâre breathless. But thatâs not something he can do, something he should do. It doesnât go according to the plan.
Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where youâre joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.
Thereâs a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he canât help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the worldâs about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.
And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.
Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.
The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?â
Clark swallows hard. He hadnât meant to hit him that hard. âIâm so sorry. I think I got a cramp,â he whispers, hoping that heâll take pity on him.
All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldnât care less.
He hasnât been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, heâd have to call it quits and tell Superman heâs not doing any more interviews.
In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.
Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.
Heâs afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking heâs losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, itâs not like Clark can stay silent.
His stomachâs been growling for the past hour. Itâs officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.
Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.
When he checks his phone, thereâs a message from you. Youâve got a long break between classes, and youâre thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.
Clark: Think Iâll just skip lunch today. Thereâs so much I have to get done.
He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.
From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, âEat me.â
Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.
âIâm serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.â
âItâs fine, Iâll just eat later,â Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, âYou look stressed.â
âWell, I most certainly am.â
âIs it about all the hate your little friendâs been receiving lately?â
On any other occasion, were he not this tired, heâd have corrected him, insisting theyâre not friends. But today, he lets it slide. âItâs draining. Collecting all this information and thenâhaving to askââ
His own sigh cuts him off. Thereâs a weight pressing on his chest he canât shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.
Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. âI wonder if this is the end of Superman.â
Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. âWhat?â
âI mean, heâs constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think heâs great, butââ
âHeâs not gonna stop helping others just because thereâs some⌠bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. Itâs what drives him. ItâsâHeâs not giving up.â
Startled, Steve tilts his head. âDid he tell you all that?â
Clark stammers, âHe didnât, but IâI know thatâs what heâd say if I were to ask him.â
After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing whatâs left of his snack. Clark assumes thatâs the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.
But thenâ
âSo⌠Iâve heard youâre going out with this girl.â
âYou mean Jimmy told you.â
Steve shrugs. âSame thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?â
Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. âI donât know. Weâve both been busy the last few days.â
You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.
Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you heâs exhausted and heading to bed early, itâs often a lie. Later, youâll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friendâs not getting much sleep tonight.
âGot a picture of her?â Steve asks out of nowhere.
Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. âIâm not showing youââ
âKent,â a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. âThereâs someone waiting for you outside.â
Thatâs weird. âFor⌠me? Are you sure?â
âItâs a girl. Says sheâs looking for Clark Kent.â The manâs voice thickens with annoyance. âAs far as I know, youâre the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless youâve got a secret twin brother or somethingââ
Clarkâs already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. âAlright, alright. Iâm coming.â
He doesnât expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and thatâs when it hits him.
He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?
âWhatâI donâtâYouâre here?â
âI texted you, but you werenât answering, so I figured Iâd just⌠drop by,â you begin, slightly breathless. âYou said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, andââ
Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag youâre clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. âYou didnât have to.â
âI was getting something for myself as well.â
âButââ
You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. âArenât you hungry?â
âDonât play that card with me. You know I am.â
That makes you laugh. âThen take this, and tell me if you like it.â You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. âItâs a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so Iâm counting on it being good.â
I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missedâ
âIâm sorry I didnât check my phone. I just⌠thereâs a lot going on at the moment.â His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. âI wasnât avoiding you or anything.â
Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he canât describe. âI know. I didnât think that, and Iââ
You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.
âI'd better be going,â you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. âMy next class starts in about half an hour, soââ
âMakes sense,â Clark answers, though his words donât match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like heâll lose you if he looks away. âIâll head back inside.â
You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. âAnd Iâll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.â
Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, whenâ
âKent, are you coming in?â Ninoâs holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.
âRight. Sorry,â Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. âYeahâBye.â
He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, heâs immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.
You: Want me to grab you something? Iâm nearby anyway.
You: Hello?
You: Well, now Iâm just getting you food.
You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?
You: Iâm trusting my instinct.
All the while he eats the sandwich, he canât stop beating himself up for not telling you how much heâd been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea heâs had in weeks.
Thereâs a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but heâs willing to take the risk.
Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.
Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.
âClark?â Youâre smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice heâs hiding something behind his back. âWhat is it?â
You reach out, but he dodges. âEasy there.â He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way youâre looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. âThis is my way of thanking you for todayâs lunch.â
âOh my God!â you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. âThese are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thankââ
Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.
How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?
Thatâs it. Heâs gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldnât even try to stop you. He canât understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.
A month ago, if heâd seen you on the street, he wouldâve glanced twice and kept walking.
Today, heâs terrified of losing sight of you.
The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.
His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. Youâre staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.
âI take it you liked the flowers?â he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.
Your answer doesnât come in words, but in a kiss.
Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that heâs met with your cheek instead.
He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. âAre you free tonight?â
For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.
Tonight, youâre having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.
Everything feels like itâs moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if heâs stepping into your apartment for the first time.
âIt wonât happen.â Heâs talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. âYouâre strong. Youâre⌠committed to the plan.â Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, âStick to it. Think about the final outcome.â
This plan wasnât something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romanceâa life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.
Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasnât careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.
He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.
But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Paâs help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.
At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girlâs hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.
He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.
Thatâs why he couldnât just let things happen. He didnât trust fate. He didnât want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.
His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes heâs been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.
âHello?â
âWell if it isnât my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?â
âJimmy, Iâm leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.â
âAre you nervous?â
He is, but Jimmy doesnât need to know that. âWhy would I be?â
âYouâre finally getting laid!â
Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. âWait. What? Why are you even saying this?â
âBecauseâarenât you going to her place?â
âYeah. And?â
âWell, do the math, dude!â
âYouâre trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.â
âLook, itâll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.â
âCopulate?! I donâtâThatâs it. Goodbye, Jimmy.â
The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what heâd hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.
His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. Heâs not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.
Heâs really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself itâs simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.
Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan wonât leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each otherâs apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.
Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.
When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.
His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately heâs been avoiding your gaze.
âYou have a really nice place,â he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.
You surprise him with takeout from a place heâd mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesnât remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but youâve nailed it anyway.
His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.
âWhat?â he asks, the word muffled, and itâs almost as if heâd momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.
You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. âSince when are wraps so messy to eat?â
âMineâs about to explode, but itâs worth it,â he replies, and you nod.
You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. âHey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?â
Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadnât spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.
âDid you manage to finish that article?â you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.
âOh, yeah. I just⌠had to check some minor details with⌠my source,â he says, hoping the conversation wonât make the food turn in his stomach.
Lifting your fork, you point it at him. âLet me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?â He doesnât bother answering, because it isnât necessary. âDonât even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.â
âHe told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,â Clark tries.
You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. âDo you agree with everything he does?â
Clark nearly bites his tongue. âWhatâwhat do you mean?â
âWhen youâre writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, donât you ever feel like⌠maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?â
Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?
âI get what youâre saying,â Clark answers, straightening in his chair. âBut yeah, I agree with what he does.â
You arch your brows. âWith every single thing? Really?â
âI wouldnât interview him if I didnât.â
âI donât believe you.â Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. âThereâs gotta be something about him you donât like.â
Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. âNot that I can remember.â
You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. âCome on!â
âWhat?â He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. âIâm being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. Whatâs not to like about that?â
You click your tongue and wave him off. âSee? Youâre biased. Youâre not thinking straight. If you were, youâd find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.â
Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. âSo does that mean Iâve got something you donât like about me?â
You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. âYou could say that.â
His interest sparks immediately. âWhat is it? Now I have to know.â He scrapes his chair across the floor until heâs sitting at your side, facing you directly. âYouâre not getting out of this.â
âIâm not roasting you for free!â
âIâm literally asking you to!â
âClarkââ
âIâll just keep going until you break,â he teases, leaning in closer. âYouâll get tired of me eventually.â
With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.
Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: âYou never question him, not even once.â
He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.
Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. âIâm sorry. I was justâI was joking. You know Iâm terrible at that, right?â
Youâre trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He canât blame you for it.
âYeah, now I remember,â he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. âPlease, never give up teaching.â
He trails after you. Youâre at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he canât stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.
âGood?â he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he canât avoid getting lost in your beauty.
Itâs a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight thereâs something different he canât quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.
Youâre glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.
You answer his question with a small, âYou have to try it,â and then youâre holding out a piece to him, the same one youâd bitten into seconds ago.
His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.
âCome on,â you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. âI swear itâs not poisoned.â
This is the end of him. Who wouldâve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that heâd die right here in your apartment?
He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you donât, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.
Donât get hard. Please, just donât.
âItâs⌠delicious,â he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. âCan you make, like, a whole batch for me?â
Rolling your eyes, you say, âSure.â You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. âBy the way, howâs Atonement going? You like it so far?â
He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. âI reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are⌠well, you know.â
âYou mean the library scene?â
âYeah.â
âThey recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.â
âI had no idea there was a movie.â
âItâs from 2007. We should watch it someday⌠or perhaps tonight?â
Thereâs no way heâs surviving you, not with the way youâre looking at him now, the way youâre leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.
Your lips part slightly, as though youâre about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.
âDarn it,â he mutters under his breath, and heâs sure youâre about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.
His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.
Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and youâre immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.
As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.
Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.
Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isnât, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.
Heâd sworn to himself he wasnât here for this, that it was too soon. Heâd promised. Yet what you two are doing couldnât be further from just talking.
The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until youâre practically perched on top of him.
His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.
He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what heâs living right now, is real.
Heâs here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.
The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He canât stay still. He canât think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesnât want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, butâ
Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, itâs not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.
His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. âI think your phoneâs⌠ringing.â
Between kisses, you reply, âI donât care.â
âWhat if itâs important?â
âIâm sure itâs not.â
âBut what if it is?â
Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.
Clark takes a step back. The second youâre gone, heâs leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.
In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.
You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. âWrong number. Told you it wasnât important.â
Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.
He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. âPlease, just ignore it. Itâll go down. Eventually.â
âClark, itâs normal.â
âThat doesnât make it any less mortifying.â
âI actually feel flattered.â
Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.
Then you speak again. âIâm sorry. Was that too much?â
His head jerks toward you. âWhat do you mean?â
âLike⌠the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.â
âI didnât think you were too much. IâI liked it,â he admits, scratching the side of his nose. âI think you were able to see that clear as day.â
That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.
Thereâs a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.
âAre you seeing someone else?â
âNo,â you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. â⌠Are you?â
âNo.â He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. âBut would you want to? See other people?â
âOh, no.â You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. âWhy are you me asking this? Do you want to?â
He snorts. âGosh, no.â
âItâs always a possibility.â
âTrust me, it isnât.â
âYou could want to explore other connections.â
âAre we on Love Island?â
âYou get what Iâm trying to say.â
In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. âI like where this is going.â
What heâd meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.
The next time you kiss him, itâs different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if heâs still in control of the plan.
You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.
You: I mustâve gotten it from one of my students.
You: I feel like crap. Iâm so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(
Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.
Clark: At least let me cook for you.
You: Nooooooo!!!
You: I donât want you to get sick.
He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.
Clark: I wonât stay for too long.
Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.
That should be enough to soften you.
You: AlrightâŚ
When night comes around, heâs in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.
The soup is simple, just as itâs always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.
Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. Youâre standing beside him, watching the procedure.
âIâm sure it smells great,â you mumble, congested. âI mean, I wouldnât know, but it looks like it does.â
Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, âCome here.â
You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesnât offer any resistance as he hugs you. âYouâre going to end up catching what I have.â
âNo, Iâm not.â
âThatâs how contagious illnesses work.â
âTurns out Iâm the exception.â
His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.
âYouâre so warm,â you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.
Later, after youâve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you donât.
Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.
âYou never take them off?â
âTake what off?â
You say it like itâs obvious. âYour glasses.â
Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. âI canât see much without them.â
âHave you ever tried contacts?â
âOh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.â
âEverybodyâs eyes are, in fact, sensitive.â
âI canât handle them,â he insists, shrugging. âThey feel weird.â
Another minute passes without you uttering a word.
But you wonât drop it. âCan I try them on?â
âSome other day. Theyâll make your headache worse.â
Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. âYou keep talking to me like Iâm a child.â
He picks up the remote to pause the movie. âIâm just answering your many questions.â
âCuriosity is one of my best traits.â
âI know.â
âWhich is why I keep wondering why Iâve never seen you without your glasses.â
âBecause I wouldnât be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.â
âTouchĂŠ.â You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. âLetâs save this debate for another night.â
âWant to call it a day?â
âNo, I can stay up for a little longer.â
Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.
By the time the credits roll, youâre fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you donât fight him when he carries you to bed.
Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.
âClark?â
âTell me.â
âThereâs a spare set of keys on my nightstandââ
He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?
ââso you can lock the door on your way out. I donât want to get up anymore.â
Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.
You try to hide from his gaze, but itâs nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. âStop looking at me like that.â
Clark canât help the smile tugging at his lips. âLike what?â
âLike Iâm dying and you donât have the cure,â you mutter, peeking through one eye. âI know I look bad, but donât make it so obvious.â
His brows knit in concern. âYou donât look bad at all.â
Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesnât budge an inch. âOh, youâre too sweet.â
âI mean it,â he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. âYouâre beautiful. Canât you see it?â
The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You donât miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, âWhere have you been all my life?â
He canât think of anything clever to say, because heâs afraid of making a false move.
âWhy donât you try to get some sleep, huh?â His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. âIâll call you in the morning to check on you.â
You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. âDonât forget to call me,â you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. âI promise I wonât.â
When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.
âWhat are you doing, giving me your keys?â he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.
He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once heâs outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
His first loss shouldnât look like this.
As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.
All heroes who wear capes face a moment they donât win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.
Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.
Heâs driven into the ground once more. He canât stop it this time, canât even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.
The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. Heâs got a rib, maybe two, fractured. Heâll have to check at the Fortress.
All around, screams erupt and people scatter. Heâs 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.
Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.
âIs he dead?â
âHe canât die, you dummy.â
âMy dad said he could beat him up.â
A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. âARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?â
Blinking slowly, Clark realizes theyâre all wearing the same clothes.
Itâs a school uniform.
He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.
âKids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?â
Is that your voice? Maybe heâd hit his head harder than he thought.
âBut Missââ
âNo buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.â
Oh, God. Itâs definitely you.
He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.
From high above, the Hammerâs deep voice pours into Clarkâs ears, saturating him.
The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of BoraviaâŚ
âAre you okay?â Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, youâre the only one moving. âCan you stand up?â
When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, âMaâam, youâve got to get out of here. Itâs not safe.â
You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.
The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.
The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. âThis is your last warning,â he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.
Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But heâs too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire bodyâs crumbling with every effort.
âDonât force yourself right now,â you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. âYou canât⌠fly in these conditions.â
Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.
The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.
Another ordinary day in Metropolis.
He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.
He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.
âSo⌠Superman in the flesh,â you say, tilting your head. âFunny thing. I know someone who knows you.â
âYouâll⌠have to be more specific than that,â he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.
âClark Kent,â you reply, tipping your chin up. âHeâs myâwell, it doesnât matter.â
That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. âYour⌠what?â
âWeâre seeingââ You stop, narrowing your eyes. âWait. Why do you care?â
If he werenât certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, heâd laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. âI wouldnât want to take up more of your time,â he says quietly. âYour students must be asking for you.â
You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. âI donât know if youâll find this disrespectful, butâmaybe you shouldnât have done that thing in Jarhanpur.â
Itâs the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.
He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. âThank you for the constructive criticism, maâam. But I have to go now.â His eyes catch yours for just a beat. âStay safe.â
Then heâs gone, vanishing into the sky.
When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.
You: I think now Iâve got beef with Superman. Call me?
Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Yeah, blame him. Heâs definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.
âSee you later!â Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friendâs for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why theyâd be seeing each other in just a few hours.
Right. The party.
Clark had forced a smile. âSure.â
The partyâs at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmyâs picked this place.
The barâs already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. âHey, buddy.â
Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. âMan, you came! I wasnât sureââ
âOf course I came. Got you something, but donât open it yet.â
Jimmy nods, taking the small âHappy Birthdayâ bag from Clarkâs hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. âBabe, can you put this with the other gifts?â
She says something Clark doesnât quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.
For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. âWhat is it?â he asks.
He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.
Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. Thereâs sweat trickling down the sides of his face. âI know itâs not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,â he murmurs into Clarkâs ear. Meanwhile, Clark canât stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. âIt just arrived.â
It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. Youâre wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.
Clarkâs been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countriesâeven galaxies. Heâs had them for many years now.
