Sunny

"Hold on, almost got it—"

The needle dropped onto the record with a soft click! as the turntable started up, and a few seconds later the slightly grainy sounds of "Harshest Gentle Touch" began playing through the apartment. The satisfied smile Clark flashed to you nearly sent you into a tailspin.

"God, it's so much better on vinyl," you said, flopping onto the couch next to Clark, feet up on the back of the cushions as you settled in. "Which is one of the most pretentious things I've ever said, especially because I'm right." 

You closed your eyes, the gradual build of the end of the first verse driving into the chorus already thrumming through your nervous system.

"This album was the reason I bought a turntable to begin with," you said absentmindedly, beating your palms gently along the side of the couch to the rhythm of the drums.

"Really?" Clark said, his voice soft enough to keep the music in the foreground.

"Yeah," you said, opening your eyes to find him already staring at you. "Found it in a record store when I was in Blüdhaven for the weekend and couldn't pass it up."

"You found a Mighty Crabjoys record in Blüdhaven?" Clark asked, a surprised quirk catching the corner of his mouth.

"I think that's actually why I got lucky," you said. "Everything else in the shop was some underground metal band or, like, horror recordings of truly grotesque dental surgeries from the sixties."

"Maybe Lois was right," said Clark. "These guys can't be punk rock if that's the kind of stuff they're up against."

"Blüdhaven's an outlier," you reasoned. "Maybe it's a result of that nuclear leak from a few years ago. Trained everybody's brains to need the hardcore shit—"

Clark coughed.

"Alright, alright," you said with a laugh that was more amused than defensive. "Hardcore stuff—"

But Clark had held up his hand to silence you and as your voice fell off, the bridge came in.

"There are moments, there are mem'ries, there are things I should've said / You're a dreamer, you're a wonder, you're the reason we're both dead."

You caught his lips moving along with the lyrics and noticed yours had done the same.

"Who cares if they're actually punk rock," said Clark, the chorus picking up once more through a key change that set your heartbeat stuttering. "They write lyrics like that and they can play in any genre."

You smiled as Clark closed his eyes and lightly rocked his head back and forth to the beat, his work-mussed curls falling across his forehead as he did so.

"I'm lucky," you said suddenly.

Clark opened his eyes and brought his gaze back to yours.

"What for?"

"That you got those tickets," you said simply. "It's crazy to think we were just, like, work friends for a year and a half. And now—"

"Now we're actual friends," Clark said with a grin.

"We couldn't go to the concert without doing the homework," you said, nudging one of his broad shoulders with a socked foot. "Had to listen to their entire discography in order to really prepare."

"And watch the documentary," said Clark.

"And make tee shirts," you said, eyeing the matching tops you'd draped over the back of your desk chair, the iron-on transfers slightly crinkling around the edges.

"Your fingers okay?" Clark asked, reaching down to grab your wrist before stopping himself.

"Just a little crispy," you said, wiggling your pointer and middle fingers at him, the ends wrapped in carefully applied bandages that Clark had applied very professionally, and had not in any way caused your breathing to stutter as he did so. You hadn't told him he was the reason you'd burnt your fingers in the first place, that the sight of him loading your dishwasher after a shared takeout dinner had made you feel warm and lonely all at once. Would you get to see him like this after tomorrow? Would your friendship, this new and fragile something that felt like a tiny sun was rising in your chest, get to stay?

"Hopefully all better by next week," said Clark, gently pressing his own fingertips to yours.

"Hopefully," you said, and the album played on.

The merch tent was crowded, throngs of people jostling in line to get to the register. You’d forced Clark into line, the promise of Just looking! a wholesale lie you’d enjoyed telling. And now, standing in front of the racks of shirts, sweatshirts, CDs, and more, Clark was desperately trying to escape.

“They never have a big enough size—”

“Nope,” you said. “This isn’t a debate, Kent. We’re getting you a tee shirt.”

“But we made tee shirts,” Clark said, gently tugging on your sleeve. “I don’t want to change.” “I don’t want you to either,” you said. “But your washing machine is out for vengeance and that iron-on transfer isn’t gonna survive more than a single cycle.” You gestured at the racks.. “Which one?”

“Really, I don’t need—”

“The white and black tees in your largest size, please,” you said to the girl behind the counter, interrupting Clark and loving every second of it. Clark turned to you, a look of sheer horror across his face as the attendant moved to pull the shirts from the boxes of stock.

“I can’t get both,” he said. “That’s unfair.” “Maybe for you, you overgrown boy scout,” you said. “But not for me.”

The attendant handed over the shirts as you tapped your credit card, the beep! of the payment ringing faintly as the tips of Clark’s ears turned pink.

“You didn’t even check the size!” “You’re saying you needed something smaller?” you said, smiling warmly at the attendant and flipping a tee shirt over each shoulder. Your hand found Clark’s, and despite his protests, you pulled led him out of line.

“You didn’t have to—” “Yes, I did.” You pulled him into an alcove to avoid the steady tide of people heading into the main venue space. Set apart from the crowd, you looked at him—at his still-pink ears and dimpled cheeks and his eyes that blazed blue as he stared back. You felt a blush cross your own face, but you pushed it down and started the speech you’d been practicing for weeks.

“I just—” you started. “I just wanted to say thank you. Because this band is so important to me, and seeing them live feels totally surreal, and the fact I get to see them with you, when we weren’t even real friends a few months ago and now I can’t imagine my life without you—”

“Hey,” said Clark. His other hand found your arm and he gripped it with the quiet strength—never painful, just grounding—and you stilled. 

“You’re welcome,” Clark said simply. “I’m really glad you could come, and I’m even happier we’re friends.” “Friends,” you repeated at almost a whisper.

“Friends,” Clark said again, his voice low.

A loud guitar rift sounded from the main stage, and you both startled.

“The opener’s almost done—” you said.

“Let’s go,” said Clark, and this time his hand took yours.

The Armory wasn’t huge, and with the sheer amount of people packed into the warehouse-like space, it seemed even more cramped. The “front row seats” on Clark’s ticket had been a bit of a misnomer—he’d gotten open floor space up by the barricade.

“Let’s stick to the edge,” he said, dipping low so his lips almost grazed your ear, and you shivered despite the growing warmth of hundreds of bodies all packed together. “I’m kind of tall—want to make sure people can see behind me.”

God, he was so kind.

You wove your way through the crowd, Clark sticking close behind you, offering polite Excuse me!’s as you passed. The stage crew was wrapping up their prep of the stage as you got closer to the stage and the crowd was growing restless, forcing him to yell over the noise.

“Can you see okay?”