But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and itâs solely your fault.
Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasnât stopped thinking about itâdreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.
The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes youâre up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isnât waking up to an empty bed.
When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.
And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! Youâd never guess that just minutes before, heâd been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.
Itâs become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.
At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since itâs the same one running through him. The first time youâre together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.
âI didnât know you were coming.â
âIt was a surprise,â you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. âAre you surprised?â
Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. âVery much surprised, yeah.â
He hasnât seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasnât Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.
The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breathâ
But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.
Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.
âYou mind if I steal her for a bit?â Molly asks.
He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.
With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.
He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other personâs excitement spikes. Even mutters âJeez, thatâs toughâ if the story calls for sympathy.
He slips away from one of Jimmyâs cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead youâre alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.
He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. âDid it hurt?â
You squint at him. âWhat?â
âWhen you fell from heaven, did it hurt?â
That elicits a low chuckle from you. âYouâre real smooth.â
His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. âYou having a good time so far?â
âYeah,â you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. âEven better now that youâre here.â
He doesnât miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes flutteringâ
Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.
Lois slides into the seat opposite. âKent, I see youâve decided to invade female territory.â
Under the table, his knee knocks yours. âItâs not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?â
âI didnât leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,â she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. âSo, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.â
Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. âAre you okay?â
âYes,â he rasps. âJust choked on my saliva.â
âYou should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.â Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.
You let out a quiet laugh. âOh, I can imagine.â
âHe gets pretty defensive,â she presses.
He lifts a finger, calling her attention. âI donât.â
âYou totally do.â
âI just give my opinion,â he counters, raising his brows. âItâs literally our job.â
Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. âDonât do that. Youâre changing the topic.â
âIâm notââ
âWhat do you think about what Supermanâs been doing latelyâ Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.
You toy with your glass, your expression dull. âI guess some things couldâve been avoided if done differently.â
âLike what?â Lois inquires, leaning forward.
âThe fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.â
Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like theyâd only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.
Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. âThis is what I was talking about! Heâs dying on the inside.â
âDonât you think he had⌠fair motives?â he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. âItâs not like he thought it would make things worse.â
âWell, then maybe he should think twice before acting,â you reply, straightening. âIâm not one of those people that think heâs being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities werenât going to give him a medal for it.â
âBut he was stopping a war,â Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.
âIâm not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,â you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. âHe might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.â
A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.
At that moment, Lois cuts through. âHe crashed outside a school the other day, didnât he?â
Your head snaps in her direction. âI work there.â
âAnd how was he? Got his ass kicked?â
âExcuse me,â Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, âbut he didnât completely get his ass kicked.â
âHe was pretty hurt,â you argue, your nose crinkling. âI saw him. I helped him get up.â
As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. âOkay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!â
Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.
The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasnât rattled him. He sizes you up. âI didnât know you hated Superman.â
You exhale a long breath. âWhen did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?â
âYou took the opportunity to rip him apart.â
10âŚ
âIâm being critical, Clark. We all need to beâeven you.â
9âŚ
He canât control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then youâre saying, âCan we talk like adults without you looking at me like Iâve murdered someone?â
8âŚ
He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.
7âŚ
You catch your lower lip between your teeth. âAre we really fighting over thisââ
6âŚ
ââover Superman?â
5âŚ
âClark, will you please look at me?â
4âŚ
He does, but stays silent.
3âŚ
âWhy do you care so much about what I think of him?â
2âŚ
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. âIâI donâtâCan weââ
1âŚ
The look on your face is beyond devastating.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!
The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You donât meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.
When he rises, itâs slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmyâs back before hugging him briefly.
Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Clark realizes you take that as your exit. Youâre leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.
âHappy birthday,â he murmurs as he pulls away.
Jimmy smiles, though not fully. âThanks, man. I apprââ
âI got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!â
Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.
âWait!â he shouts.
You turn, startled. âIâm heading home,â you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.
âLet me walk you.â
It isnât necessary. He knows youâll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.
You hold your hand up. âDonâtâjust donât,â you say, frowning. âItâs no use.â
âPlease, let me.â
âIâm tired.â You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. âI shouldâMy headâs a mess right now.â
He takes a step forward. Youâre still too far away. âI just want to make sure you get home safe,â he says, opening his heart to you. âYou can kick me out later, butâjust let me do this one thing.â
You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.
When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it wonât be a minute. It wonât be two, not even five.
A sixth sense isnât among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.
The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesnât move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.
âWhat was that back in the bar?â
The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.
Yet this is different. Whatâs about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.
âI got carried away,â he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.
âOh, really? I hadnât noticed.â
âDonât do that.â
âWhat exactly donât you want me to do, Clark?â You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. âI donât know what happened there. I donât know what got you so⌠defensive all of a sudden.â
In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.
But everything feels different tonight. He canât deny it, canât cover it up with anything.
âI was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. Youâre stiff, you didnât talk to me. You didnât even look at me.â
Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie heâs been weaving for nearly two months.
âEven still, you wonât look at me.â
He knows heâs here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesnât mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.
You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. âWhy does it bother you that I donât agree with every single thing heâs done?â Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. âLast time I checked, I was dating you, not him.â
There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: âThe Boravian government isnât well intentioned.â
A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. âYouâre unbelievable,â you mutter, rubbing your temples. âDid he tell you that?â
âYes. I asked him.â
âThatâs right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.â
âWhat are you implying?â
âDoes he pay you for the interviews?â
The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. âYou think Supermanâs bribing me?â
âI donât know! Youâre just soâloyal to him!â
âHeâs not a bad person.â
âNobodyâs said that, Clark! Youâre putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he shouldâve considered the consequences of his actions.â
âYou believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?â
âWhy donât we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does heââ
âPeople were going to die!â Clarkâs shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.
You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. Heâs never known where his breaking point was until now.
âOkay,â you say slowly, steadying yourself. âWhat is it that youâre not telling me?â
Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?
You continue to stare at him. âThereâs something more to this. I know there is.â
Itâs over. He canât undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?
His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you donât register whatâs happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.
âHoly fuck.â
Itâs the first time heâs heard you curse.
You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.
âYouâWhat? This⌠this whole time, youâWHAT?!â
âPlease, donât freak out.â
âIâm not freaking out. Iâm fine,â you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. âI only had one drink.â
âI know.â
âIâm not drunk,â you insist.
âI know,â he repeats, softer this time.
Your eyes donât leave him, even as your breathing slows. âYou look⌠different. How?â
He holds up the glasses between you. âTheyâre called hypnoglasses. Theyâthey alter the way people see me.â
You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like youâre working out impossible math in your head. âWere you going to tell me, or are you doing it out ofâwhat, guilt?â
âIt was supposed to happen after our eighth date.â
You stop dead in your tracks. âExcuse me, eighth date? Have you been⌠counting them?â
Something good was supposed to happen tonight. Thatâs what heâd thought initially.
He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. âThatâYou didnât have to know that.â
âWhy after the eighth date? Why only eight?â
âI donât know! I like even numbers.â
âClark, I swearââ
âI thought if we got that far, then⌠then it meant you really liked me,â he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. âThat you liked me as Clark. And thenâwell.â
Now itâs your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.
âI care about what you say about Superman because Iâm him. Iâm sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I donât regret it. I wasnât representing anyone except myself.â
His voice softens, almost breaking.
âAnd for the record, I like you. A lot. I know Iâve never said it out loud, and I know that itâs late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.â
Heâs afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything heâs said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself heâs half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldnât be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.
âPlease, justâjust tell me you want me to leave and Iâll go.â
âI donât want that.â
Perhaps heâs heard you wrong. âWhat?â
âI said I donât want you to go.â
He canât answer in any form other than monosyllables. âWhy not?â
You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. âYou have to be more careful. I know youâreâbulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.â
âI seriously donât understandââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say is thatâthat I like you, too.â You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. âIâI really do.â
âEven after all this?â
âI guess Iâm really stubborn.â
âSo⌠you donât want me to go?â
âNo.â
âYou donât hate me?â
You touch his forearm gently. âIâd never be able to hate you.â
âYou donât hate⌠Superman?â
âWe may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldnât be an issue,â you counter. âWeâre both adults. We can deal with it.â
âYou didnât answer my question.â
Holding his gaze, you whisper, âNo. I donât hate him, and I donât hate you.â
Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.
âYou know what I would hate?â
âWhat?â His answer is muffled against your shoulder.
âNot knowing more about your dating plan.â
He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. âForget about it.â
âImpossible.â
âItâsânot worth it. Trust me.â
âPlease, tell me.â
âYouâre gonna make fun of me.â
You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. âI promise I wonât.â
For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.
âIt consists of eight dates. Divided into three partsââ He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. âThatâs not fair! Youâre already laughing.â
You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. âIâm sorry. Itâs just thatâyou had it all planned. Itâs cute.â Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. âOkay. You may continue.â
He clears his throat. âRight now, if we count tonight as our seventh dateââ
âAre you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?â
ââweâd be in the last stage,â Clark finishes. âThen one more date. After that, if everything went well, Iâd tell you the truth, but IâI got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.â
âDoes each stage have⌠its own conditions?â
âSort of.â
âIs not touching me one of them?â
âS-sorry?â he stutters, ears going red.
âItâs just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.â
Clark sputters, looking down. âI meanâI never specified such a thing. Itâs not prohibited, butâNo, I wouldnât say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.â
You hum thoughtfully, nodding. âAnd would you like it to stay that way?â
âIâm the one who made it, right? So⌠theoretically⌠Iâm allowed to make a few changes here and there.â
âHow interesting.â
His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. âIt depends on what you want to do tonight.â
Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your irisâ, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. âI want it all.â
A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. âAll as in⌠all of it?â
âWhy donât you start by kissing me first,â you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, âand then we just⌠see it as we go?â
Clark nods as though youâve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.
And suddenly, he has a goal.
This is really happening. He knows it doesnât exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, heâd wait. But circumstances have shifted.
Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he canât complain.
Itâs hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone elseâs is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. Thereâs a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should⌠go with the flow. At least for once.
RIP Clark Kentâs dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.
Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.
The sweetness doesnât last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.
Heâs already hard. It hasnât been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesnât want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.
But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, âIâm sorry. Itâs justâyouâre⌠so pretty, and Iâmââ
Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. âYou shouldnât apologize for being aroused,â you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. âBesides, youâre not the only one.â
You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.
Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. Youâre wet.
No, scratch thatâyouâre beyond wet.
His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. âSee?â you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. âIâm just asâas affected as you are.â
Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; itâs as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.
He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.
One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. Heâs transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.
His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. âClarkâpleaseââ
You sound so sweet, so needy, that he canât make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. Youâre tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.
You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.
âShit,â you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clarkâs holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.
He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit donât falter, and you canât help but whimper.
âYouâreâGod, youâre killing me with these sounds,â he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. âIâve been dreaming about this. About you. I canâtâbelieve youâre mine.â
He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but itâs the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.
You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. âIâmâIâm yours,â you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, âAnd⌠youâre⌠mine.â
Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.
âAre you close?â he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. âOh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?â Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. âAlright. I got you.â
He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.
When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. âThat was⌠amazing,â you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. âI want to touch you.â
He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. Heâs pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, heâll finish embarrassingly fast, and he canât let that happen.
So instead, he drops to his knees.
Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.
He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. âYou donât have toââ
âBut I want to taste you.â His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. âCan I?â
You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you canât keep watching him. Itâs too much.
âSoâfucking good,â you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. âI donâtâI donât even want to know where you learned all this.â
Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. Heâs not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesnât know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears youâll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where heâs helplessly humping his mattress.
âYou taste like heaven,â he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. Itâs as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.
âPlease, donât stop.â Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. âKeepâkeep going, just like thatââ
Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.
As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you donât make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.
With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.
He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.
You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. âWhy are you still wearing clothes?â you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.
He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.
Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. âClark?â
âYeah?â
Youâre looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.
âIâI thinkââ The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. âIâve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.â
His heart stings. For a moment, heâd thought you were going to say those three words heâs been biting back.
Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. âOh, I have.â
âYeah? Who is it?â
The answer is simple. âYou.â
You stifle a laugh. âThatâs very cheesy,â you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. âI want to take care of you.â
He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, heâs nervous, as though you arenât both already half-naked. âThereâs something I need to tell you.â You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. âWell, IâGosh, I donât know how to say this.â
âJust⌠say it however it comes.â
âIâm not going to last long,â he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. âIâm not being modest or anything. IâI just know it. I know my⌠body.â
You take a moment to think. âAnd whatâs the problem with that?â
âWell, itâs certainly not⌠what youâd expect from me.â
You shake your head. âYouâre overthinking it.â
He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.
âI donât care how long you last.â You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. âI just want you to feel good. Thatâs all.â
Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time heâs thought of you alone in his apartment.
The only difference tonight is that it isnât his hand that grabs it, but yours.
You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.
âHey,â you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. âEyes here.â
Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.
âThatâs it,â you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. âIs this okay?â
âFeels⌠nice,â he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. âIt feelsâOh, Jesus.â
His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.
As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you canât fit into your mouth.
The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He canât remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.
His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.
Thatâs when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.
âOh, baby,â he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.
And now heâs close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, andâ
The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if heâs lost what was left of his sanity or if youâre having fun edging him.
Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what youâre thinking.
For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if heâs outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.
Then the haze clears, and heâs back in the bedroom with you. Youâre on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.
He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.
At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.
Donât come. Donât come. Donâtâ
âFuck,â you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. âYouâreâyouâre splitting me in half.â
âDonât⌠try to rush it.â He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. âItâs gonna take a while, sweetheart.â
He doesnât miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.
âYou like that, donât you? You like it when I call you those names?â Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. âThatâs why youâre clamping down on me?â
He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. âPlease, move.â
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, âCanât. Youâreâreally tight.â
âI wanna feel you,â you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. âItâs okay. You wonât hurt me. I can take it.â
He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.
Once he bottoms out and canât go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.
The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.
âY-you hear that?â Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. âSheâs crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.â
With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.
Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before heâs plunging forward again.
âC-Clark, oh my God,â you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. âYouâre fucking big, youâreâyouâre everywhere.â
He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. âYou feel so good, baby. So good, so warmâI never wanna leave you.â
His own pace is killing him. Itâs too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he canât stop. Heâs far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.
Youâve told him before that youâre on the pill, that itâs safe, but he still needs to hear it again.
âIâmâIâm close,â he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. âCan IâIâm justâPlease, let me. Iâm sorry, Iâll make it up to you, but p-please.â
âCome inside me,â you breathe, arching your back. âI want it. You can let go.â
And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
His heart hammers like itâs going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.
Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.
He thinks heâs spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.
Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. âHow are you stillââ
âI have no idea,â he replies, nosing your cheek. âThereâs probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.â
You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think thatâs it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.
But Clark gets hard⌠again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.
After a couple seconds, you notice it. âAre youâare you hard again?â
âLooks like it,â he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. âFeels even better now.â
Heâs still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isnât listening.
You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. âWhat are you doing? I wanted you to stay.â
No answer. Just pure silence.
You twist your neck, brows knitted. âClark? Is something wrong?â
Heâs too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.
âYouâreâmuch kinkier than I thought,â you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. âSecond round?â
He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.
You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.
âI can see you better this way,â he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. âYouâll tell me if it hurts?â
Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. âI will.â
This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until youâre filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.
He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.
His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. Youâre pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. âIâd do anything for you. Just say the word andâand I will.â
His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once heâs expelled the breath.
âI love you,â he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what heâs giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.
âC-clark, Iââ You canât finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. âIââ
âItâs okay. You donât have to say it back just because I did,â he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. âI just wanted you to know it. I can wait.â
Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though heâs determined to wait until youâre there with him.
The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and youâre murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows youâre close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.
âIâm gonna get you there, donât worry,â he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.
âIâIâm so close,â you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. âDonât stop.â
âNever,â he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. âIâm right here, honey. Iâve got you.â
You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.
He doesnât pull out until heâs sure youâve milked every last drop. When he finally does, itâs reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.
To his surprise, he actually feels tired. Heâs sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.
Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.
Romanticism isnât dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.
Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. âI think we need to shower.â
âYeah,â Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. âWith holy water.â
You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes youâre not tracing nonsense on his skin.
Youâre writing the same letters, over and over.
I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.
âOh,â he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until youâre looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He canât stop the smile pulling at his lips. âReally?â
âYes.â You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. âI love you, Clark.â
He seals his mouth with yours. âI think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.â
âThatâs your way of saying thank you for setting us up?â
âExactly.â He gives you another peck. âIâd suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. Iâve already made my peace with the idea.â
The mere thought doesnât unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
Clarkâs duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his lifeâs purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.