“Sort of,” you said, trying to peer over the shoulder of the man in front of you. “But it’s alright—”

Without another word, Clark tapped the man on the shoulder. “Excuse me, do you mind shifting over a bit?” he shouted, still sounding polite even amid the ruckus. “She can’t see” The man turned around, looked down at you and then back to Clark.

“Sorry, man,” he yelled back, shifting over slightly to let you move forward and get a clearer view of the stage. “You good now?”

“Great,” you said. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he called. He glanced at Clark behind you once more. “ Got a bit of a height difference between you and your boyfriend.” Your eyes went wide. “He’s not my—”

But your protest was cut short as the lead singer of The Mighty Crabjoys bounded on stage to an ear-splitting roar from the crowd.

You whipped around to look at Clark. He was already staring. You gave him a grin and a double thumbs up. Thank you! you mouthed. He smiled back.

The next hour was a full playthrough of China Hutch Promise, something they hadn’t done since they’d released the album. They followed up with the radio singles and the deep cuts alike from their entire discography. It was exhilarating, feeling the rush of new memories playing out in the present with the comfort of nostalgia curling around the edges. 

And then the opening chords to “Lullabies for a Lonely Autumn” came over the speakers, and the audience screamed.

“God, I love this song!” you yelled to Clark. “Always wanted to dance to it in middle school, but no one ever asked.” You turned around to face the stage once more but felt a hand grasp your wrist.

“I’m about fifteen years too late,” Clark said into your ear. “But dance with me. If you want.”

The blush you’d been fighting earlier returned in full force, but you placed your hands on his shoulders as an answer. His hands—warm and solid and real—landed on your waist as he turned the two of you sideways so you could both watch the band as you swayed. 

As the first chorus rose, you couldn’t help it. Your head landed against his chest, and the sound of his heartbeat, an irregular internal drum beat off-kilter from the real drum set up on stage, pounded through your ears. You didn’t dare look up, didn’t dare break whatever fragile spell this song, this night, this moment had cast. Clark’s grip grew tighter, and you pressed your ear even harder into the rough cotton of his homemade tee shirt.

It was over too soon. As the final chords of the song played out, you dared a glance up at Clark. His eyes met yours, and his fingers flexed against your waist. He opened his mouth to say something, but then the lead singer led into their closing song, and he reflexively dropped his hands.

You turned quickly back to the stage, stumbling through the lyrics of the final song and the two encore numbers, and when the lights came up and the crowd started to move, neither of you said anything as you followed the stream of people out the exit doors.

The night air was warm and humid, but not unpleasantly so. You started walking towards the metro line, wired and content all at once until the scent of grilled onions hit your nose.

“I’m hungry,” you said before you could stop yourself. “You wanna eat?” Clark couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of his chest. “Yeah, sounds great.”

You made your way to the street corner where a collection of vendors were grilling street dogs and toppings on a portable flattop. “Four hotdogs,” said Clark. “I’m not hungry enough for two!” you said.

“No problem,” said Clark, pulling cash out of his wallet and handing it over. “I wanted three.”

Clark took all four foil-wrapped hotdogs from the man and offered you his elbow. “Let’s eat by the metro stop,” he said, and the two of you made quick work of the walk, your hand wrapped around his elbow the whole way. You spotted an empty bench near the entrance to the station, weather-worn wrought iron bathed in the fluorescent glow of a street lamp.

“Here?” Clark asked, and you nodded, and you sat side by side—the warmth of his thigh seeping through your jeans—eating in companionable silence.

When you’d finished your hotdog, you crumpled the wrapper in your fist and turned to look at him. He had half of a hotdog left, but he lowered it from his mouth as your eyes locked. 

Before you lost your nerve, you rose up and quickly pressed your lips to his cheek. “Thank you again,” you said, pulling back but not breaking eye contact.

Clark went rigid. He cleared his throat. And then he spoke.

“You missed.”

Your eyes went wide as he leaned in, glowing yellow from the streetlight and smiling softly at you, his dimples like tiny half moons in each cheek.

“I didn’t miss—” But you never got a chance to finish. Clark had swooped down and pressed his lips against yours, and with a gentle nudge of his hand against your cheek, you kissed him back. It was insistent and clumsy and wonderful, and you couldn’t help the low groan that escaped you as he pulled back a few seconds later.

“That okay?” he asked, and you were thrilled to hear he was breathless himself.

“You taste like onions,” you said by way of reply. 

He laughed, the sound deep and warm, and you could feel it echoing inside your ribcage, a wild bird brushing against a cage door that had suddenly been thrown open.

He kissed you again.

He followed every step you took until your hips hit the counter, and groaned when you teasingly swayed your hips making you giggle.

“What?” You chuckled breathlessly at his gentle but firm grip on your waist, always mindful of his strength.

“You sweet, sweet minx.”

Clark noses at the crook of your neck but inhaling your scent only made him harden further.

“Love,” Clark chuckles when you feigned ignorance, humming questioningly at him when you reached for your toothbrush. Only for it to clatter on the counter when he spun you around. Your body grew warm at the smile stretching across his face as his head tilted, looking at you through squinted eyes.

You bit your lip, trying to contain the thrill that ran down your spine. The look on his face may have been pure sweetness on the outside, but the need to feel you have consumed his entire being.

The recent attack in Gotham had forced Bruce to ask for help and kept Clark away from you for days—he’s had his fill of the gloominess that never seemed to fade from that city’s atmosphere so your teasing after days of painful longing for just a glimpse of you had him the tiniest bit frustrated.

You might argue it’s only been four days, but for him it’s four days too long. Four gruesome days of not having you in his arms, separated even in your sleep.

You spin around and toy with the wet curls on the back of his head before cupping it, angling your face to close the gap between you. Finally giving in before you’ve provoked him further—before he ignores the already pooling arousal between your legs.

But Clark didn’t give you the pleasure of feeling his soft lips against yours. Making you gasp as he spun you back around, the motion causing your robe to slowly slide down your shoulders, his lips following the cloth down and up your shoulders. Hooded eyes looking at you through the mirror as his breath grazes your ear, causing you to whine.

“Please…”

His large hand gropes your breast, thumb playing with your pert nipple through your robe. Playfully nipping at your eat before softly pecking the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Hmm, I thought you didn’t want to?” His voice was breathy, lightheaded just from your closeness.

“Clar-k—ah.”

He continued squeezing your breast lovingly—thumbing your nipple through the fabric of your robe when your fingers desperately pulled the strands of his hair.

Clark couldn’t get enough of your scent, even with his face buried in the sensitive skin of your neck, the scent of your arousal pooling between your thighs had a trembling sigh escaping his lips.

You released your bruising grip from his hair, slowly guiding him past the slit of your soft robe to the heat between your thighs. “Oh, honey…” your heat welcomed his thick fingers immediately, clenching around him, afraid he’d pull away—tease you further.

But in Clark’s eyes, you were the tease.

Your reflection rivals the moon that he’s seen up close—your heaving breaths made your robe slip down your shoulders with only his thick hand keeping the fabric from revealing you.

The scent of your arousal had his already ragged breath stuttering in his chest—it didn’t help that he could feel the sweet stickiness between his fingers drip down his wrist and the need to drop to his knees to devour you consumed him.

Yet, he didn’t listen.

Instead, he scissored his digits as he thrusted his fingers making you mewl at the stretch.

“Nggh—Clark….” You throw your head back and Clark took the opportunity to softly kiss your temple. The softness in his touch a contrast to the deep push and pull of his digits.

“I know, honey. I know.”

You braved a look at your reflection and already saw him watching every twitch of pleasure on your face. Watching you was enough for him, and while you share the same sentiment when he’s the one falling apart in your hands, you couldn’t go on feeling empty when you could feel his arousal leak through your robes.

“Need—Clar—please.”

And ever your good boy, his hand bunched up your rode around your waist, smoothly parting your legs with his foot to make room for his throbbing length to nudge its way in between your weeping slit, with the help of his fingers still flush against your clit.

You were about to open your mouth and complain again but the feeling of his fat throbbing tip prodding your hole only forced a groan from your throat. “Good— Cla-rk!”

“Gosh-honey—I-you-golly.” His forehead sought out the warmth of your neck, struggling to keep his brain from melting as he pushed further into you. He failed. Your warm walls squeezed him as he pushed in, gripping and pulling him in like it always does, and he couldn’t help the pathetic sounds that left his throat.

He felt your hand on his waist, thumb rubbing circles on the skin of his hip—as if drawing him out of his brain before he could melt further into it.

Which he did when he felt your fingers flex and his ringing ears cleared up enough to hear your honeyed voice, “Move, honey.”

His hips started moving before he even registered it, slowly, at first, letting out small hiccups of breath against your shoulder before he squeezed the flesh at your hip reverently, pulling far enough back until he missed the warmth of you back and pushing back in.

The groan that left him came from the depths of his chest, the sound causing your needy pussy to clench and leak around his cock further.

His breaths came out in uneven puffs against the sensitive skin of your neck, and with his jaw growing slacker came his mewls in even louder volume. “Mmm- mghh!” You could feel his cock throbbing, “Clark….”

“Hmm?” He asked deliriously, propping his chin on your shoulder and looking at your reflection through lust-lidded eyes. “Need you to go faster, hun..” You pressed your forehead to his temple and saw his gaze fixed on the bounce of your breast—growing more frequent as his thrusts grow deeper and faster.

He felt himself throb at the sight of your scrunched up face against his, “So good f’me, Clarkie…”

His jaw slacks at the feeling of your sloppy kisses from his jaw to the corner of his mouth, almost instinctive when turning his head in your direction—but you don’t let him, not yet. Instead, your fingers dug into his cheeks as you dragged your tongue flat across his cheek to his ear. His hips stuttered, once, twice before a gush of warmth flooded your insides and your wrist is dripping from his squished lips.

You place a tender kiss on his temple and hum when you feel his hips—still twitching and quivering—start to move again. Deeper. Hitting that gummy spot inside you with one particular harsh thrust.

“Go—d! I wanna…have you like this all the time.” He all but slurred out as his hand gripped your hips as he kept pistoning into you from behind, it left your chest stuttering and your hands searching for purchase on the marble against your hips.

His whole face was flushed as you looked at him through the massive bathroom mirror, watching his robe start to slip off his shoulders, the flush on his face spreading down his freckled chest.

Clark nestled his chin in the crook of your neck before wrapping his thick arms around your waist, hips somehow moving faster than before.

He looked at your reflection through hooded lids and his mouth agape, convincing you to shove two fingers, which he immediately started sucking.

“All—ah—th-time?” Your eyes roll to the back of your head when you feel one of his hands squeeze your breast, tweaking your nipples between his fingers.

The globes of your ass pressed flush against his pelvis as he dug himself deeper into you, the sticky mess where your bodies connected squelching obscenely with every pump of his hips.

It didn’t take long before he took his fingers to your neglected clit. He pinched the throbbing bud, causing your fingers to press further into his throat, making him gag and drool further on your hand.

“Alf—da-ffffrickim t’me.” Punctuating his muffled words with each thrust.

And, oh, you wished he would. You wished he’d just take you whenever he felt like it—wished that he’d be just as needy as he was now. Because even as his hands tremble with trepidation—instinct most like—his mind has melted enough that he’d only care for the bruising of your hips against the counter later.

Now, all his usual apprehension vanished into thin air and it’s addictive.

“You can take me whenever you like…” your words came out in broken breaths, feeling drool slip through the corners of your mouth and doing nothing about it. His repeated abuse on your walls pushes out your arousal, creating a white ring at the base of his cock.

The force of his hips against yours shook your fingers out of his mouth, digits trembling against the marble counter as you try to ground yourself. Your drenched fingers making it harder to do so.

He let out an animalistic groan at your words, brain already clouded with visions of him fucking you—waking you from your slumber with his harsh thrusts and wandering touches, maybe even bury his cock in you during your reading time, just warming you from the inside. Clark’s knees almost buckled at the thought.

“Fuck, I will…Thank you, honey—I will,” his sweet voice breathed. “I promise. I—I’ll even spread your legs an—mhng—jus’…suckle on your clit while you nap. You’ll lemme do that—will you? Please?”

Clark’s voice tilted to a needy pitch, temple pressed against yours as his eyes never waver from yours in the mirror. He was tipping from the height of his pleasure, you could tell, and he was taking you with him with every brush of his tip against that sensitive, spongy spot in your cunt.

You look up at the mirror and watch as his form cages you in, back hunching over your bent form while his fingers continue to happily palm your breast and tease your clit between his fingers.

His fingers freeze in time with his hips, sweaty skin molding into your back as he groaned out—the pinch on your clit was what broke you. Your back arched against his chest, nipple grazing the cold marble, and as the white hot pleasure consumed you, traveling from your head down to your fingertips, you felt his thick hot arousal splash in your walls.

He was everywhere in that moment. The cold marble was a stark contrast to the warmth that engulfed you—from the heat that his body exudes across the expanse of your back and his arousal that now traveled down your thighs.