What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.
Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes⌠he was right.
dividers by: @chrisssiren <3
in another universe, your favorite characters are reading fanfic about you. Feel special.
everyday struggle i fear
i need him so bad its concerning at this point

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kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
mysteries of our disguise revolve
clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader
summary: youâre just the new intern at the daily planetâanxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.
word count: 22.4k (i know itâs a lot but itâs worth it)
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the readerâs sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, creampie, happy ending.
a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say iâm nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: iâve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this oneâs completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldnât stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world !!!
Sometimes, you truly wished you didnât have a brain.
It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact youâre not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when youâre not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.
Scratch thatâright here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.
And yet, you canât help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. Thereâs no warning or mercy. One moment youâre fineâfunctioning, even laughingâand the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when youâll finally figure out whatâs wrong with you.Â
If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.
The day youâre accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:
Itâs going to be okay. Youâre capable of this. Just show them your potential.
But the voice in your head isnât convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought youâve been trying to avoid:Â
Itâs only a matter of time before they realize they couldâve chosen someone better.
Just so much for a girl in her twenties.
You squint at the girl on Jimmyâs phone.
Sheâs beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didnât know her from these selfies, you wouldâve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person whoâd throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a catâs tail.
Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blondeâ
âSheâs super pretty,â you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.
He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if heâs about to accept an award. âWhat can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.â
At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. âIâm still trying to figure out why,â she mutters dryly. âGuess I know what my next articleâs gonna be about.â
A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.
Jimmy eyes you like youâve betrayed his loyalty. âYouâre supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.â
âIâm sorry. I just canât resist a good joke,â you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.
Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. âYou can always change seats.â
With a scoff, he declares, âTraitors. Both of you.â
As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. âHonestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and Iâve got Perry breathing down my neck.â
âEver heard of this revolutionary thing called⌠privacy?â Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. âIf I find out heâs out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, Iâm suing.â
You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.
The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.
Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows heâs late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.
âHey,â he says warmly. âThought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.â
Lois lifts her chin. âLook who finally decided to rejoin society.â
Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. âI brought bribes.â He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmyâs follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.
Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.
You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. âThanks, Clark.â
He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. âYou know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure youâve already gone over it.â
No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you canât help whispering a very soft, âThank you,â just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.
He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like heâs trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.
Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping youâre playing it cool.
âJeez,â a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmyâs shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. âYouâre down bad.â
âShut it.â
âI swear to God, if youâd just admit itââ
You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. âKeep your voice down. Thereâs nothing to admit. Iâm just happy I have something to sip while I work. Thatâs all.â
Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. âIâve got to hand it to youâitâs adorable, watching you try to lie to me. Iâve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?â
A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.
He grins. âIâve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?â He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. âYeah. Those arenât for public consumption. Thatâs VIP treatment.â
Fighting Jimmy is pointless. Heâs the kind of guy who never loses an argumentâmostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.
He just doesnât get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? Itâs just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like itâs nothing.
At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.
Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.
âJames Olsen,â he commented. âWelcome to hell.â
Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. âLois, come meet the new intern.â
You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didnât mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that youâd read Loisâs columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.
Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.
âWhereâs Kent?â he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.
Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which youâd devoured in one sitting.
In the nick of time, as if heâd heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.
âI know, Iâm late again. Sorry, Perry,â he apologized, already reaching into the tray. âMaybe a hot coffee will help start your day?â
Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. âReally glad I bought an extra one today.â
Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.
âOh, Iâmââ he stammered, fixing his posture. âI didnât know there would be someone new. Iâm so sorry, I wouldâve brought you something too.â
âThis is the new intern,â Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. âStarted today. Doesnât bite, probably. Has a name and everything.â
You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.
Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. âNext time, Iâll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?â
Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. âNo, really, itâs okay. You donât have toââ
But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. âI insist.â
Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. âNo, for realâhe insists.â
Lois smirked into her cup. âHe's going to agonize over this all day.â
Clarkâs ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. âJust... let me know. So I get it right.â
Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: âTwo creams, two sugars.â
âBetter write it on your arm or something,â Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. âIn case it comes up in your next Superman interview.â
The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.
You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.
Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already youâd earned a reputation: the intern who canât be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry âdadâ? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.
A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.
It was from the cafĂŠ around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.
Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.
Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.
Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didnât look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.
Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. âWow,â he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. âOn day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.â
âExcuse me?â
âNext thing you know, heâs bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.â
âItâs just coffee,â you retorted, but your hands didnât loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.
âObserve: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gestureââ
âDonât you have any photographs to take?â
His nose crinkled. âDonât worry, Iâll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.â
To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasnât sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.
You werenât saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didnât help.
Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobodyâs noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.
You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know thatâs a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. Heâs moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.
âPerv,â Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.
You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.
He hisses, eyes squinting shut. âTell me Iâm wrong.â
You donât. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internshipâs ended.
Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You canât afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.
An email lands in your inbox. Itâs one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.
At first, you donât even flinch. Youâre wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.
Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you donât let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.
Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Canât Explain.
Itâs yours.
Goddammit.
Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planetâs website. Itâs all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.
[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]
[DELETE â USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]
[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]
Youâd sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You werenât the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.
The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.
A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.
Itâs fine. Happens to the best of us.
Donât beat yourself up over it.
Itâs just one article.
Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if itâll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that⌠yes, it had been bad.
What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: youâre not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.
You had one job. Youâve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.
Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perryâs office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.
He doesnât even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. âSomething bothering that young brain of yours?â he asks without turning. âBecause if youâre not going to be focused, I need to know. I donât do hand-holding. This couldâve been a disaster.â
Your heart pounds so loudly youâre surprised he doesnât pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isnât anger youâre met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.
âDonât be sloppy. I donât like sloppy. Got it?â
Fervently nodding, you say, âYes, sir.â You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.
The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isnât a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.
You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.
You arenât just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.
Youâre crying because at some point, without you even noticing, youâd let yourself believe that maybeâmaybeâyou were starting to belong here. That maybe you werenât a complete fraud. It turns out it doesnât take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you shouldâve double-checked.
A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. Youâre too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someoneâs footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact youâve been crying.
You hear it. His voice.
ââŚHey.â
Clark.
You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.
Thereâs a pause. You donât even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. Itâs his thing, apparently.
Before you can stop yourself, you speak. âIâm fine,â you croak, too quickly. A reflex.
He doesnât reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, âDidnât ask.â
That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you canât help it, because itâs bubbling up and thereâs nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.
âI was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought Iâd already attached the right file, andââ You stop, inhaling sharply. âGod, Iâm pathetic.â
Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.
You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. âItâs so stupid. Everyoneâs supposed to make mistakes. Thatâs what they say. But this doesnât feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldnât be here. That Iâm playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.â
Itâs only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.
Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you donât feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.
âI didnât want anyone to see me like this,â you croak. âItâs miserable.â
âItâs not.â
You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.
Thatâs when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesnât move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. Youâre pretty sure he must think youâve gone mental. Once he notices youâre not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.
Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isnât humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you canât quite place.
You donât ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.
It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. âNo one sent me.â
You choke on your own saliva.
âI just noticed youâd been gone for a while,â he adds. âThatâs all.â
Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. âI didnât even realize I was gone that long,â you admit.
He smiles, barely. âI know.â
A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.
Then he asks, almost like he already knows what youâll respond next: âWhy are you so hard on yourself?â
You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. âI donât know how else to be.â
He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.
âI think,â Clark begins carefully, âyou hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.â You stare at him, swallowing hard. âBut no oneâs waiting to punish you,â he explains. âThey already like you. I alreadyââ He stops himself mid-sentence. âYou donât have to earn that every second.â
His hand is still on your back. You donât know what youâre supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything youâre carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you canât help but sniff after all that crying. Youâre certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you donât even want to think about what your mascaraâs looking like right now.
âWas itââ You hesitate, keeping eye contact. âWas it a lot? That I hugged you?â
Clarkâs brows bump together in a scowl. âWhat do you mean?â
âI meanââ You gesture vaguely between your chests. âIt was a full, like⌠torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And Iâve only been working here a month, and youâre⌠you.â
His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. âI donât mind.â
âYeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.â
âIf thereâs a policy, I havenât read it.â
âFigures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.â
Playfully surrendering, he snorts. âGuilty.â
Thereâs a beat. He looks like heâs considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.
âWant to hear something thatâll make you regret hugging me at all?â
You scratch your nose. âSure?â
âWhat do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?â
ââŚNo.â
He grins, too pleased with himself. âA thesaurus.â
âOh my God.â
âI warned you.â
âNo, butâa thesaurus?â
âWhat do you mean? Itâs a classic!â
âI shouldâve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.â
âThat hurts. I opened my arms to you.â
âI did the arm-opening,â you shoot back. âYou were just conveniently located.â
Heâs chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. âI just didnât want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.â
âYou are. Messing up doesnât make you less good. Youâd never say that to another human being.â
You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. Youâre not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesnât. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.
ââŚOkay,â you whisper.
âOkay,â he echoes.
A pause.
âWanna hear another one?â
âClark, pleaseââ
âWhat do you call fake spaghetti?â
âI donât even want to think about that one.â
âAn impasta.â
You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. âJust fire me already.â
Clark giggles, not moving an inch. âCanât. Iâm just the delivery guy.â
âOf terrible puns?â
âOf coffee and emotional support.â
You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.
By the time youâre both standing again, your eyes feel like theyâve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.
âYou always carry tissues with you?â
âA man needs to be prepared.â
He doesnât rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. âReady?â he asks gently.
You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planetâs globe, and raises his eyebrows like heâs seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.
âWell, well,â she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. âWe thought youâd fled the country.â
Jimmy snorts into his coffee. âI must confess Iâve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.â
Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. âShe was just upset. Thatâs all.â Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, âYou sure youâre okay?â
You nod, and this time, itâs not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.
Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. âFix your face,â she says. âIf you cry again, youâll dehydrate and die. And I donât have time to explain that to Perry.â
Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.
You like Lois.
You really, really do.
Sheâs sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question theyâve been dodging for a decade. She doesnât soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.
You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.
Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when heâs truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.
They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.
In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. Youâre standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.
All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.
âHey.â Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. âYou okay?â
You force a laugh, too high-pitched. âNo, I was justâŚthinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. Theyâre veryâŚcompatible.â
Jimmy blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then tilts his head as if youâre announcing youâre moving to Mars. âWhatâwhy would you say that?â
You stare at him, and the weight of what youâd just admitted out loud hits you like a train.
âIâve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,â you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers youâve just printed. âYou didnât need to know that.â
âHold on, hold on.â Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. âBack up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?â
The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you donât want to meet his demanding gaze. âI meant it likeâŚas a neutral statement,â you lie, badly. âA purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interestâŚthing.â
âLike youâre a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?â
âExactly.â
âYouâre so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save Iâve ever heard.â
âGive me a break.â
âNo, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?â
âDrop it, Jimmy.â
Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. âListen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.â
You glanced at him. âWhat do you mean âno wayâ? TheyâreâŚtheyâre them.â
âYou said it yourself. Iâve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?â
You donât answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, whoâs now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.
Because hereâs the thing: this isnât Loisâs fault. Youâd fight anyone who said a bad word about herâso why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isnât about her, not really. Itâs about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself youâre supposed to be.
Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesnât even know sheâs on the board.
Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. âHey. Donât overthink it.â
Youâre fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. âYouâre only about thirty years too late.â Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. âI should get back to work.â You choose that to be your response, given itâs easier than saying I donât want to feel like this, or I wish I didnât care, or I think Iâm falling for him, and I donât know how to stop.
And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.
Again.
They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, âWeâre all going, no excuses,â unwilling to take no for an answer.
And somehow, that settles it.
The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than theyâve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, whoâs listing the barâs drink specials like heâs memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.
The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.
The barâs noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers âIâm afraid I have no parrot knowledgeâ).
You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmyâs impressions. Pretend youâre not glancing at Clark more than you should.
The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because itâs like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar windowâoutside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hairâyou follow without thinking.
You donât hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.
He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.
âOkay, Ma. Yeah, Iâll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, itâs fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,â he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. âSorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.â
You smile, your mouth twitching. âThatâs⌠adorable.â
He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. âSheâs always worried Iâm working too much.â
âWell, are you?â
His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesnât answer. At long last, he retorts, âMaybe.â
You study himâthe way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. Thereâs something about him that always feels held back, as if heâs managing himself carefully, like heâs afraid of taking up too much space.
Which is funny, considering how much space heâs been occupying in your thoughts lately.
âAre you annoyed?â you ask.
His smile fades. âWhat?â
âYou seemed⌠I donât know. Off.â
âNo,â he says, seemingly caught off guard. âNot annoyed.â You nod slowly, unsure if thatâs a real answer or the kind people give when they donât want to be asked twice. âI just needed some air. Thatâs all.â
You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but thereâs something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when youâre afraid of the answers you might receive.
Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: âSo, uh⌠are you and Lois a thing?â It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.
Clark straightens so quickly itâs like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. âWhat?â The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords havenât gotten the memo that heâs supposed to be cool and composed.
âYou and Lois?â you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. âI mean⌠itâs not a crazy question. Sheâs Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. Iâd date her.â
âSheâd eat you alive.â
âYeah, but itâd be an honor.â
âLois and I are just friends. Really good friends. Weâve been through a lot together, but⌠itâs never been like that.â
Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. âGreat,â you reply. âI wasnât trying to make things weird. Itâs justâpeople talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.â
Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. âSomeone?â
âYeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.â
He smiles then. âThe team.â
âYeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh⌠Carl.â
âCaro?â
âYeah,â you say, faking confidence. âHeâs new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. Youâd remember him if youâd seen him. That dudeâs hilarious.â
âRight.â He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. âWanna go back inside?â
You shake your head. âActually... I think Iâm heading home.â
âOh. You sure?â
âCertainly. Iâm just tired. Itâs been a long week. Brain soup.â
âI get that,â he says, softer now. But he doesnât move. âDo you want me to call you a cab?â
âRelax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.â
He still doesnât budge. âOr⌠I could walk you home.â
âYou really donât have to.â
âI know.â Heâs already turning toward the door. âWait here. Iâll grab our stuff.â
And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.
The moment heâs gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadnât been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadnât planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.
But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you donât, which is the part that terrifies you.
The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.
âYou really didnât have to do all that,â you say as he hands everything over to you.
âToo late,â he replies. âChivalry wins again.â
You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isnât.
Then, because the world is poetic when itâs inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. âShitâdamn it!â
âWhoaâgot you,â Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.
You wince. âAnkle. Ow.â
He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like heâs searching for something under the skin. âProbably just a twist. You should be alright.â
âHow do youâŚ?â
âWhat?â
âHow do you know itâs not swelling?â you ask, scrutinizing him. âYou barely looked. Didnât even check it properly.â
âJust⌠a hunch, I meanââ His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. âLook, I didnât hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?â
âThatâs not exactly how ankles work.â
âI mean, you havenât turned purple. That has to be a good sign.â He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. âSorry. Just trying to be optimistic.â
âYou sure you werenât a paramedic in a past life?â
âOh, no. Iâd be terrible at that.â
Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like heâs afraid he said too much.
He kneels with his back to you. âHere. Get on.â
âExcuse me?â
âPiggyback. Letâs not make it a thing.â
âItâs already a thing. A humiliating one.â
âLet me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.â
âThat is not how that word works.â You sigh, dramatic. âFine. Just⌠please, donât drop me.â
As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skinâwarm where your skirtâs ridden up slightlyâit short-circuits something in your chest. Itâs not even overtly intimate. Itâs just⌠contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.
âHave I already mentioned this is embarrassing?â you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.
âYou say that like Iâm not honored.â
âIâm a grown woman. Youâre carrying me like a backpack.â
âYou are basically a human backpack,â he quips back. âAnd kind of a noisy one.â
You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.
âClark?â
âHmm?â
âYou didnât even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasnât serious.â
He pauses. âI had a feeling.â
You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. âYouâre weird.â
Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. âTakes one to know one.â
You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesnât. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent momentsâthe way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how youâd swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.
By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.
You arenât exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. âHere we are,â he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a masterâs degree.
âThanks,â you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. âYou can, um. You can go be normal now.â
He sticks his hands in his pockets. âI was normal before.â
âThatâs debatable.â You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. âThanks for the rescue. Again. Iâll see you Monday?â
âYeah,â he says softly. âGoodnight.â
He doesnât move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.
Thereâs an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, andâ
An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.
He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. âYou might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?â
âYes, sir.â
âAnd give me a call if it gets worse.â
âOnly if I want to be carried again.â
âHappy to oblige.â
And thenâfinallyâhe walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.
Youâre beyond head over heels.
Another Monday at the Daily Planet. Itâs 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.
Everything looks the sameâthe hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distanceâbut you are not the same. Not since last Friday.
Your ankleâs still a little sore, you havenât been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didnât imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.
You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, whenâ
âMorning, sunshine,â Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. âHowâs the foot?â
âClark told you,â you say flatly.
Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. âWho, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.â
âI cannot believe he told you.â
âOh, come on. Itâs adorable.â Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. âYou? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. Iâd set it to music.â
âI hate you.â
He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. âYou say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.â
âDo I look like someone who enjoys attention?â
âNot attention in general. Just his.â
You donât dignify that with a response. Mostly because heâs not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.
Maybe if you donât look up, youâll avoidâ
âMorning,â Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.
You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: âDid you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?â
Clark blinks. âI havenât.â
âCrazy stuff. Natureâs relentless.â
â...Okay.â
You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.
âAnyway,â Clark continues with his inquiry, âI just wanted to check in. Howâs the ankle doing?â
âFine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.â
He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. âThatâs good to know.â
âCool,â you reply, cringing on the inside. âCool, cool, cool, cool.â
And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.
Your fingers hover near the cup, though you donât pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. Youâre aware of everythingâyour pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.
You try to return to your work. Really, you do. Itâs just that your thoughts donât seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesnât even feel like your mother tongue anymore.
Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. âPerry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.â
You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. Youâve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.
Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.
Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.
You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.
And thenâyou notice it. A crucial absence.
Your charger.
Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like itâs mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.
Jimmy Olsen.
You answer blandly. âIf this is about that goose video againââ
âRelax. Itâs not.â He speaks as if heâs chewing something. âAlthough, side note, thereâs a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger andâanyway. Thatâs not why Iâm calling.â
âThen what, Jimmy?â You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.
âYou left your charger hereââ
âDonât even get me started on that.â
ââbut I already gave it to Clark.â
Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.
âYou what?â
âGave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.â He pauses, then adds, in the worldâs most audible smirk: âWink wink.â
âYou didnât actually wink just now, did you?â
âOh, I did, physically. With both eyes.â
âJimmyââ
âYouâre welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.â
The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because thereâs nothing else to do, you stand.
You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. Thereâs no way youâre mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. Itâs too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like thatâll make you look alive.
Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and thatâs when you consider faking your death.
In the end, you open the door. Clarkâs wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like itâs something precious.
âHey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.â
You draw in a long breath. âThank you. IâIâm sorry you had to do that. He really didnât need to drag you intoââ
He shakes his head before you get to say more. âItâs no trouble. I was happy to.â
You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. âDo you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you donât have to. Obviously. But if you want water orâtea? Bad tea. Thatâs all Iâve got.â
He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. âWaterâs perfect. Thanks.â
You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, heâs not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.
âI didnât mean to meddle in your stuff,â he says gently. âBut⌠were you writing something?â
You make your way around the couch. âOh. Yeah. No. Itâs nothing.â
He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. âCan I ask what itâs about?â
Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. âItâs kind of dumb.â
âI doubt that.â
âItâs justâsomething I started on Saturday night. I donât know. Itâs not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just⌠thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.â
He says nothing. So you keep going.
âI guess Iâve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a⌠structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, thatâs Superman, even if heâs flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isnât doomed.â
You pause. âAnd Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,â you add, bitterly. âSo. Doesnât matter.â
Clarkâs gdoesnât tear his gaze away from you. âIâd like to read it.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âIf youâre okay with it,â he says, nodding toward the laptop. âIâd really like to.â
Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.
âBrace yourself for excessive metaphors.â
âOh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.â
And so he begins to read.
You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didnât even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.
Thereâs a sudden shift in his demeanor. Itâs subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, heâs grinning, reading all the way through.
âThis is good,â he says, still concentrated on the screen. âReally good.â
âYou donât have to say that just to be nice.â
He shakes his head once, firm. âNoâI mean it. The structureâs clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesnât drag. Your transitions are solid. And your toneââ He glares at you now. ââitâs vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. Thereâs conviction in it, but you donât preach. It feels like a conversation.â
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. âItâs not finished yet,â you manage eventually, voice tight. âI still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasnât that clear once I got into the part about collective memoryââ
âEven so. Youâre onto something. If you let me, Iâd love to help you get it in front of Perry.â
Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where heâs located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: âReally?â
âReally. We could try and talk to him one of these days.â
Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.
You donât even think about itâyour body just does it, and then youâre flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you donât recognize.
He hugs you back, and itâs not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.
âI keep doing this,â you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. âRandomly hugging you.â
âI donât mind it. Not at all.â
When you pull back, youâre still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.
You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. âCan you please do it?â
âDo what?â
Does he want you to say it?
You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. âPlease, kiss me,â you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you donât, canât, wonât look away. Not now. Not with him so close youâre convinced your skin might start fusing with his.
That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time youâve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.
One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like youâre beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.
His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. Itâs affected, perhaps as much as yours. âYou really want me to?â
You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. Itâs been too long since youâve been touched this way, like you mattered.
Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.
You glance up, asking without words. He doesnât back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.
He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesnât lie. It canât. It doesnât pretend to want something it doesnât crave.
âI do,â you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. âI need you to do it.â
A shallow breath leaves him. Thereâs a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.
Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.
At first, itâs a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if heâs testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They donât last long because they donât need to.
Itâs when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. Thatâs all it takes.
He deepens the kiss instantly, as if heâs been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.
Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then youâre fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he canât bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.
Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.
And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesnât rush it. Doesnât push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.
At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. Youâre kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.
Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.
Then:
âYou should start forgetting your charger more often,â he murmurs, voice a little raspy.
That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. âI swear it wasnât on purpose.â His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. âHey.â
âHey.â
The words youâve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you donât regret them. âI like you.â
He gathers you tighter against his chest. âWell, I canât say Iâm not flattered,â he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of himâbut itâs giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.
âDonât make fun of me. Iâm trying to have a moment here.â
He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. âIâve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,â he admits.
You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. âI was always looking at you, you know,â you confess, quieter now. âCouldnât help it.â
âYou talk like I didnât bring you coffee on your second day,â he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. âI havenât been able to stop thinking about you.â
The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.
âI think my kissing might be a little rusty,â you croak into his skin. âCould probably use some improvement.â
âYouâre kidding? It was fantastic. What are youâoh.â A beat. Then: âOh. Sure.â Heâs grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. âI mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.â
âHow noble of you, Kent.â
Your first kiss (kisses, pluralâyou lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. Youâd seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.
But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, âHope you have a really good day today,â and suddenly your pep talk is useless. Youâre smiling like someone who knows something others donât. Because you do.
Together, you find a rhythm. You donât talk about what this isâyetâbut somethingâs shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just⌠little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.
Itâs the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, itâs everything. Itâs a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.
Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like youâre one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.
One of Clarkâs articles makes the front pageâagainâand when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. âAlright, headline hero. At this point, youâre just showing off.â
Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.
Lois arrives like sheâs been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. âYou know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Supermanâs handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.â
He doesnât look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. âWhat can I say? Maybe Iâm his type. We havenât kissed yet, if thatâs what youâre wondering.â
She narrows her eyes. âDonât try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?â
âHave you considered he just⌠likes my writing?â
âSo now youâre accusing him of bad taste?â
Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. âOkay, okay. Timeâs up, guys.â He puts both hands on Loisâs shoulders with exaggerated care. âYou, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.â
Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, âI just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.â Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.
Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. âWell, at least I tried.â
The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, youâre still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.
âMr. Kent.â
His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. âOh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?â
You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. âJust wanted to congratulate you on the article.â
He lowers his voice until itâs almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. âThank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you knowâŚâ
âTo celebrate⌠I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.â
âGosh, Iâd love that. Your place?â
âYeah.â
âI wish I could kiss you right now,â he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. âYou look beautiful today.â
It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. âFist punch?â
His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.
As night folds in around your apartment, youâve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though itâs been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you litâjust two, nothing too obviousâare dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.
Your phone buzzes where itâs propped upright beside the sink.
Clark: Hey, Iâm so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise Iâll make it up to you.
You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didnât mean to take so personally.
Thereâs an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, Itâs alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you donât know what else to reply.
You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesnât take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problemâs that youâre not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.
Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. Youâve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.
The thingâs that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.
Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.
Maybe he doesnât know how to say it, but heâs changed his mind.
Maybe he never wanted something serious, and youâre the only one building stories out of crumbs.
Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes youâd chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.
And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.
The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasnât the last time he left you waiting.
Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.
The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said heâd be here. You donât greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though itâs gone cold.
Clarkâs footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. âHey, honey,â he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. âSorry Iâm late. There was something I had to take care of.â
You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.
You donât ask where heâs been. Not yet. âYour shirt's backwards,â you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.
Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. âMy bad. I didnât even notice.â His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.
âYeah. You seem⌠in a rush.â
He doesnât contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dishâstuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the dayâand put it back into the oven, hoping itâll survive the fifth reheat of the night.
Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. âYouâre quiet.â
You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. âAnd youâre late.â
His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. âI missed you.â
If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you canât help craving the one thing he wonât grant you: clarity.
Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.
In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like heâs trying to make up for every second heâs missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.
His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "Itâs been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.
For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.
A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.
You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."
He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.
Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. âYou couldâve let me know youâd be arriving this late.â
âI told youââ
âI know,â you cut in. âSomething came up.â
He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. âOkay. So youâre mad.â
âIâm not mad.â
âDisappointed, then?â
âClark, itâs not even about tonight.â
âThen what is it about?â
You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: âWhere were you?â The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you âRight.â
âI donât want to fight.â
âIâm not fighting. Iâm just⌠tired.â
He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. âYou donât believe me.â
You glance at him, quietly. âShould I?â
That hits him like a slap. âI told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. Iâve shown you that.â
âBut then you vanish,â you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. âYou show up looking like youâve just escaped a fire. You donât answer calls. You donât explain anything. Donât you think that drives me crazy?â
âIâve been telling youââ
âClark, itâs not about you saying it! Itâs about me believing it. And you donât exactly make that easy.â
âThe real problem here is that you donât trust me.â
âYou think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when theyâre kind to me? Well, Iâm sorry,â you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. âWould you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?â
âMaybe you should,â he agreesâand the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.
Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.
âIâm sorry,â he says again, softer now. âI justâ I donât know how to do this when you already assume Iâm going to leave.â
âIâm not assuming,â you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. âIâm just preparing for what usually happens.â
âYouâre staring at me like Iâm about to vanish.â
You blink, wounded by his accuracy. âBecause people do. They do that.â
âIâm not people!â he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "Iâm me. And Iâm standing right here, arenât I?"
âFor now. Who knows if something else will come up?â
Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesnât know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave himâyour apartment keysâ on the table.
He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. âOkay,â he mutters under his breath. âOkay.â
âClarkââ you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.
âThank you for the food,â he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. âIâm sure itâs great.â
Then the door clicks again, and heâs gone.
The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.
One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark donât speak.
You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after heâs been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.
Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.
He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you havenât asked for. The one you donât touch.
Itâs the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.
Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk inâdoes a quick, puzzled double takeâthen looks away with a frown youâre not supposed to catch.
Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because youâre more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.
But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.
Youâd written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strengthâthat he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.
Now, hope feels like a language youâve forgotten how to speak.
Today, you donât believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and canât meet your eyes now.
Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because itâs the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.
Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perryâs office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.
His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.
âWell, donât just stand there,â he grunts. âWhatâve you got?â
You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. âI know this isnât what I was assigned, but Iâve been⌠working on something for the past weeks.â
He squints at you. âYou been using our electricity for your side projects?â
âNo! IâI wrote it at home. I swear.â
He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but itâs impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.
His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That itâs too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.
Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. âDo you like it?â
You blink owlishly. âWhy are you asking me?â
âBecause I want to know.â
âItâs not up to me,â you deflect. âYouâre the one who decides if it runs.â
âI know that. But you wouldnât bring me something you didnât believe in. So Iâll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?â
For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadnât realized how deeply youâd buried your own opinion. Youâd been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up spaceâespecially this weekâthat you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.
Perryâs looking at you like heâs not going to breathe until you answer.
So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, âI believe people will find it comforting.â
âThen you know what comes next.â
Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.
Itâs enough to make it to tomorrow.
Sleep wonât come.
Youâve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.
So you call him. Once, twice, but youâre met with nothing else than his voicemail. You donât leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I canât breathe right now, and can you please justâ
You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.
And thenâLois Laneâs voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like itâs paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.
It all makes you wonder where Superman is.
Heâs not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. Heâs in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.
You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.
Loisâs voice crackles through the footage: ââbeen a difficult few weeks for Metropolisâs hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more⌠focused. Almost withdrawn. Weâve reached out to the authoritiesââ
Itâs physically impossible for you to hear the rest because youâre entranced watching him. Heâs moving like someone who hasnât slept in days. Fighting like he doesnât care if he gets hurt.
You canât look away.
The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creatureâs ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. Thereâs a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.
For the first time, youâre not watching Superman. Youâre watching someone else. Someone who looks likeâ
No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.
Once again, Loisâs voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporterâs concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.
âSuperman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?â
Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a secondâjust a secondâlike heâs heard something above the noise. And theyâre blue. The exact kind of blue thatâs filled your mornings for the last three months.
Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
Youâve seen that gesture. Too many times. âNo,â you whisper out loud. âNo, thatâs not possible.â
Youâre already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You donât even know what youâre reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. Itâs a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.
Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.
There he is.
Clark.
Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when heâs gritting through something.
Clark, who stammers when heâs nervous, who brings you coffee even when you wonât drink it.
Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight onânot only because heâs strong, but because heâs been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.
Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.
Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.
Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always didâbut now you know the cost of that smile.
If you lower the glasses, heâs Superman again.
If you lift them⌠itâs the Clark you know.
Theyâre the same man. Two halves of a single truth.
âOh my God,â you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.
Loisâs voice keeps going, but itâs background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.
You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you werenât hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way heâd always kiss you like it was the last time heâd ever get to.
The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and thereâs no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.
The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Supermanâor Clarkâlanding hard on one knee.
Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes wonât leave his face. Thereâs a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesnât need to say anything, at least not right now.
For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and itâs not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. Itâs private, and heavy, and it feels like heâs looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.
Straight through you.
Loisâs voice snaps back into focus: âMetropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.â
You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.
He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.
You canât hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.
Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.
Gone.
You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.
âWhere are you going?â you mumble, reaching for the screen. âWhere are youââ
The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.
Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what youâll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clarkâs standing there, just outside the glass. âIâm sorry,â he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. âI didnât calculate the landing right.â
Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if heâs a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside
At first, he canât seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone whoâs rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesnât know where to begin.
âClarkââ
âThis is why I disappear all the time,â he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. âWhy I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before Iâm supposed to, or text you lame excuses like âSorry, got held upâ when Iâm halfway across the planet.â
Itâs hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.
Theyâre two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet⌠it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken thingsâwho better to carry the weight of hope?
âI shouldâve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I justââ He breaks off, shaking his head. âIt got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.â
Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.
You wonder what wouldâve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?
âI know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.â His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher whatâs happening to you except for yourself. âYou think youâre just this temporary thing, because you donât see yourself the way I do. Thatâs why youâre always bracing for things to fall apart.â
You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you canât in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.
In the blink of an eye, heâs holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.
âI canât seem to make sense of it. Iâve tried. But itâs been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.â You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. âIâm in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, youâd understand why youâre the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.â
You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life couldâve prepared you for this.
Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never wouldâve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.
The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once itâs dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.
He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.
A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.
âI got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I donât know when it started. Part of me thinks itâs always been there. Sometimes itâs quieter. Other times, itâs so loud I canât think straight. But Iâve never been able to shut it up completely.â
You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once itâs no longer useful. Clark doesnât pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what youâll say next.
âI never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said heâs publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself heâs not just doing it out of pityââ
His eyebrows lift, and he canât help but cut you off. Waitâreally? Heâs publishing it?â A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. âThatâs amazing!â
âThank you. I was planning on telling you, butâyou know.â Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. âThe thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I donât know if youâll think Iâm crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I canât control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.â
So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.