You try to blink the heaviness off your eyes, lashes fluttering rapidly against your wet cheeks, and you were met with the sight of Clark’s eyes already on you. There were still dark, the blues of his eyes a mere rim around his pupils, still bleary but, oh, did they hold so much love.

After everything, he had the gall to look sheepish, to smile shyly—pushing in his dimples—before kissing your flushed cheek. “Thank you…” he breathed, and it only made you laugh harder.

“No need to thank me, honey.” you say, leaning further into his touch.

“Still.”

Ever your stubborn boyfriend, he still thinks that you and your touch was a gift he was oh so lucky to be blessed with—to be surrounded with—like he was a mere man and you were a goddess.

One that he cannot handle being separated from—even if it was only for a few days.

💌 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐞: that black cat(antihero)!reader and clark story? yeah it might not see the light of day...

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

The First Time:           

            Clark was used to the energy of the bullpen, the sound of keyboard keys clicking, phones ringing, murmured curse words when a source fell through, but it was different today. Today it felt frantic and it was loud. Far louder than normal—he could hear multiple heartbeats, faster beats, frantic in their own way, the way that only journalists have when something new, something noteworthy is on the horizon. 

            “Hey, Jimmy,” he says, one hand holding his coffee mug, the travel one that Ma sent him, the image of a Kansas skyline along it, the other looped around the strap of his leather laptop bag, technology and important documents all tucked inside. “What’s going on? Everyone seems to be acting like the biggest story of the century is about to walk in.”

            “New reporter,” he answers, looking up from his computer, from his digital photo editing software. “She’s a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. Their top crime reporter now on Metropolis soil and working for the Daily Planet.”

            “We don’t have a crime department,” Clark says and Jimmy raises his eyebrows once, twice in a strange wiggle move. 

            “We do now,” he replies, gaze drifting over Clark’s shoulder to take in the source of the new sound, the new scent, new heartbeat. New person. “Check it out,” Jimmy whistles, “new girl’s here.” Clark turns around, swallowing hard when he sees you, really wishing he hadn’t listened to Jimmy, that he’d just stayed facing him, taking in the photo of himself as Superman holding a building. He didn’t even know that Jimmy had been there, let alone captured the picture. 

            “Everyone!” Perry calls out, his form beside yours, hands clapping together in a way just loud enough for everyone else, but too loud for Clark. He prefers for people not to do loud claps like that, his super-hearing a bane, a curse more than a gift. “Meet our new reporter, Y/N L/N. She’s our first crime reporter and a transfer from the Gotham Gazette. It means she knows what she’s doing so…give her a warm welcome.” It surprises no one when Perry leaves, but it does surprise them (Clark can hear it; he’s surprised too, honestly) when he shakes your hand, whispering something only Clark can pick up. “Good luck, kid.”

            “Why’d you leave Gotham if you’re a crime reporter?” Lois calls out, her body perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed, dark hair loose. Clark doesn’t have to see her to know that her eyes are narrowed as she’s watching you as if you’re a story, a potential source. Something to analyze, investigate, decide. 

            “You do realize,” you respond, your eyebrow arching in reply, arms crossing, “that there is such a thing as too much crime, right?” Clark swallows hard again when your pretty (very pretty) eyes scan the room, taking in the bullpen, the entire appearance of the place. You’re dressed in a band shirt tucked into ripped jeans, Doc Martens on your feet and a leather jacket unzipped, a satchel over your shoulder, one that matches his. 

            “You’re a crime reporter,” Jimmy calls out and Clark glances back at him, noticing the way he’s leaning back in his chair, widening his stance, making himself bigger, trying to seem more attractive. His heartrate gives him away—he’s into you. Clark, for some reason, doesn’t like it. 

            (It’s not that he likes you, he can’t. Ma always told him that appearance doesn’t matter, only what’s inside. He’s not crushing on you just because you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen in his entire life. No. Totally not).

            “And a reporter likes a story,” you reply, your expression disdainful as you take in Jimmy. “Gotham has fifteen other crime reporters and everyday we’re writing stories that are clinical, basically no better than police reports. We don’t talk to people; we take the quote-on-quote facts and publish those. I miss the people and Metropolis should have that.”

            “I mean,” Jimmy says again and Clark wishes he would just be quiet, he’s just putting his own foot in his mouth the more he presses, “Metropolis has limited crime so…what are you going to be doing?”

            “Metropolis has very little reported crime. By reported I mean covered by the Daily Planet or any other newspaper outlet. You all seem to have Superman fever and I don’t…so, I’ll be drawing attention to what Superman doesn’t try to get into.” You walk towards the recently cleared desk, the one in front of Clark’s and he swallows hard again. Golly, he’s not going to survive if you’re in front of him every day. He can smell you (not in a creepy way, of course!), a scent of citrus and metal, strange and unique and now he’ll recognize it everywhere. Recognize you anywhere. 

            He never thought that metal could smell so pretty. 

            “H-hi,” he stutters out as he walks to his desk, standing behind it, his name plaque facing out, facing you. He watches as your (impossibly) pretty eyes glance down at his name before flicking back up to him. 

            “Clark Kent,” you say, but the way you say his name makes him think that perhaps you don’t like him. That he’s someone you don’t like. “Superman’s very own PR agent.”

            “Wh-what?” he asks, stuttering, his cheeks flaming, burning. Fevered. “No. N-no, I’m not his…his PR agent…I’m just a reporter.” You roll your eyes, taking your bag off your shoulder, setting it down on the surface of the pressboard top of the desk, a clunk sounding as you pull open the first drawer, dumping a twined package of files into it, slamming it and tossing your bag back over your shoulder. 

            “Uh-huh,” you tell him, the corner of your mouth tugging up into a crooked kind of smile, but not a happy kind. The kind that makes him shrivel inside, something he’s never felt before. “You’re totally just a reporter and that’s why all your interviews with Superman make him out to be the best guy ever.” You begin to walk away, boots making a loud clicking against the polished floor of the bullpen, the kind of floor that is rolled linoleum, sound muffled for the most part against it, yet you seem to have figured out how to get around that, your steps sharp and echoing. 

                         “What’s wrong with Superman?” Lois calls out as you pass her desk. You pause, spinning back around, one hand looped through the belt loops of your jeans, the other holding your bag on your shoulder, a crooked kind of smile, slightly sinister on your face. 

            “I think he’s great,” you tell her, tone flat, deadpan. Clark knows that something else hides beneath the surface. “But I don’t think the damage he causes is worth what he prevents. And no one ever asks him about the damage he causes. That’s all.”

            “You’re the one,” Lois says, her tone rising, growing, pitch rising, “that interviewed Batman, right? Back in Gotham, right and you tore him apart?”