âI thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because youâd realized I wasnât worth the trouble. And maybe you just didnât know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have beenââ Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. âI canât get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought thatâs what you were doing.
Thereâs a pause, and his advice seems to be: âDonât trust your brain.â
âWhat do you meanââ
âDonât believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, Iâll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. Itâs not like I can spare you from those thoughtsâbelieve me, I wouldâve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isnât always right.â
Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where heâs hurt as you say, âShit, I love you so much.â
Itâs incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You donât know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. âSay that again.â
âI love you.â
âAgain. Please.â
You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths canât bear to part. âI. Love. You.â
He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if heâs afraid youâll float away. âPlease tell me your brainâs not saying anything right now.â
âItâs been surprisingly quiet.â
âThen letâs keep it that way.â
You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. Thereâs so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didnât one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.
Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didnât, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasnât into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.
But now, all patience shatters. Thereâs no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one youâve been pining for months, stands before you
He doesnât get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.
You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. âI want to do it. Tonight.â
âAre you sure? Because we could totallyââ
âClark, stop being such a gentleman.â You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.âIâd like you to touch me, then Iâd like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,â you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: âPlease.â
You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. âYeah. I can do that.â
Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesnât rush. Doesnât rip your clothes off or fall into clichĂŠ. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: âDoes the suit stay on?â
âWell, that depends,â he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. âDoes itâturn you on?â
A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. âItâs certainly doing the job.â
âSo first you write about Superman like a professional journalistâŚâ he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, â... and now you get wet for him?â
Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. âIâm sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?â
âI actually believe heâd very pleased, to be fair,â he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. âYou see, heâs a simple man. Safe to say heâd really like you.â
Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. âClark, Iââ
âIâll go slow.â He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. âDo you trust me?â You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. âThen relax. Iâve got you.â
You werenât a virgin, but heâs making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like youâre being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.
âTake them off,â you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. Itâs more of an instinct at this point.
He doesnât make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. âJesus,â he mutters, almost to himself. âYouâre gorgeous
Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like youâre going to blow up at any given moment.
He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. âYouâve got no idea how hot you look right now,â he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. âI want to see you come.â
âJustâkeep doing whatever youâre doing,â you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. âClark, Iâmâdonât you dare stop.â
Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.
âOh my GodâClarkââ You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. Itâs too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, youâre launched impossibly higher. Youâre a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.
âCome on, youâre almost there,â he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. âYouâre doing so good. Let go, baby.â
You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.
Youâre left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. âIââ you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. âJesus.â
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. âI came as well. Mentally.â
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. Youâre about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. âAre youââ
âItâd be stupid not to take the opportunity.â He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.
Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. âI can stop if you want me to,â he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.
âDonât want you to,â you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. âMake me feel good.â
Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.
âItâs tight in here,â he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way youâre squeezing him. âWeâll have to see if Iâll fit.â
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.
âGod, it feelsââ Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. âSo good, Clark. Youâre being so good to me.â
Itâs not that youâre just saying these things out of pocket. Youâve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him heâd done a great job.
His pupils would dilate a little, and heâd always shut you up with a kiss, but he canât right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.
âIf you make me come again, Iâll suck your cock,â you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You donât miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. âI canât wait to have you in my mouth,â you add, smiling through the haze.
âWhatâs got you this chatty, huh?â He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. âYou have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.â
Three of Clarkâs fingers stretch you out and you canât no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.
This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that canât stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.
When you tell him youâre close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. Heâs a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.
He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. Heâs been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, aboutâ
Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him itâs too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.
Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All thatâs left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.
Now that heâs bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.
By the time heâs lying back on the couch, youâve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like heâs trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.
You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.
He exhales like heâs in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertainâwas that too much?
âDo it again,â he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. âPlease⌠thatâJesus, that feels really good.â
And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.
The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until youâre jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.
Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. Thereâs nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when heâs chanting your name like a prayer, not when youâre dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else youâve ever heard.
At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that mightâve read as frustration if you didnât know better.
To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if heâs struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. Heâs holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.
âPerhapsââ His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. âPerhaps we should stop.â
You slow your pace but donât let go.
âI donât want to finish yet,â he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. âNot this fast. I want to last. I wantââ He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. âGod, I just want more time with you like this.
You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.
âBut canât Superman come twice?â you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. âItâs been a hard day.â
âBaby, I swearââ
âDidnât you save an entire hospital tonight?â you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. âKept it from collapsing?â
âYeah,â he grunts. âYeah, Iâyes.â
âThen you deserve it.â
âBut twice?â
âYou heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.â
Clark makes a sound thatâs somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.
âOh my God,â he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. âYou canât say things like that.â
âWhy not?â you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. âYouâre blushing.â
âIâm notââ he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. âI justâIâm so close.â
One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if heâs holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.
âYouâre unreal,â he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. âYou donâtâyou donât even know what you do to me. Youâre gonna be the death of me.â
Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.
âIâm sorryâbe careful, Iâm gonnaââ
He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.
Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isnât ideal for whatâs about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist youâre perfectly fine where you are.
In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like itâs the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.
Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.
His voice is low. âJust to be clear. Weâre not using aâŚ?â
âCondom?â
He nods, cheeks flushed. âYeah.â
âI told you you could come inside me.â
That stuns him into silence. âAre you sure? Want me toâgo buy some?â he manages, faltering a little.
âSome?â you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. âIâm on birth control,â you murmur.
He blinks, his Adamâs apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not youâre serious.
âI mean it. It wasnât for sexual purposes in the beginning. Iâve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortableââ
âWhat exactly makes you think I donât want this?â
âSay that to your face. Youâre looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.â
Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. âSo⌠weâre doing it. Like this.â
âYes.â
âBare.â
âWould you like to see my birth certificate?â
He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as heâs about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. âReady?â
âIâve been ready since we left the couch.â
âYou canât be joking when Iâm this close to being inside you.â
âClark,â you plead, lifting your hips. âPlease, justââ
He pushes in.
At first, itâs just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.
âEasy,â he grits out. âBe careful.â His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.
âTh-thatâsâfuckââ Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You canât even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. âClark, pleaseââ
âWait.â He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. âI need a second.â
âWant me to kiss you?â
He lifts his head slightly. âAre you the devil?â
You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. âWhat are you doing? Counting?â
âTo a million.â He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. âYouâre impossible sometimes,â he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. âJesus, youâre still so tight. I donât evenâI donât know how to move.â
A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. âYouâre so big.â
His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. âDonât say that,â he pants.
âWhy not?â
âBecauseââ he pulls back, just the head left inside, ââyouâre playing with fire.â And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. âI usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If thatâs okay with you.â
Itâs official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.
As if heâs learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.
Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.
He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadnât dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.
The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear youâre going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you canât quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
Itâs not rushed at all. Heâs learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.
âClark,â you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.
âI thought Iâd lost you,â he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.
The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.
You donât know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because heâs never looked so vulnerably human.
âYou didnât. Iâm right here. Iâm not going anywhere.â
His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.
Itâs like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.
His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs thisâneeds you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him youâre his. That you chose him. That youâre still here. That you're real.
Youâre close. So close that the precipice looms. âDonât stop,â you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
âI wonât. I wonâtââ His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. âYou feel so good. Youâre perfect. Canât believe youâre letting me do this to you.â
The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.
âIâClarkâIââ Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.
âCome on,â he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. âCome for me. I want to feel you.â
And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.
Itâs messy. Itâs beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.
He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. Youâre both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.
Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. âI didnât know it could feel like this,â he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.
You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. âMe neither,â you reply, contentment curling in your chest.
He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. Itâs the kind of silence that means everything.
Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but heâs already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.
âWant me to get a towel?â he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. âA wet one, ideally.â
You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. âOh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.â You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.
The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but itâs his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. âI just realized I donât exactly have a change of clothes on me.â
You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. âWell, I mean,â you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, âwe could always see how you look in my pajamas. Iâm sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be⌠form-fitting.â
âI don't think youâre ready for that sight.â He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. âCome on. Letâs get into bed.â
You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.
Thereâs a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.
âI love you,â you say again, the words unbidden.
A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. âYou know those people who use songs as their alarm?â
âWhat does that have to do with what I just said?â
âThey say you should always choose a song youâll never get tired of. I donât think Iâll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.â
âThat⌠was a weird route to get there.â
He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. âIâm just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And Iâd never get sick of it.â His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. âBy the way,â he says, his tone sounding hesitant, âI told my parents about you.â
You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. âWait. What?â
âIt was like a week ago.â
âWe werenât even speaking.â
He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. âI know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.â His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. âThey said theyâd really like to meet you someday.â
âSo, our first trip together is going to be⌠Kansas?â
âSmallville,â he corrects proudly. âWhat can I say? Iâm a traditional guy.â
âWell, to be a âtraditional guy,â you havenât even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.â
âOh. Right. I guess Iââ
âAre you going to?â
âIâwould you want to?â
You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. âYouâre such a dork.â
When you break apart, heâs smilingâreally smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.
âSo is that a yes?â
âYes, Clark. Iâll be your girlfriend.â
âOkay. Good. Because Iâm already very emotionally invested.â
At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that youâve let your guard down. Just stillness.
Maybe itâs true, what the wise ones say: youâre never too much in the hands of the right person.
Somehow, it feels even truer in his.
dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3
clark stops mid-sentence like whatever he was saying just leaves him halfway out of his mouth.
it felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs,
because your fingers brush his chest. light, careless, like it means nothing at all.
youâre fixing his tie.
itâs nothing really itâs simple, if anything itâs helpful.
but he still goes quiet anyways, he wants to scold himself, he can confront aliens that are about to destroy his life as he knows it but the moment this woman he met a couple months ago starts touching his tie of all things - his heart start beating like it was its last time beating at all.
because your hands are so close-too close in a way that doesnât feel logical but still feels real in his chest.
like you donât know what youâre doing to him.
âthere we go.â you say, leaning away from his warmth, your hands smooth over your skirt for a second like it was just another normal moment. a small smile finds your lips like you were content with you work
clark this its the cutest thing he's seen all day.
you act like you didnât just leave him standing there slightly different than he was before.
clark doesnât move.
you look up at him and his eyes meet yours for a second before flicking away again. his ears start to burn a bit and he hates that you can probably see it.
he keeps looking at your hands. like they did something to him.
âiâm sorry. i was just fixing your tie. it was crooked and i didnât want you walking into the presentation disheveled.â you shrug, looking innocent as if itâs nothing. like it shouldnât matter.
he blinks like he has to catch up to himself.
then shakes his head a little.
âno, itâs fine.â he says too quick, obviously flustered. then softer. âjust didnât expect it is all⌠thank you.â
his eyes finally meet yours properly but it doesnât help him.
with the way your looking at him, like you knew everything he was thinking and like you could see right through him.
god, your eyes were beautiful. he thinks heâd let you look straight through him all day if it meant he got to keep seeing them like this. by the end of it heâd probably be invisible. he doesnât think heâd care.
now heâs thinking about it too much.
about how something so small felt like too much. about how your fingers at his chest shouldnât feel like his heart was about to explode. about how he still feels it even after youâve stepped away.
and he doesnât say any of that he just stands there. trying to act normal and failing a little.
Marilyn Monroe photographed by Harold Lloyd, 1953.
Been thinking about how the new Superman movie did a really good job of giving Clark interests beyond âTruth, Justice, and a Better Tomorrow.â He likes pop punk rock. His favorite meal is breakfast for dinner. Clark does a little dance when he gets the front cover byline. He likes to doom-scroll. Unclear if heâs a dog guy. His girlfriend makes him hot cocoa when heâs sad. So often Superman in film has zero personality beyond tortured alien that must guide humanity. Giving him these small details made the character feel so much more real. He really is just a guy doing his best.
it makes him so much more relatable and obvi hes not human but hes just a guy :(((((((((( i love him

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âpotentially mature contentâ yeah thatâs my pervert friend i hope itâs mature content thatâs what i followed them for
DAVID CORENSWET Adventures in the Making of Superman (2025)
okay but david cornswet in glasses wasnt something i thought i needed until i watched superman. how is he ALWAYS so freaking handsome its not fair
being a girl is so much fun because one minute im laying in bed looking insane in an oversized t-shirt and then suddenly i open tumblr and now clark kent is obsessed with me and im the hottest girl alive
synopsis: A shared shower in a new apartment turns into something far less practical when Steve Harrington decides rules were made to be bent. What starts as playful banter quickly becomes a reminder of how deeply familiarâand irresistibleâlove can feel.
w/c: 1.7k
warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI, Older Steve Harrington, Established Relationship, porn with a teeny bit of plot, Shower Scene, Suggestive / Mature Themes, Flirting & Teasing, Domestic Intimacy, Soft Humor
You shouldâve known letting Steve Harrington into the shower would never stay innocent.
The apartment still smells new.
Not clean, exactlyâmore like cardboard boxes and fresh paint and the faint citrus cleaner you bought because it felt like something an adult would own. The bathroom is the warmest room in the place, steam already curling out into the hallway, fogging the mirror you havenât hung yet.
Youâre mid-shower, hair slicked back, eyes closed, letting the water do its thing when you hear itâ
A knock. Then the door creaks open without waiting for permission.
âYâknow,â Steveâs voice drifts in, smug and familiar, âstatistically speaking, shared showers cut water usage in half.â
You donât even turn around. âYou just made that up.â
âDid not,â he says, offended. âI read it. Somewhere.â
âOn a cereal box?â
He laughs, that easy, low sound that carries through the steam. You hear him lean against the doorframe. You picture him there without lookingâolder Steve, comfortable, barefoot, probably wearing the T-shirt he slept in because you havenât unpacked the dresser yet.
âIâm just saying,â he continues, âweâre adults now. Utilities cost money. Very responsible of me to care.â
You snort. âYou left every light on in the living room.â
âThat was for ambiance.â
You finally glance toward the curtain, the shadow of him distorted through the fogged glass. âYouâre not coming in for the water. Youâre coming in because youâre nosy.â
âIncorrect,â Steve says. âIâm coming in because this is our shower now, and I feel entitled to complain about how long youâre taking.â
Thereâs the soft slide of the curtain rings, just enough to make your pulse kick. He doesnât pull it back all the wayâjust peeks in, steam curling around his face, hair already doing that thing it does when thereâs humidity involved.
He pauses.
âWow,â he says, quieter now. âOkay. I forgot how⌠steamy this gets.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling. âGet out, Harrington.â
âCanât,â he says easily. âAlready committed to the bit.â
He steps closerânot under the water, not touchingâjust close enough that you feel him there, the warmth of him mixing with the heat of the shower, the space suddenly smaller in a way that feels intentional.
âYou know,â he adds, softer, teasing but fond, âfirst apartment together. First fight over water usage. Feels kind of⌠big.â
You tilt your head, meeting his eyes through the haze. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He grins. âYeah. But you moved in with me anyway.â
For a second, neither of you jokes.
The water keeps running. The apartment creaks. The world feels very small and very good.
âOkay,â you say finally. âYou can stay.â
Steveâs smile turns slower. Warmer.
âKnew youâd see reason.â Steve says, like he hasnât been waiting for permission since the moment he opened the door.
He stays where he is for a second, thoughâoutside the spray, arms crossed, expression carefully casual. Like this is just a normal conversation people have while one of them is very much naked and the other is⌠pretending not to notice.
âIâm not actually getting in,â he adds quickly. Too quickly. âJustâstanding. Talking. Supporting.â
âSupporting what?â you ask.
âWater conservation,â he says, immediately. âMoral support. Emotional support. I can do that clothed.â
You raise an eyebrow. He sees it. Sighs.
âOkay,â he says, holding his hands up. âMaybe not clothed. But thatâs just becauseââ he gestures vaguely to the fogged bathroom, the steam, the heat, ââthis apartment has, like, zero ventilation. Iâm already sweating.â
He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, pauses, glances at you. âYou donât mind, right?â
You give a noncommittal hum and turn back toward the water, very pointedly not watching.
Steve grins anyway.
The shirt comes off first. You hear the soft thump as it hits the counter. Then his socksâone, then the otherâfollowed by the quiet jingle of his belt buckle. Heâs narrating just enough to pretend this is practical.
âJust gonnaâuhâput these here,â he mutters. âSo they donât get wet. Responsible. See?â
You feel him move closer, still not touching, still not under the spray. The air shifts. Warmer somehow.