            “That’s me,” you tell her, your expression shifting just a little bit, a bit of sadness shining through, a ghost falling like a shadow across your face. You spin back around, back to the door, the exit and Clark doesn’t want you to go. He likes your loudness, your brashness, the way you’re like no one he’s ever met before (and if he’s being honest, he likes how pretty you are, the kind of pretty that you don’t know about. Like you don’t think you are). 

            “W-where are you going?” he calls out, his voice cracking on the words, squeaking from his nerves and he can feel the red hot flush as it crawls from his chest up his neck, to rest on his cheeks and ears. 

            “What kind of crime reporter would I be if I stayed in a fucking office? I’ll be in on Fridays for edits, but otherwise…” you lift your arms, spreading them wide as you walk backwards out the door. “The story’s out in the real world, PR boy! It ain’t in these office walls.”

            And with a spin, you’re gone, out the door, into a world that is dangerous. Dark. 

            He knows you came from Gotham, he knows you can handle yourself, but you don’t know Metropolis. 

            It couldn’t hurt if Superman happened to do his rounds now and just…checked on you, right?

            No. Of course not. 

            Metropolis is different. It’s not what you’re used to, not the kind of darkness and grime and desperation that lingers in Gotham. It’s brighter, lighter. More full of hope. It’s strange, truthfully, to be in a place that seems light when you know that it can’t just be this hopeful city worshipping a man who damages the city that he saves. 

            You pull your car over, slowing to a stop along the curb, glancing over at your phone where the text from your old friend, Danielle, back in Gotham rests. 

            Danielle: heard they have a gang in the North end. 

            Danielle: old baseball diamond is rumoured to be their hang-out spot.

            You can see the baseball diamond, the chain link fence pulled down by people in places, locks clicked on it in others. A group of people stand in front, cloistered together and exactly what you used to find in Gotham. Enough people that everyone there feels safe enough to give you little bits of information. 

            “Hey!” you call out, stepping out of your Jeep, the Wrangler you worked on, painting it in an ombre of your favourite colours back in Gotham, the shop where you worked during high school.

            “What’s up, ma’am?” one of the boys says, stepping forwards, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched forwards. He’s blocking the rest from view, protecting them. 

            “I’m a reporter,” you say, jogging over to them, bag clutched tight onto your shoulder, “and I got a tip about something around here that…piqued my interest.”

            “And what would that be?” he asks and you narrow your eyes at him, cocking your head, taking in the tattoo on the inside of his wrist, the one that is not a gang mark, not a prison tatt. But a name, lovingly inked onto skin, a reminder. 

            “A gang,” you say and you watch as he stiffens, jaw tightening, his entire body rigid. “Heard they hang around this diamond.”

            “And you think, what? We’re the gang?” he asks, his voice stiff like his posture, deep but the kind of deep that happens when someone lowers their voice. 

            “No,” you say and you can see in the tick of his jaw that he’s surprised. “But I think you know something about them.” His eyes narrow on you, but all you do is arch an eyebrow at him. 

            “We may know something,” he says, “but we don’t talk if nothing’s on the table.”

            “I’m a reporter, not a cop,” you reply, tone wry and he steps forwards, steps closer.

            “Doesn’t mean you can’t offer us something,” he says. 

            “I want to tell the story of the victims. I want to show the other side of the crime, the people affected. I can tell your story,” you tell him and you watch as his lips purse but then he nods, the rest of the people behind him, nodding with him. 

            Until one looks up, taking note of something, something that has her elbowing someone else, until the entire group is looking up. 

            “We gotta go!” one cries. “If he’s here, who knows what’s coming!” You watch as they move, separate paths forged, the boy in front of you hesitating, gaze darting from the thing behind you back to you. 

            “I’ll help,” he tells you, “but not right now. Not if Superman’s here. I don’t want to be around when whatever he’s fighting makes its way here. You have a card?”

            “Uh, yeah,” you tell him, reaching into the pocket of your leather jacket, pulling out the new cards you had made before you left Gotham, ones that say Daily Planet instead of Gotham Gazette. “Here.” He takes it and then he takes off and you turn around, finally seeing the floating figure of Metropolis’ golden boy. 

            “All good?” he calls out, his voice deep and echoing and familiar as it reaches you. In response, you hold up both hands, flipping him off before turning and walking back to your car. 

            “Fuck,” you hiss, kicking at a stray pebble on the sidewalk, the pebble skittering across the ground, twanging off the lamppost. “Fuck!”

            You don’t know if that kid will reach out, you don’t know if this story will come together and all because somefucking hero decided to do…what? Just patrol? Fuck him. 

            At least with Batman, you knew what to expect. This sweet mannered superhero has thrown you for a loop because he’s the only story you can’t quite grasp. 

            What’s his fucking angle?

The Second Time:

            The first thing Clark sees when he steps into the bullpen is you, always you. Whenever you’re in the office, it’s like his gaze is pulled to you, like you’re True North and he’s the pointer of a compass, oriented towards you and only you. 

            Today, he sees you, leaning against Jimmy’s desk, the two of you talking, laughing and why does it feel like something is choking Clark? What’s the explanation for this simmering in his veins, his stomach, that tightness in his throat and the feeling that he wants to rip Jimmy away from you? Jealousy, his brain supplies. 

            You’re jealous of Jimmy Olson. Your own best friend, his brain tells him and honestly, his brain is kind of mean. 

            “Hey, Jimmy,” Clark hears you say, your voice sounding like it’s right beside him with the volume that he’s granted, his super-hearing focused on you and Jimmy alone. “A few days ago, my source got scared away because Superman was there. Do you know why he was? Like does he normally fly around the city?”

            “Oh yeah,” he hears Jimmy say, “Superman does patrols every day. Likes to keep Metropolis safe.”             “I thought he wasn’t concerned with petty crime or drug rings, more like natural disasters and weird Justice League stuff,” you say and Clark hears Jimmy’s shrug more than sees it, can hear the rustle of spare fabric over spaghetti arms. (Gosh, what is he turning into? He’s being negative over his best friend because you might…like him. That’s not…like him. He resolves to not do that again.)

            “Not really,” Jimmy continues, “but Superman is big into protecting those who can’t protect themselves. Maybe…he was, I don’t know, protecting you.”

            “Maybe,” Clark hears you say and then watches as you turn, your gaze landing on him, the intensity in those (unfairly) pretty eyes making his mouth go dry and he swallows on instinct, choking on his own spit. He coughs, the motion and sound both violent, his face in flames, thinking about how you must see him. 

            When he’s done, calmed down, Lois and Jimmy both calling out to ask if he’s okay, he notices that you’re gone. 