âYou know,â you say lightly, âmost people donât undress this thoroughly for a conversation.â
âMost people donât live with someone who takes thirty-minute showers,â he shoots back.
You laugh, and thatâs when he finally steps inâjust barely. Not fully under the water, just close enough that stray droplets hit his shoulder, his arm. He exhales like the warmth surprises him.
âOh. Wow. Okay. Yeah, thatâsâhot.â
âSteve.â
âWhat?â he says, all innocence. âI meant the water.â
He turns toward you then, eyes soft, smile familiar and fond. Thereâs something different about him like thisâolder, settled, standing barefoot in a shared bathroom in an apartment you picked together. No rush. No urgency. Just⌠here.
âThis is kinda nice,â he admits quietly. âFeels official. Like⌠weâre really doing this.â
You glance at him through the steam. âStanding in the shower arguing about utilities?â
âLiving together,â he corrects, bumping your arm gently with his. âThe arguing is just a bonus.â
For a second, he doesnât joke.
He reaches out, fingers brushing your wristâlight, testing, like heâs still pretending he doesnât know exactly what heâs doing.
âRelax,â he murmurs, lips twitching. âI told you. No intentions.â
You snort. âLiar.â
He smiles wider. âOkay. Maybe just⌠flexible intentions.â
The water keeps running. The steam thickens. And Steve Harrington, soaking wet and pretending this is all very innocent, stays right where he is.
You turn toward the back of the shower, searching for the new body wash you just bought. You squeeze some onto your loofah, working it into a thick lather, deliberately taking your time.
âYou know,â you say lightly, glancing over your shoulder, âif youâd waited about five more minutes, you could be taking a peaceful shower all by yourselfâwithout complaining about the temperature.â
You smirk when you catch him watching you, his attention very obviously not on the water.
âWhatâs the fun in that?â he murmurs.
You start to soap up, slow and unhurried. When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, heat creeps up your cheeks, a bashful smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
âCome on, Steve,â you say, looking away as the water cascades down your back. âNo need to pretend youâre innocent.â
He hums softly. âYou just make it really hard not to tease you.â
His hands finally come to your waistâcool from not being under the water as long. The contrast sends a shiver through you before you can stop it.
Your lips meet slowly, the kiss unhurried, almost exploratory. His are soft, but thereâs intention thereâalways is. The familiar shiver runs up your spine, butterflies flooding your stomach as warmth pools low in your body.
âSteveâŚâ you murmur when you pull back, breath uneven, suddenly very aware of how close he isâof how much closer heâs getting.
âGod,â he exhales, voice rougher now. âI canât take this any longer.â
Before you can respond, he lifts you effortlessly. You let out a startled yelp, instinctively clutching at him, a flash of worry slipping through the haze.
âSteve!â you scold, surprise sharp in your voice.
He grins, cocky and reassuring all at once. âWhatâdo you really think Iâd ever drop you?â
His hands are firm on your thighs, steady, grounding, even as the cool tile presses against your back and your senses threaten to overload. His smirk softens just a touch as he looks at you, like he knows exactly what heâs doing.
And worseâlike he knows youâre not going to stop him.
Your lips meet again, more hurried nowâdesperate, like thereâs no time to make up for being apart any longer.
The thought of utilities flickers briefly through your mind, and you canât help muttering, âDonât you think we should take this to the bedâyâknow, because the waterââ
He cuts you off instantly.
âToo late to worry about silly things like that, sweetheart,â he murmurs against your mouth. âYouâre not going anywhere.â
You donât get the chance to argue. His lips find yours again, and your breath catches as you feel how close he is, the teasing finally giving way to something heavier as he pushes himself inside of you.
âOh god⌠please, Steve,â you breathe, any remaining façade dissolving the moment you realize thereâs no more space for restraintâonly need.
He moves slowly, deliberately, but with unmistakable intention. The sensation steals the air from your lungs, filling a place that feels achingly familiar, like something that had been missing finally settling back where it belongs.
Steve exhales softly, almost a sigh of relief, pausing for just a secondâeyes closed, mouth partedâas if he feels that same sense of completion.
âYou have no idea how much I love this,â he murmurs, voice low. âLove you.â
When he starts to move, the angle is awkward for only a moment before he adjustsâinstinctively finding what makes your breath stutter, your voice falter as pressure builds faster than you expect.
âOh, Steve⌠you feel so good,â you manage, the words breaking as his pace picks upânot frantic, just steady enough that the pleasure stops coming in waves and becomes constant.
âYouâre so perfectâyour hair, your lips, yourâoh godââ
Steve canât finish the thought, pleasure overtaking him as his breath stutters, eyes darkening with it.
âI donâtââ he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. âI donât know how much longer I can take this. You feel too good. Way too good.â
His breaths come in short puffs as his gaze flicks between your face and where your pussy is gripping himp, and thatâs what finally does him in. His eyes squeeze shut.
âMâcoming,â he warns softly, voice breaking.
âPlease,â you murmur, fingers threading through his hair as you gently tilt his head back, meeting his mouth in a heated, open kiss. âCome for me, baby.â
Thatâs all it takes.
Steve exhales a low, strained sound as he slows, holding you close, everything in him softening as the moment passes. He stays there for a beat, forehead resting against yours, breath still uneven.
Then, as the fog clears, he huffs out a quiet laugh.
âSo,â he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheek, âguess weâre definitely blowing the water bill this month.â
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
âWorth it,â you whisper.
He grins, pulling you closer. âAlways is with you.â
summary: A quiet night at home turns unexpectedly warm when playful teasing and soft words spark between Steve and you. Tension lingers just long enough and between laughter, small touches, and shared moments, you two discover the comfort of being together.
warnings: adult!Steve, post season 5, fluff, a teeny bit of angst, cuteness
an: iâm not sure if i love this but i wanted to post something because older Steve has been on my mind.
The lock turns softer than it used to.
Steve eases the door shut behind him, careful with it like sound itself might bruise if heâs not gentle. The house is dark except for the small lamp by the couch, the one you always forget to turn off. It throws a warm, uneven glow across the living room, catching dust in the air, the edge of the coffee table, the curve of your shoulder.
Youâre half asleep.
Not fullyâyour legs are tucked under you in a way that says you meant to get up eventually. A blanket is pulled to your waist, one arm slack at your side, fingers still curled like you dropped something and never went back for it. The TV hums low, some late-night rerun flickering light across your face.
Steve doesnât move for a second.
He stands there with his keys still in his hand, jacket half unzipped, work clinging to him in quiet waysâtired feet, a dull ache in his shoulders, the kind of exhaustion that comes from hours adding up instead of anything going wrong.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No sirens.
No blood.
No end-of-the-world feeling pressing at the base of his skull.
Just⌠life.
He watches your chest rise and fall, slow and even, and something in him loosens. It surprises him every time how this feels heavier than fear ever did. How coming home to you makes his throat tighten more than any near miss ever has.
You stir when he finally steps further inside, the floorboard giving a familiar, traitorous creak.
âSteve?â Your voice is rough with sleep, eyes blinking open, unfocused at first. Then they find him. They always do.
âHey,â he says quietly, like the word itself might wake you more than he wants to.
âYouâre late,â you murmurânot accusing. Just noticing.
âYeah.â He shrugs out of his jacket, drapes it over the chair without thinking. âGot stuck in a meeting . Lost track of time.â
You hum, the sound soft, accepting. You shift, sitting up a little, blanket slipping. He crosses the room before you can tug it back into place, instinctive, kneeling to pull it up around you.
âDid you eat?â you ask.
Steve pauses. Smiles a little.
âNot really.â
You reach for him thenâjust his sleeve, just enough to anchor himâand he realizes, standing there in socked feet, in a house that smells faintly like laundry soap and whatever you burned for dinner earlier, that this is it.
This is the place he comes back to.
And for the first time in his life, the thought doesnât scare him.
You slowly sit up and stretch, the weight of sleep still hanging in your voice as you speak.
âI made some grilled chicken⌠if you want some. i made sure to wait for youâ
Steve chuckles, the sound soft and low, remembering the faint smell of something slightly burnt earlier. He leans against the counter, hands in his pockets, tilting his head at you like heâs trying to read you without words.
âDid you⌠manage to cook it all the way through?â he asks, playful but cautious.
Your eyes snap up to his. âExcuse me?â A flicker of confusion crosses your face. You know you charred it a little, but⌠how did he know?
âYes,â you say, voice tight with the sarcasm you canât quite hide. âI made sure it was cooked all the way through.â
He laughs, that easy laugh that makes the back of your throat tingle. And you squint at him, trying to figure out if heâs teasing or genuinely worried. It doesnât matterâyou still feel your cheeks warm.
Steve moves toward the fridge, the light spilling across the kitchen floor, throwing shadows over the tiny imperfections of the apartmentâthe stack of mail you havenât touched, the coffee mug with lipstick on the rim. You glance at the clock while he digs around for a plate.
âOh⌠wow. You really did stay late,â you say, the words more pointed than you mean.
He looks over his shoulder, a shrug that tries to seem casual but doesnât quite reach his eyes. âYeah. Meetings ran long. You know how it is.â
You hum, forcing the sound to be light, but your shoulders tighten. You start setting the table, fingers brushing crumbs off the edge with a little more force than necessary. He watches.
âHey⌠whatâs wrong?â he asks, finally, voice careful, gentle.
âNothing,â you lie at first, looking down at the table. But Steve knows you better than that. He sees the tension in the way your hands move, how your back stiffens just slightly, and he kneels beside you, resting a hand over yours.
âCome on,â he says softly. âTalk to me.â
You sigh, the sound small and tired. âItâs just⌠youâve been working so much lately. And you stay late, and Iâm happy for you. I really am⌠but sometimes it feels like I donât get a piece of your day anymore. I donât know, like maybe youâre moving through your life and Iâm just⌠here, waiting.â
Steve freezes. Not because heâs defensive, but because he realizes heâs never thought about it like that. He glances down at the chicken sitting on the counter, half-charred, and then back at you. âI⌠I didnât think youâd feel that way. I thought as long as Iâm home eventually, that counts. But I see now⌠it doesnât. Iâm sorry.â
You tilt your head, letting the words hang between you. âReally?â
âReally,â he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. âYouâre the first thing I think about in the morning, and the last thing at night. And I⌠I never want you to feel like youâre waiting for me. Not like that.â
The tension in your chest softens. You canât help the small laugh that slips out. âYouâre lucky I like burnt chicken.â
He grins, leaning closer, and presses a quick kiss to your temple. âYeah⌠lucky,â he murmurs.
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. âYou always know how to make me feel both mad and charmed at the same time.â
âNot trying to,â he says, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. âIt just⌠happens.â
You pick up your fork, still feeling the weight of the day, still feeling the tired ache of waiting, but lighter now. âWell⌠I guess we can eat then,â you say, trying to keep the teasing edge.
Steve nudges you gently. âYou know, I think the chicken tastes better when you made it.â
âOh really?â you ask, raising an eyebrow.
âYeah,â he says, grinning, eyes soft. âBecause you made it. And thatâs⌠more important than any perfect grill marks.â
You let yourself lean against him, shoulders touching as you sit at the table together. The hum of the fridge, the faint smell of dinner, the quiet light from the lampâitâs imperfect. But so are you, and so is Steve, and somehow, that makes it perfect.
He reaches across, brushing your hand again. âIâll try⌠not to make you wait for me so much,â he says, voice low, earnest.
âDeal,â you whisper, leaning into him. âBut only if you mean it.â
âI do,â he murmurs, tilting his head down to press a soft kiss to your hair.
And just like that, the world outside doesnât matter. The late meetings, the burnt chicken, the chaos of everythingânone of it touches you here. Just you, him, and the warmth of home you built together, one small moment at a time.

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Signed, âS.
chapter, 3/7 - Flicker
summary: After a terrifying encounter in a dark alley, the reader is saved by Supermanâan overwhelming and intimate moment that leaves her shaken, grateful, and more confused than ever. Back at the Daily Planet, her coworkers treat the incident like a sensational story, teasing her about the mysterious letters and speculating about Supermanâs interest, but only Clark seems to truly see her.
warnings: Brief mugging scene (non-graphic, but includes threat and fear), Mild violence, Emotional distress, use of Y/N
work count: 4.2k
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt 5, pt. 6, pt. 7
You donât remember the scream.
Not yours. Not his. Not anyoneâs.
What you remember is the snap of your heel against wet concrete. The silence that came before it â wrong, thick, unnatural. Like the city had sucked all the sound out of the alley and held its breath.
You hadnât meant to walk home this way. Just a shortcut. Just a quiet block. Just five minutes less in the rain.
Your bag was heavy on your shoulder, a little too full â with your notes, your wallet, the crumpled letter you still hadnât responded to.
Youâd only half-heard the footsteps at first. Dismissed them. A pedestrian. A late-night jogger. Maybe someone else taking the shortcut.
But then they sped up.
Fast. Direct. No hesitation.
And before your brain could name it â fear bloomed in your chest like something ancient.
You turned.
A man. Hood low. Knife already drawn.
The alley was empty but for him. And you. And the seconds you could already feel slipping away.
Your fingers tightened around your bag strap. Your breath caught. You opened your mouth â to yell? To plead? To scream?
"Whatâs a lady like you doinâ in this part of town, huh?â
The voice slithered out of the shadows behind you, too casual to be harmless. It echoed through the narrow alleyway, bouncing off brick and broken glass, curling through the cold like smoke.
You didnât turn around. Didnât answer.
Your pulse thundered in your ears, louder than the rain tapping against your coat.
Keep walking.
You clutched your bag tighter, eyes forward, steps faster. You could feel the tension coil in your gut â the kind that knew danger long before your brain caught up.
This isnât happening. No. No, you wonât let it. You canât.
You sped up, ignoring the voice calling after you, hoping if you just made it to the mouth of the alley â just another ten, twenty steps â youâd be safe. Someone would see you. Someone would hear you.
But then â Footsteps.
Heavy. Purposeful.
Thudding against the wet pavement behind you. Long, measured strides. A predatorâs pace.
Heâs following you.
You broke into a run. Panic surged like electricity through your veins, sharp and sickening. Your lungs burned, your hands trembled, your legs moved on instinct.
Rain soaked your clothes. Your bag bounced against your hip.
Almost there â Almost to the light of the street â
Then â Impact.
His body slammed into you from behind, knocking the breath from your lungs.
You hit the ground hard. The wet pavement scraped your chin, and your mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood where your teeth had bitten into your lip.
You gasped. Choked.
Then screamed.
But the sound was swallowed by the storm. Just wind and rain and the hollow slap of footsteps.
He was on top of you, dragging your bag from your shoulder with a grunt. His weight pinned you down, hands scrabbling. You twisted beneath him, trying to kick, to push, to scream again â
âStopâstopâget offâ!â
He caught your wrists in one hand and shoved your face harder into the pavement.
The smell of gasoline. Wet cardboard. Rotting food from a nearby dumpster.
âDonât make this harder than it has to be,â he growled near your ear. âNo oneâs cominâ to save you, sweetheart. You might as well give up.â
There was a smile in his voice. That cruel, satisfied kind â the kind of smile you felt.
Your stomach twisted.
And then â you fought.
You flung your head backward, hard, and felt the crunch of his nose beneath your skull.
He shouted â surprised, angry. The grip on your wrists loosened just enough.
But then â
Cold steel pressed against your throat.
You froze.
Your breath caught mid-sob. The blade didnât cut, not yet, but it didnât need to. It was a promise. A warning.
âTry that again,â he hissed, voice no longer smiling. âI dare you.â
Tears blurred your vision. You went still.
He rummaged through your bag now â shaking, cursing, still recovering from the blow. You heard your wallet unzip. Heard bills being pulled out and stuffed into his pocket.
Then â a soft thud.
Your wallet. The one your mom gave you two birthdays ago. Pale blue with little sunflowers on it.
Was that the last birthday youâd ever spend with her?
The sob that came next was guttural.
âWhatâs this?â he muttered. Paper rustled. âA letter?â
You stiffened.
No. Noâ
It was his letter. The one you printed before work.
You hadnât even folded it yet.
âAww, someoneâs got a secret admirer,â he said with a dry laugh. âThatâs cute.â
âThatâs too bad.â His voice dropped, voice crawling with venom.
âGet off me, you fucker!â you shrieked, twisting under him again, tears streaming hot down your cheeks despite the cold.
But he was stronger. Bigger. And now, armed.
âBitch,â he growled, knife pressing tighter to your skin. âIf you donât shut up, Iâm gonnaââ
The words stopped.
Suddenly.
Cut off by a grunt, like heâd been yanked backward by some unseen force.
Then a scream â his scream â ragged and shocked.
His weight disappeared.
Gone.
Just gone.
You gasped, breath rushing into your lungs like a flood.
You rolled onto your back, blinking through the rain, trying to make sense of what just happened â
And then you saw him.
The man holding your attacker aloft â effortlessly â by the collar of his jacket.
And in that moment, the world stopped.
Because it wasnât just anyone.
It was him.
Superman.
In the flesh. Towering and terrifying and impossible â but the look in his eyes wasnât distant or dangerous.
It was soft. Worried.
He looked at you.
Not the rain, not the man â you.
The man in his grip squirmed, kicking wildly, until Superman dropped him to the ground without ceremony.
âIf I see your face again,â he said, voice like thunder, calm and cold, âa jail cell wonât be the only thing you have to worry about.â
Your attacker scrambled away, slipping and stumbling over himself in his hurry to escape. He disappeared into the rain without another word.
Then â silence.
Only the rain. Only the soft rush of breath from your lips. Only the ache of everything.
You sat there, soaked to the bone, your hands trembling in your lap, staring at the godlike figure now crouched beside you.
His cape fluttered in the wind. Water slid down his jaw, his brow furrowed with quiet concern.
He opened his mouth. Then paused.
âAre you alright, Y/â err, miss?â
You didnât even register the slip.
You just stared at him, eyes wide.
Then nodded.
Once.
Barely.
He reached out and gently helped you to your feet, his grip warm despite the storm. He kept his hand on your elbow for a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.
âThank you,â you whispered, your voice hoarse and shaking.
He offered a small nod. And a smile â soft, fleeting.
Then he lifted into the sky, cape catching on the wind. A streak of red and gold vanishing into the clouds.
You stood there alone for a moment longer.
And then â the world rushed back in.
The cold. The sound. The weight of it all.
You stumbled home in a daze.
Unlocked your door. Shut it behind you.
Leaned against it with your head tilted back, breath ragged.
And finally whispered to yourself â
âGoddammit⌠I didnât even ask him for an interview.â
--
The booth was too small, too warm, and the light overhead buzzed faintly, like it knew something you didnât.
You sat squished between Clark and the window, the glass still beaded with leftover rain. His shoulder was broad and unmoving beside you â a silent presence, heavy with something you couldnât name.
Across from you, Lois was tearing a packet of mustard like it had personally wronged her, and Jimmy was halfway through a bacon burger, his fingers already stained with grease.
âOkay,â Lois said, finally. âWalk me through it again.â
You poked at the soggy corner of your fries. âI already did.â
âHumor me.â
You sighed. âIt was dark. It was raining. I took a shortcut. Bad idea. He followed meââ You swallowed hard. âI tried to run. He caught up.â
Clarkâs hand was motionless on the table, fingers curled tight.
Jimmy leaned forward. âAnd then Superman justâbamâshows up?â
âYeah.â
âClarkâs gotten more interviews with him than anyone at the Planet,â Jimmy cut in, licking salt from his thumb. âMaybe heâs passing along tips.â
Clark gave a half-smile that didnât reach his eyes. âI wouldnât say tips.â
âOh, come on, Smallville,â Lois said, smirking now. âYouâve got the guy on speed dial or something. You get exclusives nobody else can touch. He trusts you.â
Clark said nothing. Just shifted in his seat beside you.
You could feel the tension in him like a wire pulled tight.
Jimmy pointed at you with a fry. âYou didnât ask for a quote last night?â
âI was kind of busy getting my face slammed into concrete,â you muttered.
Lois popped a fry into her mouth. âStill. Youâve got a column. You couldâve milked it.â
âI didnât think of it, Lois. I was justââ You stopped. âScared.â
That quieted the table for a beat.
Clark finally spoke, voice low and strained: âYou didnât need to think about work.â
You glanced over. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, brow furrowed just slightly behind the glasses. He wasnât looking at you. He was staring down at the tray like it had done something wrong.
Lois, never one to let things stay soft for long, nudged the mood again. âStill wild though. You and Superman. You should write a piece about itââSaved by an Alien: My Night with the Man of Steel.ââ
Jimmy grinned. âBet itâd go viral. Especially if you include the letters.â
Your stomach dropped. âWhat letters?â
âOh, come on,â Jimmy said, laughing. âEveryone knows youâve got a thing with that anonymous âS.â guy.â
âItâs not a thing,â you said too fast.
Clarkâs thigh tensed beside yours.
Lois raised an eyebrow. âItâs been what, two months? Letters every week? Sounds like a thing.â She leaned forward, chin in hand. âYou ever wonder if itâs him?â
You stared. âWho?â
âSuperman.â
You almost choked on your soda.
Jimmy laughed. âThat would be nuts. But I mean⌠he did know all of a sudden when you were in troubleâ
Lois nodded thoughtfully. âAnd Clark does get all the best interviews with him.â
âI donât think Superman has time to write letters,â you said, cheeks burning.
âPlease,â Lois scoffed. âThat man floats over Metropolis like a lost poet half the night. You think heâs not a little lonely?â
Clark shifted again. His knee brushed yours and didnât move away.
You couldnât look at him.
Jimmy sipped his shake. âBet he reads your column.â
You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. âSure. Superman reads the classifieds and clips the advice section.â
âWhy not?â Lois said. âMaybe heâs in love.â
Silence.
Clark stood abruptly, tray in hand. âIâm gonna take this to the trash.â
You watched him go, heart in your throat, and you didnât know if it was the adrenaline, the diner heat, or something deeper that made your chest ache when he walked away without looking back.
âListen, it was all coincidence. Why would Superman be worrying about a girl right now?â you said, trying not to sound too defensive. âHe has all of Metropolis to protectâand some cheesy letters doesn't seem like his style.â
You laughed once, too sharp, trying to brush it off before it stuck in your chest.
âSuperman, writing me? A small-time columnist who can barely get a coffee order right? That manâs got aliens to fight and space stations falling out of the sky. He doesnât have time for⌠poetry.â
You shook your head, trying to let it go, but your words hovered heavy between bites of cold fries and cooling tension.
Clark came back then, sliding into the booth beside you with that quiet presence of his. The air shifted. You knew heâd heard youâhe always did.
He set his coffee down, watching the steam for a moment before speaking.
âMaybe he does,â Clark said softly.
You blinked.
He kept his gaze steady on the tabletop, voice quiet but certain. âMaybe someone like that needs something simple now and then. Something human. Something that reminds him what itâs all for.â
His words hung in the air longer than they shouldâve, like theyâd been meant for someone else.
You looked at him then, really lookedâhow his brows drew together, how his fingers worried at the rim of the coffee cup like he wasnât sure if heâd said too much.
Lois raised an eyebrow, but didnât say anything.
Jimmyâs phone buzzed and he reached for it, distracted.
But you⌠you were still staring at Clark.
And he still wasnât looking at you.
âClark?â
Your voice cut through the soft hum of lunchtime chatter. There was a flickerâjust a secondâwhere something in his gaze faltered. A flash of fear, maybe. Vulnerability. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by his usual calm, but youâd caught it.
âYeah?â he said, lowering his gaze to his hands folded neatly on the table.
You hesitated, the words sticky in your throat.
âDo youâŚâ you began, voice quieter now, as though the table had grown too big between you. âDo you think you could arrange an interview with Superman for me?â
You leaned in slightly, hoping to meet his eyes again.
Clark glanced up, just barelyâhis chin stayed tucked, but his gaze lifted, uncertain and trembling at the edges. Like he was bracing for something. Like he already wanted to say no, and hated himself for it.
His fingers curled tighter around his coffee cup.
Jimmy looked up from his phone, oblivious to the tension bleeding between the two of you.
âOhhh, thatâll be interesting,â he said, grinning. âAre you gonna thank him in person or hit him with the mystery letter reveal? âDear Sâ meets Pulitzer-worthy scoopâIâm here for it.â
Clarkâs shoulders tensed, the muscle in his jaw ticking once.
âI donât know if heâll say yesâŚâ he said quietly, almost apologetically.
Your stomach dropped. Just a little. Enough to make you look down at your hands in your lap, hiding the disappointment blooming too fast.
But thenâClark paused.
He glanced at you again. Really looked this time.
Saw the flicker of hope dimming in your expression.
And something in him cracked.
âButâŚâ he added softly, âIâm sure it doesnât hurt to ask.â
You lit up like the sun had broken through the clouds.
âOhâClark, thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me.â Your excitement was radiant, warm and unfiltered. Without even thinking, you reached out, wrapping your arms around his broad frame in a quick, grateful hug.
He went stiffâjust for a secondâand then slowly relaxed into it, caught in the scent of your shampoo, the warmth of you pressed briefly against him.
And just like that, it was over.
You turned back to the table, already chattering. âOkay, waitâguys, what do I even ask him? Like, where do I start?â
Lois leaned in, Jimmy threw out a handful of half-serious suggestions, and the conversation took off again.
But Clark barely heard them.
His cheeks were warmâburning, if he was honestâand his heart hadnât quite settled.
Youâd hugged him.
You had hugged him.
And if heâd known all it would take was promising you an interview with himself?
He would've flown you to the Fortress of Solitude yesterday.
--
The newsroom had settled into its usual hum â the lull between headlines, the sound of stories being stitched together in real time.
You tried to focus.
Emails blinked unanswered on your screen, and your cursor hovered uselessly over a blank document. The chatter of the office faded into static as your thoughts wandered back to lunch â to Clarkâs voice, soft and hesitant as he agreed to try. To the fluttering rush of hope that had ignited somewhere just under your ribs.
You were going to interview Superman.
And somehow, that fact alone made everything feel⌠heavier. Sharper. Like the world had tilted just a degree to the left, and no one else had noticed.
"Hey."
You looked up.
Lois stood beside your desk, coffee in hand, hip cocked against the corner of your filing cabinet like sheâd been standing there for longer than a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable â not teasing, not disapproving, just... watching.
You straightened. âHey. Whatâs up?â
She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes still locked on you.
âI heard about the interview,â she said finally, voice low and even.
You nodded once, trying not to look too eager. âClark said heâd ask. I mean, itâs probably a long shot, butâŚâ
Lois didnât answer right away. She just stared at you for a moment â not judging, not exactly â just... weighing.
âYouâre good at your job,â she said finally. âSmart. Sharp. You ask the right questions, and you donât back down.â
The compliment landed strangely â more anchor than praise.
You blinked. âThanksâŚ?â
Loisâs voice dropped a little lower.
âSo just do me one favor.â
You nodded slowly.
âBe careful what kind of story youâre writing here.â
Your chest tightened, confused. âYou mean the piece about Superman?â
She held your gaze. âI mean the one that hasnât hit the page yet.â
You didnât know what to say.
Lois pushed off the edge of your cabinet and started to walk away, but not before tossing one last glance over her shoulder â all steel and softness, in the way only Lois Lane could pull off.
âDonât go digging so deep that you forget how to come back up.â
And then she was gone â swallowed by the hum of the bullpen, leaving you with the steady ringing in your ears and the dull ache of something unnamed blooming in your chest.
Clark hadnât meant to linger.
Heâd only come to refill his coffee â thatâs what he told himself, anyway â but when he heard Loisâs voice, low and edged with something sharper than concern, heâd paused just outside the bullpenâs column of windows, out of sight.
He watched her walk away.
And then he looked at you.
You were still sitting there, frozen in your chair, eyes fixed on the screen in front of you like it might explain what the hell that was. You looked... rattled. Not afraid. Just like someone whoâd been warned before realizing there was danger to begin with.
Clarkâs hand tightened around the coffee cup.
He hadnât told Lois. Not exactly. But sheâd always been perceptive â painfully so. And she knew what it looked like when he started to orbit someone too closely.
Clark looked at you now â the soft tension in your shoulders, the slight furrow in your brow, the hopeful weight you carried like a secret under your skin.
His chest ached.
He hadnât meant for it to go this far. He never did.
But he couldnât pull away, either.
Not when you looked at him like that. Not when the idea of you being close â even just to him as Superman â made the world feel a little less unbearable.
He took one step back, into the shadows of the hallway.
Then another.
Out of sight. Out of reach.
Where he belonged.
--
The office has thinned out.
Lights dimmed to conserve energy. Monitors black. Coffee cold.
Outside, the city pulses under a curtain of soft rain. The glass windows are streaked with water, and somewhere distant, the wail of a siren fades into the dark.
You rub the heel of your palm into your eye. Youâve read the same sentence three times now, and it still doesnât make sense.
The adrenaline wore off hours ago.
Now itâs just the ache. The come-down. The way your chest gets tight when you think about that manâs hand grabbing your arm, the press of the alley ground at your front, the breath you couldnât catchâ The helplessness.
You exhale. Shut your laptop. It clicks closed too loud in the quiet room.
You reach for your bag, slinging it over one shoulderâ âbut your wrist bends funny. A stab of pain shoots through the joint, and you hiss, flinching on instinct.
âYou okay?â
You jump.
Clark stands a few feet away, jacket folded over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looks rumpled. Tired. Like he stayed longer than he meant to.
Maybe he did.
âI didnât mean to scare you,â he says quickly, hands lifting slightly in that gentle way of his, voice low and warm.
You breathe out. âItâs okay. I didnât think anyone was still here.â
âI was finishing something.â He gestures vaguely at his desk, then glances at your wrist. âThat looked like it hurt.â
You hesitate. Your fingers automatically pull your sleeve down. Cover it.
âItâs fine,â you say, quietly. A beat. âJust⌠tender.â
Clark doesnât press. But he doesnât look away, either.
His eyes find yoursâhesitant, softâand for a second, itâs unbearable how kind they are. How much they see.
âI heard them earlier,â he says, even softer now. âLois, Jimmy⌠Perry. How they talked about it.â
Your gaze drops. Shame flushes behind your ribs. You know how they saw it. A story. A scoop. A headline.
Not you.
âThey didnât mean any harm,â you murmur, defending them. âThey were just trying to make light of it.â
âI know,â Clark says. He shifts his weight, his voice carrying something quieter now. âBut I saw the way you looked when they laughed. Like you were somewhere else.â
You feel it againâthe cold. The hand on your arm. The wall against your spine. The way your breath caught in your throat and refused to move.
âI keep telling myself Iâm overreacting,â you admit. âThat it wasnât that bad. That it couldâve been worse, and I was lucky.â
Clarkâs brows pull together. âThat doesnât mean it didnât scare you.â
Your throat tightens.
He sees you. Not just the version that shows up to work or writes pretty words in columns or fakes a smile in the bullpen.
He sees you.
âI keep thinkingâŚâ you trail off. âIf Superman hadnât been thereâŚâ
Clarkâs expression shifts. Something flickers across itâgrief? Regret? Itâs gone before you can place it.
âYou shouldnât have had to think about that,â he says. âYou shouldnât have been there alone.â
You nod. Slowly. A bitter little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
âI was just walking home.â
Another silence.
You glance at him. âWhy are you still here, Clark?â
He looks almost caught off guard by the question. Then, with a small shrug:
âI didnât want to leave before you did.â
The words hit you square in the chest. Simple. Honest.
You blink. Your voice drops. âWhy?â
He looks down. Then back at you. And for a breathless secondâ you see it in his face. Not pity. Not guilt.
Care.
Like heâs been carrying something all day and only just let it show.
âBecause everyone else saw the story,â he says. âAnd I saw you.â
You donât know what to say to that. So you donât say anything.
The silence stretches. Itâs not heavy. Itâs soft. Safe.
Your bag strap is digging into your shoulder, but you donât move. Youâre afraid if you do, something in the moment will break.
Clark steps a little closer.
âIf you ever want to talk,â he says, voice even lower now. âNot for the paper. Not for your column. Just for youâIâm here.â
You stare at him. Then:
âThank you.â
He nods, but doesnât smile. Just watches you, like thereâs something he still wants to say but canât. Like thereâs something aching in his chest that hasnât found a way out yet.
You hesitate, then reach for your umbrellaâ âand your fingers brush his.
The touch is accidental. Brief. But it lingers.
Clarkâs breath hitches. Your heart stutters. Neither of you moves.
Your breath catches. So does his.
âI should get going,â you whisper, finally.
He nods once, but thenâ just as you turnâ his voice stops you.
âWaitâuhâcan I walk you?â
You blink, surprised. âWhat?â
Clark shifts his weight, glancing down and then back up, clearly second-guessing himself.