            Only the perfume of you lingering in the air, but fading fast.

            “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me,” you say and the woman nods, sitting down onto the bench beside you, her hands folded onto her lap as she sits down. She looks elegant, reserved, closed off, dark hair pulled back, up into a sleek bun, coat drawn tight, closed. You understand, you know the file, the case. Know what she found. Know what her daughter went through. 

            “I must say,” she says, “that I was surprised that the Daily Planet was interested in the story of my daughter.” She cuts a glance at you, dark eyes shrewd, taking in your appearance. It’s the first time you feel self-conscious, but in your line of work, the business look of the other reporters doesn’t cut it. 

            You need sneakers to run, boots to kick. Clothes that bend in the right way like a second skin and not a blocking covering. 

            “I came from Gotham,” you tell her. “Things are done differently there.” She nods, pleased with your answer, or at the very least not offended. You shift on the bench, drawing one leg up, notebook ready, pen poised. “What happened when you found your daughter? What did you feel?”

            “Do you have children?” she asks you, her attention focused on the horizon, the sky. 

            “No, ma’am,” you say and she turns to look at you, dark eyes lined with tears, the water shimmering in the light of the setting sun. 

            “No, I thought not,” she says. “You’re young, why would you? Well…when you have children, they are everything to you. You would kill for them…you would die for them…you want to…wrap them in bubble wrap and protect them from the world…but I found her…bleeding, crying, leg broken…innocence…ripped from her…” she is crying now, tears sliding down her cheeks, slipping down her neck, a dark spot growing on the collar of her jacket where it’s drawn across her throat. 

            “Did you know then who did it?” She looks at you, her eyes haunted, shadowed, a scene playing out behind them, reflecting in the shine of her tears. 

            “No,” she says, voice thick, choked sounding. “No, that came later. That came in the hospital when the doctor…” she draws in a sharp, shaky breath, “when the doctor said that she had been…branded.” You’ve been writing what she’s saying, pen moving against the page, notes neat, organized, until now. The police report said nothing of this. 

            “Branded?” you ask and she blinks, her attention focusing on a sight over your shoulder, one that makes her gaze dart back to you, nose wrinkling in the slightest show of disdain. 

            “You’ll have a hard time,” she whispers, voice still cracking, “getting people to trust you when you don’t trust them, my dear.”

            “What?” you ask her, panic creeping in. You don’t trust people, have handcuffs in your bag in case you get attacked along with pepper spray, but that’s not something you show. That’s not something you know. “But I haven’t—”

            “You have Superman as a guard dog,” she says and you glance over your shoulder, teeth grinding together at the sight of Metropolis’ hero, sitting at a bench not so far away, attention focused on you. 

            “He’s not my—” She stops you with a single wave of her hand, her body rising from the seat and she turns to go, to leave, answers leaving with her. 

            “Someone afraid of people is not right for my daughter’s story,” she says, her gaze focused on the hero now surrounded by people, wanting to take selfies. “Or crime in general. I’m sorry, Reporter, I have no further comments for you.” She turns and walks away, steps heavy, hands held together, fingers interlaced. 

            “Fuck you, Superman,” you hiss, standing, turning and walking towards your car, far away from the golden boywho seems intent on driving you back to Gotham, to the dark and dreary streets where you learned what it meant to be afraid. “Just fuck you.”

            You hope his super hearing picks that up. 

The Third Time:

            Clark listens to your footsteps, the rhythm that you have, the one that is so you, the steady heel down and then the toes, the way you rock onto the toes of the opposite foot. It’s a steady metronome that he’s learned, but not in a creepy way, just in a…completely and totally entuned to you way. Which is normal. Ethical. Totally moral. Right?

            “Clark,” he hears you say and then he sees your arms, hoodie covered extremities pressing down on the edge of his desk, your scent like a wall to the right of him. 

            “Hi,” he says, turning his head, taking in the look of you, hearing your heart slamming against your ribs in an angry beat. What’s wrong? What happened? Why does he want to hurt whoever made you angry? (That feeling is normal, right? Right?!)

            “Get your fucking…little hero off my back! He’s acting like a fucking guard dog and fucking up my stories,” you hiss and he’s taken aback by the amount of curse words you’ve used. Ma always taught him that they weren’t good to use, never nice, yet…he supposes that Gotham has a different kind of education than Smallville.

            “H-he’s j-just concerned about your…your safety,” Clark stutters and he can feel that hated flush on his neck and his cheeks, that pulsing heat that only you bring out and the stuttering that only you bring out because only you, the sailor-mouthed crime reporter, hold the title of making the Man of Steel nervous. 

            “Tell him,” you say, voice low and deep and dark and utterly even, “that if he doesn’t stop, I’ll cut his fucking dick off with kryptonite. Okay?” You push up, standing again, lips pressed so thin that they look like a line, one line and nothing else. 

            And as you walk away, steps angry, heart still slamming that angry adrenaline-fueled rhythm, he wonders why your anger is so…attractive. 

            Maybe he has a problem.

            “How many homes have you been in?” you ask the boy before, his attention focused on the picnic table, fingers digging into the knot of the woodgrain. 

            “Ten,” he says, his tone flat, deadpan. But the kind of deadpan that holds a wealth of pain inside of it, too much for a boy so young. His social worker sits at the next table, having given her permission for the interview to be conducted. 

            “How old are you?” you ask and he looks up with large grey eyes, shadowed and darkened. 

            “Eleven,” he whispers, his voice hoarse but not in a way from dryness, but a way that comes from screaming, from crying. “But I know a girl who’s nine and has been in twelve homes.”

            “And…what are the homes…like?” you ask, brows drawing together as you watch this frail little boy and the way he hunches in on himself, folding himself smaller, trying to make himself invisible. 

            “Not good,” he whispers. “Although one was. But I didn’t stay long. It was full and they needed beds so they…moved me.” His words hold a wealth of pain and you swallow hard, fighting against that growing lump in your throat as you look up and away from the little boy, taking in the appearance of the park, the trees full of green leaves, of life, the sky blue with white, fluffy clouds. Picturesque. 

            Gotham never was like this. 

            “What…what do you mean by…not good?” you ask, careful with your wording, careful to keep reporter bias from the questions asked. 

            “They lock the food up,” he says, blinking fast, rapid movements, trying to clear the tears. Most likely because he’s learned that tears make you weak and being weak is something that you can’t afford. “And they yell, sometimes they hit me. One place had a man who threw things at us if we left our rooms. We weren’t supposed to leave our rooms there.”

            “Okay…has this been…most of your experience?” you ask, but his attention is drawn by something over your shoulder, his face lighting up with an expression of joy and hope. Hope, the thing you’ve seen on most faces here in Metropolis. Something Gotham never had.

            “Superman!” he cries, jumping up from the table. You swing your legs over the picnic bench, watching as he descends, his cape rippling in the breeze behind him. You sigh, gritting your teeth, knowing the interview is over now. 

            But…at least, the kid gets to meet his hero. 

            “Hi, kid,” Clark says (does he really think people don’t know? His voice is the exact same!). “How are you?”

            “Are you working with the reporter lady to catch the bad guys?!” he asks, his voice alight and joyful. Hopeful. And it’s beautiful but as you walk to the social worker, to shake her hand and depart, all you can think about is how hopeful was a recipe for disaster back home. 

            “Maybe,” you hear Clark say, his voice smoother, steadier as Superman than he ever is as Clark Kent. “But she and I don’t exactly talk.”

            “Oh?” you call out, turning around, eyes narrowing on him. “We don’t? Well…do you know where I can find some kryptonite?”

            You never make idle threats after all.

The Fourth Time:

            You can see the man standing on the corner of the street, cast in shadow only, shifting, hands in pockets. His body language reads nervous, on edge. You received a tip that the drug ring you’ve been doing a piece on is moving into new territory tonight so here you are, camped out in the driver’s seat of your car, snacks in a bag on the passenger seat and camera set up on the window, capturing everything too. 

            Capturing this first deal done in a new area is important, not for the deal itself, but following the dealer back to wherever the headquarters is. That’s what you need. Photographic evidence of the entire operation. 

            And it all begins here. 

            “Come on,” you whisper, watching another figure approach the shadowed man, constantly looking over their shoulder, hood drawn up. “Be the buyer.” You need this. Your pieces have been good, often front page, having pulled together a story even with Superman’s interventions, but this…this feels like what you used to do. 

            The finding loose threads and pulling at them until the story unravels before you. Like now. 

            “Yes, yes, yes,” you hiss, watching as the dealer hands something over to the other figure, money passed back. You turn, preparing to grab your bag, follow the dealer at a safe distance, but just as you turn, clipping your camera to the collar of your jacket, a goddamn figure swoops down from the sky. 

            “Hey, guys,” you hear him say, his voice stupid and dumb and far too attractive for his own good. “This isn’t exactly what you should be doing, right? Now, I’m gonna wait here with you guys until the police arrive, okay?”

            “Fuck!” you hiss, the feeling of a door slamming closed and hitting you in the face echoing through your body, your muscles rigid and frozen, adrenaline pumping, but only succeeding in freezing you more. 

            You watch as Clark turns to your car, flipping you a thumbs-up and all you do in response is mouth Fuck. You and flip him the bird before putting your car in gear and driving off. 

            Fucking farm boys.

The One Time You Called Him Out On It:

            No sooner do you step into the alleyway, catching a glimpse of your newest informant, than do you see him run off. And you know, oh you know, that motherfucking Clark is there, over your shoulder with his Kansas farm boy, protection of damsels attitude. 

            “SUPERMAN!” you yell, turning around, stomping your foot like a toddler having a tantrum because that fits you. That’s how you feel right about now. “GET YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN HERE! UNLESS YOU WANT ME OUTING YOUR IDENTITY TO EVERYONE IN THIS SQUARE MILE!” You watch as he appears from the side, descending down, his stupid, pretty dimpled smile on display. 

            “Hi,” he says, landing softly on the ground, his feet never even making a sound as he walks towards you which is highly unfair because you walk and it’s a stomp no matter what you do. 

            “Don’t you hi me! You know I can handle myself! I grew up in fucking Gotham for Christ’s sake! And not the good side, either! Danger was my fucking playground! So why do you keep following me? At this point, you’re the crime I should be reporting. It’s called stalking!” He tilts his head, eyes wide, face forlorn like a fucking puppy dog and honestlywhere can you complain about his attractiveness because it is so unfair. 

            “I just don’t want…something happening to you,” he whispers, his hands reaching forwards, taking yours in his and you suck in a breath at the contact, at the electricity that fizzles underneath your skin at his touch. 

            “You can’t control that even if you follow me,” you remind him, nostrils still flared, heart hammering harder and harder in your chest, but less and less from anger. And more and more from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. 

            “I can try,” he says, his tone lifting up at the end and you step closer, pulling your joined hands up to the side in a shrug, one you’re pulling him into too. 

            “Why?” you ask him, the corner of your mouth tugging up of its own accord, throat thickening because you’re just so tired of everything always being messed up. 

            “Because I like you,” he says, but it’s not spaced out, rather it’s one sentence, all the words running together and you can feel something crack inside of you, anger giving way to knowing, to the same feeling. Because you would be lying if you said that Clark hadn’t crept up on you, sneaking into your heart with his stuttering and blushing and bashful smiles over the top of his computer and the way he always brings you coffee and it’s exactly right. 

            “Clark,” you whisper, your hands squeezing his as he shifts, your back ending up against the wall of the alleyway, his body bracketing you in. 

            “How did you know?” he whispers and you shake your head, lips curving up into a smile of their own accord as you pull your hands from his, reaching up and cupping his face, thumbs on his cheekbones.

            “You don’t really hide it, Clark,” you whisper. “Every time something bad happens, like a natural disaster, you disappear for a surprisingly long bathroom break and then come back after Superman has zoomed off and saved everyone. Your interviews with him read like someone talking to themself and propping themself up, trying to show only the good which is a human fallacy. You read too close to what you were writing and not the closeness of a friend…and your voice. It doesn’t change when you’re Kent or…this.”

            “Why aren’t you a detective?” he asks you, his hands coming to rest on your waist, warm and bright. 

            “I’ll answer that if you can go change. It’s weird talking to you like this,” you whisper and he blinks once, surprised. “I like Clark. I like you when you’re not…performing.”

            “Two minutes, pretty girl,” he whispers.

            “Okay,” you say and he pulls back, flying off and you bend down, your hands on your knees as you suck in a deep breath, oxygen that doesn’t smell like Clark, like sandalwood and evergreen trees, a scent that is far too good and addictive. 

            “Hey!” someone calls out and you lift your head, taking in the appearance of the scared kid with the switchblade, walking towards you. “Give me your money!”

            “Can’t do that, kiddo,” you call out, pushing to a standing, and sighing once, the gesture almost lazy in a way.

            “Hey, lady! Do I look like I’m joking?!” he asks and you shake your head, reaching into your bag for the handcuffs you keep there, pulling them out and letting them dangle off one finger, the metal catching the light. The boy’s scared eyes widen in surprise and he takes a step back. 