âHome,â he clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck. âNot because I think you canât handle yourself. I justâafter what happenedâI thought maybe you wouldnât want to walk alone.â
You stare at him.
He winces a little. âThat sounded... worse out loud.â
A laugh slips out of youâquiet, but real. He looks so painfully earnest. His cheeks are pink, eyes soft behind those glasses, hands fidgeting at his sides like heâs not sure what to do with them.
You tilt your head. âYou want to walk me home?â
âI meanâif you want me to.â He stumbles over the words. âIf itâd make you feel safer. Or not safer. Justânot alone.â
You soften. The laugh fades into something warmer.
ââŚYeah,â you say. âIâd like that.â
Relief floods his face. âOkay. Yeah. Great.â
You smile and tuck your umbrella under your arm. âLet me just grab my coat.â
He steps aside to wait, and when you pass him, your hand brushes lightly along his sleeveâjust a graze.
His breath hitches again. He turns his head, watching you with something almost reverent in his eyes.
And though neither of you says it out loud, for the first time all day, you donât feel like youâre carrying it alone.
tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @iyskgd @alexiared, @theelementofsurprisee
A/N: i love them guyssss. hope y'all enjoyed!
Signed, âS.
chapter 2/7: "sleepwalker"
Summary: Days pass, but the letter doesnât leave you. You tell yourself itâs nothing â a prank, a moment â but it lingers, embedded in the quiet spaces of your thoughts. At the Daily Planet, life buzzes around you: Lois, Jimmy, the echo of keys clacking and phones ringing, Clarkâs soft eyes catching on yours when he thinks you wonât notice. You try to act normal â take walks home, grocery shop under fluorescent lights â but the world feels altered, as if the very air changed the moment those words touched your hands. "Signed, S." It shouldnât matter. But it does. You scan the sky without meaning to. You wait for a shadow across the clouds. Something is shifting in you â a slow, silent unraveling â and you donât know what it means yet⌠only that itâs already begun.
Word Count: 2.9k
pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt 5, pt. 6, pt. 7
You normally love your job.
Love reading peopleâs secrets â some scandalous, some sweet, some so bizarre they make you snort into your coffee. You judge a few. Scrunch your nose at most. Then drag your mouse toward that little trash bin icon with ruthless satisfaction and click. Case closed. Heartline isnât for the weak-willed.
You mean, you are a journalist. Half the job is curation.
And the other half? Noise management.
Some days it feels like youâre a radio station, tuning between static-laced frequencies, searching for one voice sharp enough to cut through. Something strange. Something raw. A story with teeth.
You also happen to be the only person in the bullpen with two work emails â and you lord that over everyone. Silently. Smugly. Righteously.
One account is for coworkers, deadlines, and Perryâs 9 AM âwhy havenât you responded to thisâ rampages. The other?
That one is yours.
Itâs the Heartline inbox. The one you monitor alone. The one people use when theyâre desperate or drunk or aching in a way they donât know how to name.
You live for it.
You imagine their faces when they see their words printed in the Daily Planet â buried between obits and classifieds, sure, but still there. Still permanent. Still seen. And beside it? Your reply. Honest, sharp, laced with empathy where it counts.
Out of dozens â sometimes hundreds â of emails, you pick just three for the next dayâs paper. Which means your nights look like homework. Screens. Tea gone cold. The flicker of your desk lamp as you scroll through heartbreak, guilt, fantasy, confession.
But lately, your rhythm has changed.
Your mouse scrolls slower now. More deliberate. Your eyes skim past the subject lines and sender names, searching for one thing:
No Subject.
It always comes from the same blank return address. No footer. No salutation. Just words â strange and staggering, like poetry punched into the body of the email. And every time you read one, your heart lurches. Like it forgot how to beat in the right order.
Itâs not professional.
Itâs not supposed to feel like this.
The newest message lands at 1:14 AM. You read it curled sideways on your couch, a blanket twisted around your knees, your laptop hot against your thigh. The email is already open. But the printout â the one youâd made before brushing your teeth like some shameful ritual â is in your hand. The paper is still warm.
âYou donât speak loudly, but you speak completely. Some people fill space. You fill silence.â
Heâs writing to you now.
Not just about his lover. Not about grief. Not abstract hypotheticals, like before.
You.
And that? Thatâs not something you know how to catalog.
You tell yourself â firmly, out loud, like thatâll make it stick â that he probably just likes having someone to talk to. A faceless inbox. A blank slate. Youâre a sounding board, thatâs all.
You say it again when your chest tightens.
Again when your fingers reach for your notebook.
Again when you hesitate.
Because no matter how many times you say it⌠you donât believe it.
And worse â some part of you hopes youâre wrong.
You thumb the edge of the folded paper in your lap. It joins the others now, wedged between the pages of your half-used notebook â three, maybe four of them â pressed flat, marked at the corners from being read too often. You place the newest one gently on top.
It shouldnât make your chest feel like this. Tight. Private. Dangerous.
Youâre the one who posts anonymous advice every week. Youâre supposed to be the safe one â the filter between peopleâs secrets and the public eye.
Youâre not supposed to be the one keeping secrets.
Youâre not supposed to carry someone elseâs words like theyâve been written directly on your skin.
But here you are.
You read it again on the train.
Then again in bed, phone glowing pale blue in the dark, pulse in your ears.
And then⌠you write back.
Not to him. Not directly. You draft something for Heartline â neutral, distant, barely coded â as if it were any other strangerâs letter. As if you werenât burning from the inside out.
"What makes you so sure that silence needs filling?"
You submit it under your '-heartline'
And you donât sleep that night.
--
The newsroom breathes around him. Phones ring. Papers shuffle. Laughter barks from Jimmyâs desk across the way â something about a dog wedding gone viral.
But Clark canât hear any of it.
He only hears the hum of your footsteps as you walk in, shoulders hunched just slightly from the wind outside. Damp hair clings to your cheek, curling where it shouldnât, and he watches you swipe at it absently, like itâs not your first annoyance of the morning.
You look tired. Not just physically â although he notes the dark smudges under your eyes, the sluggishness in your gait, the way you yawn into your fist when you think no oneâs looking. Itâs deeper than that. Something wound tighter in your ribs. Something quiet and worn.
He feels it in his chest like an echo.
You donât notice him.
Of course you donât. Youâre thinking â planning â already mentally a mile down the to-do list. Your bag hits the floor by your desk with a muted thud. You move like youâve done this a thousand times, and heâs watched you do it maybe half of those. Could chart it like constellations now. The way your pens go in a certain order. The way your chair squeaks when you sit too fast.
You line your coffee up with the edge of your mousepad.
Perfect. Always the same.
He knows how silly it is, to love someone for the way they place a cup on a desk. But he does. God, he does.
He forces his eyes back to his screen. Pretends to type. Nothing of use comes out.
He should stay seated. Should keep his hands on his keyboard, his eyes on the screen, pretend to be deep in a story he isnât writing.
But he doesnât.
He stands.
Smooth. Quiet. Like heâs stretching his back. Like heâs headed toward the coffee machine by your desk. Maybe he is. Thatâs the story heâll stick to.
But he knows itâs a lie.
He doesnât want coffee.
He wants you.
So he crosses the floor, casual as anything. Loops past Jimmy with a nod, drops a file on Loisâs chair just to look busy, and then â
Heâs there.
At your desk.
At you.
Your screen is already on. Fingers moving. You havenât looked at him yet. Youâre focused, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, eyes rimmed with tired determination. And still, somehow, youâre the most luminous thing in this entire newsroom.
He leans a hand against your desk.
Close enough to touch.
âRough morning?â he asks.
It sounds innocent.
But it isnât.
Itâs the only question he knows how to ask when what he really wants to say is, Please. Just look at me. Just once, like you mean it.
You blink up, surprised by his voice.
And there it is.
That look.
Like youâre not sure whether to smile or sigh. Like part of youâs been waiting for this, even if you didnât know it.
It knocks the air right out of his lungs.
The corners of your mouth twitch upward, barely, like smiling costs too much right now. But you do it anyway.
He catalogues everything: the smudge of mascara just under your right eye, the faint pillow crease on your cheek, the way your collarbone shifts beneath the neckline of your sweater when you adjust your shoulder bag.
Every detail is sacred.
"Howâd you know?" you ask, rubbing your arm.
"Sleep creases," he says gently. "And⌠you just typed your own name into the password box."
Your head snaps toward your monitor. Sure enough â there it is. Your full name blinking bold in the password field. You groan under your breath and delete it.
He lets himself smile â just a little.
Youâre so human. So real. And heâs half-mad with the ache of loving someone who doesnât even know who he is.
"Need stronger coffee," you mutter.
"I could run to Jitters?"
It comes out too fast. Too eager.
Your eyes flick to him, surprised. Then polite. You shake your head.
"Donât bother. Iâve already had plenty. Nothingâs going to help if Iâm bouncing off the walls all day."
You turn to your screen, already slipping away again.
Still, he doesnât move.
Heâs not ready to let you go.
He shifts a little closer, one palm flat on the desk near your wrist. His pinky is an inch from yours. Half an inch. And then â
Contact.
The tiniest brush.
You stop typing.
So does he.
Your hands still, hovering over the keyboard. Your breath catches â and he hears it. Of course he does. His entire nervous system lights up like someone just whispered a secret into his bloodstream.
But then your screen flashes. Inbox.
His breath stutters.
There it is â the message he sent just hours ago. 8:02 AM. Subject line empty. Return address still a blur of numbers and hyphens.
He knows every word. Every line he wrote with trembling fingers.
And he watches â barely breathing â as your eyes land on it.
You hesitate.
He sees it: the pinch of your brow. The flutter of your pulse at your throat. The way your tongue presses to the back of your teeth.
You click.
It opens.
And he watches you read it.
I donât think silence is empty. I think sometimes itâs the only place left where truth fits.
â S.
He memorized those words. Slept with them sitting in his drafts folder. Typed and deleted them twenty-seven times.
Now they're in your hands.
He watches the way your face changes â not drastically, but in layers. Slow. A single breath held too long. The way your lashes lower. The quiet exhale through your nose. You read it like itâs something youâve been afraid to need.
And then you close it.
Slow. Gentle. Like it might bruise if you moved too fast.
He swallows.
"Reader submission?" he asks, already knowing the answer.
You look up, smiling quickly. Too quickly.
"Yeah," you lie. "Just one of the odd ones."
It punches him in the gut. Not the lie â he understands that â but the way you so carefully distance yourself from whatever that message stirred in you. The way you act like it didnât change something.
He wants to scream.
But he smiles instead. Soft. Careful.
"Sometimes those are the best," he says.
You stand up abruptly, notebook in hand, and make your way to the printer. You donât look back.
He doesnât need to follow.
Because he already knows.
Youâre printing it.
You printed his.
You folded it.
Kept it.
That should be enough to carry him for days. For weeks. Some part of him dares to be grateful. To feel triumphant.
But the rest of him just aches.
Because you donât know itâs him.
You donât know that the man two rows away â the one who just offered to fetch you coffee, who touched your pinky like it might shatter him â is the same man who wrote those words at 1:43 a.m. with his heart in his hands.
You donât know itâs his voice in both places.
And he doesnât know how much longer he can stand that.
He sits, hands limp in his lap. Tries to breathe through the weight pressing on his sternum.
You read it. You didnât delete it.
You folded it.
You kept it.
That means something. It has to.
But he wants more.
He wants you â all of you â looking at him with the same longing he pours into every unread letter.
He wants to tell you. Everything.
But for now, all he can do is watch you from a distance.
And pray that someday soon, youâll see him.
Not Superman.
Not the coworker with the awkward smiles.
Just him.
The one whoâs been writing to you in silence.
--
The cold air hits you like a tide when the sliding doors part.
Not harsh. Just⌠bracing.
Clean floors. Fluorescent lights. The sterile tang of citrus cleaner clinging to the air. You blink once, twice, like stepping from one life into another.
Youâre not even sure why you came.
The fridge at home is fine. Youâve got leftovers. Half a loaf of bread. Tea.
But your apartment was too quiet. Too still. Too full.
Not with noise â not with anything physical. Just with⌠everything else.
Thoughts. Feelings. Questions you havenât figured out how to ask, let alone answer.
So youâre here.
With a plastic basket hanging from your wrist like a tether and no list in your head. Just motion. Just habit. Just enough to pretend like youâre not unraveling by inches.
You start in produce. Not because you need anything. Just because itâs closest. And colorful. And alive.
A bag of blood oranges catches your eye. The deep red rind split at one edge like itâs been bruised by something tender.
You remember something from one of S.âs letters â something about them tasting like memory.
âA sting of sweetness, but fleeting. Like desire. Like how a moment can turn to ache before youâve even finished tasting it.â
You pick one up. Itâs heavier than you expected. Cool against your palm.
You press your thumb gently into the skin, then let it go. It rolls back into the pile without protest.
Youâre not thinking about oranges.
Youâre not even thinking about food.
Youâre thinking about the way Clark said your name this morning. Soft. Surprised. Almost like it meant something.
Which is stupid. Because Clark is just Clark. A little shy. A little awkward. Kind in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.
Still â you havenât been able to stop replaying it. The way he lingered. The way his voice dropped when he saidâ
âYouâve got sleep creases on your cheek.â
You lift your hand to your face now, fingers grazing your jaw as if to erase it. The mark is gone by now. But something else lingers.
Not embarrassment exactly.
Not affection either.
Something⌠else.
You drift toward the shelves like a ghost in a museum.
A half-loaf of sourdough. Sharp cheddar. Olive oil. A tin of lemon ginger tea â the same one S. once called âa flavor that tastes like quiet done right.â
Itâs stupid. But you put two boxes in your basket.
Your mind is a ping-pong table between two names: S. and Clark.
One fills you with questions. The other keeps showing up in the answers.
You donât want to tie them together. That would make things messy. Impossible. Unreal.
But the lines are starting to blur in ways you donât have language for yet.
At the soup aisle, you stop.
You donât even know why.
Rows and rows of labels. Tomato bisque. Chicken noodle. Something called âAutumn Harvestâ with too many adjectives.
Youâre just standing there. Basket at your side. Eyes blank.
And you feel it again â that odd, unplaceable ache. Not quite sadness. Not quite hope.
Like youâre on the edge of discovering something, âŚbut you donât know what.
You havenât cried in months. Not really. Youâre not the crying type. Not unless something breaks.
And lately⌠Everything feels like itâs just about to.
S.âs letter is folded up in your coat pocket like a secret.
You printed it. You donât know why. Maybe because part of you wanted it to be real. Tangible. Something you could touch when the world gets fuzzy.
âShe keeps looking for him in all the wrong places. Not because she doesnât know better, but because she believes he only exists when sheâs not looking.â
You read that line again after work. Again after dinner. Again before you left your apartment and came here.
You donât want to be her. Not really.
But you want to know what it feels like â to be written about like that. To be seen. Entirely. Even the unlovable parts.
You want someone to look at you and not flinch.
You toss a can of bisque into your basket without looking.
You move on.
The man at the register doesnât speak. The store is mostly empty. Someoneâs kid is crying near the deli. A woman fumbles with the self-checkout screen.
You swipe your card. Bag your things.
Walk out into a sky that canât decide if it wants to rain.
Outside, the wind is damp and soft.
You pause beneath the awning, adjusting your coat with one hand, the other slipping into your pocket.
Your fingers find the edge of the folded letter.
You donât take it out. Just feel the crease. The shape of it.
Youâre not in love.
Youâre not stupid.
But you are caught in something. A pull. A question. A soft unraveling.
You start walking. Slowly. No destination in mind.
Your coat collar pulled up. Bag rustling at your side.
Thereâs no real reason to feel like this. You know that. Youâre not the one in the letters. Not really.
But still â You feel like someone is watching. Not in a dangerous way. In a knowing way.
And somehow, that might be worse.
You donât know who he is.
You donât know what he wants.
But part of you wants him to keep writing anyway.
Let him unravel the mystery. Youâll meet him halfway.
If you ever find the path.
If you ever stop circling.
If he doesnât disappear first.
And if he doesâŚ
Youâll still be walking.
Wondering.
Looking.
Even when you tell yourself not to.
Even when you know better.
Even when youâre not sure what â or who â youâre looking for.
tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @iyskgd @alexiared
A/N: sorry if this is a little dull, next chapter will be out soon and i promise it will make up for it!