            “Do you want me to pull a citizen’s arrest because I will, I just don’t want to, kid,” you call out and he curses under his breath, taking off in the opposite direction, pebbles and gravel skittering off from the force of his footsteps. 

            “You really don’t need a guard, do you?” you hear Clark call out and you turn back, slipping the handcuffs back into your trusted satchel and shake your head, lips pressing together. 

            “No,” you tell him, your heart skipping a beat at the way he looks now, when he’s not performing, just a simple white button up, tucked into black slacks, glasses askew and curls messy. “What kind of crime reporter would I be if I didn’t have a pair of handcuffs? Or two—one’s fuzzy.” You delight in the way his cheeks and neck and ears flush a deep red. 

            “How can I make it up to you?” he asks as he crosses the alley to you, his hands sliding against your waist as if they belong there, were made to fit there. 

            “You can take me out to dinner,” you whisper and then his lips are on yours and isn’t that surprising—Kansas farm boy made a move first. Doesn’t that go against their ethics?

            You don’t particularly care as his lips slide against yours, hands sliding from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your skin, your one hand on his back, the other twining in his hair. And honestly, the way he uses his tongue, sliding it along yours, stroking yours should be illegal. Its own kind of crime because he’s ruined you for anyone else. 

            “Clark,” you whisper, pulling back, a string of saliva still connecting the two of you to each other, to that kiss that tasted of sugar and coffee and hope. 

            “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he asks, his blue eyes flaring with desire, hunger. Your resolve is so weakening right now. 

            “We’re gonna have to stop or else we’ll be a crime I have to report,” you whisper and he leans in, trying to kiss you again, his lips chasing yours, but you turn your head, his lips landing on your cheek. 

            “What crime?” he asks, his voice husky in the most delicious way. 

            “Public indecency.” 

Bonus: The One Time He Was the Criminal:

            Clark lifts the lid from off the cookie jar, reaching in and pulling out one of the double chocolate cookies the two of you had spent baking this morning, the world outside dark and rainy and your honeymoon vacation time not yet over even though you were back in Metropolis, settling into your new home. 

            “Clark Kent, thirty-three, was found today, a rainy Tuesday afternoon,” he hears you narrate in the voice you have when you read out articles, “stealing cookies from the cookie jar.”

            “What?” he calls out, turning around, noticing you with your tape recorder (old-fashioned just like him. Golly, he loves you) held aloft, a teasing smirk on your face. 

            “What did he say in his defense. Well, of course, he said ‘wasn’t me’. But this reporter,” you say, your voice lilting up as he shoves the entire cookie into his mouth, chewing as he rounds the kitchen counter, reaching you, stopping just a few feet from you. “But eye witness testimony undisputedly puts him at the scene of the crime as well as the evidence of…” you cough, a laugh squeaking out anyways, “chocolate at the corner of his mouth. This leads to a supposed guilty verdict, but how does he plea?” You hold the recorder out to him, but he shakes his head, removing it from your hand, setting it on the counter, and lifting you up, tossing you over his shoulder, in a way that annoys you because he does it often. 

            It’s just easy for him. 

            “Clark!” you cry, your palm slamming into his back. “Put me down!”

            “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’ sound. “Because my plea is that I haven’t had enough sweets.”

            “What? You just ate a whole cookie, what are yo—oh,” he hears you say, hears the change in your heartrate, smells the change in your body and hurries back to the bedroom, slamming the door closed and laying you on the bed, pressing a chocolate-tinged kiss to your lips.

            “What kind of crime am I committing now?” he whispers, his body above yours, your hands digging into his back. 

            “I mean,” you whisper, voice husky in a way he loves so much, “if you don’t do something now, it will be committing a crime and not one you want to find out.” He laughs as he slides down your body, loving the way you look in his clothes, pulling boxers down, off your body, leaving you bare from the waist below. 

            “Golly,” he whispers before lifting your legs onto his shoulders, pressing kisses against your inner thighs, “I love you.”

            “Clark,” you whisper, shifting, arousal growing, your pussy glistening, “get on with it.” And he does. 

            And always and forever, will you be the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. 

“Bunny,” he called, resting his temple on the door and knocking with two knuckles. “Is everything okay in there?”

Silence. 

Clark sighed, not with exasperation, but something decidedly… similar. 

These moments always happened at the thrift store. You would drag him out on a weekend to sift through mothy old clothes with tags from the 2000s skinny crisis, and then you would get upset when they didn’t fit. If it were up to you, you would buy them all and try it on at home– it took all of Clark’s power to even convince you to get in a dressing room most times. And while he didn’t lack empathy for the feeling of something not fitting, he just couldn’t seem to understand why you would do something like that to yourself. Part of you knew that used clothes were a risk for a girl of your body type, and you insisted on it anyway, being green or money-smart or what have you. It was a mystery to him. Clothes shopping for girls just seemed like a torture ritual to him, and he wished you were a little kinder to yourself.

He knocked again. “Bunny, come on. Answer me.”

He had a feeling this would happen. You had been eyeing a skirt since you walked in– it was on an end-cap display. Some long, flowing thing, a deep emerald tie-dye wash with little green beads stitched into spiral designs. It had that reminiscent style he would have seen on Buffy or some 90s television show; some whimsical, witchy number that was very you to want. But it was a large. When you first checked the tag, you gave that tilted little frown of thought, and walked away– the maybe frown. Clark knew then that you would keep your eye on it as you traipsed through every aisle, wondering if you could squeeze into it, or if you should just move on and hope to find something else you liked better. Something less of a gamble. You of course shimmied it off the mannequin and insisted on trying it after making a loop. Clark had no doubt you would look beautiful in it, but he just felt that gut-tugging feeling that the whole situation would not end well. Clearly, he was right.

“Baby, please? Open up the door.”

He heard a small sniffle before the lock clicked, and you cracked the door, peeking out. Your eyes were watery as crystals, and he gave you a sympathetic little smile. “Open a little more.”

You pouted and pulled the door wide enough for him to slide past, then shut it behind you quietly. “Don’t say anything, okay? I already know.”

Clark tried to be nice and hide the growing smirk on his lips. As he let his eyes trail over you, he saw the abundance of your thighs straining the skirt thin, and the zipper hung open on the side of your round tummy like wilted leaves. It was too small, for sure, but you were just so cute when you looked dejected. “Know what?”

You crossed your arms and looked at your feet, nudging the floor with the toe of your boots. “You’re giving me the look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“Yes you do,” you glared, “that… I told you so look. Like you think I’m stupid for trying stuff on.”

Clark’s smile fell instantly and he wrapped his hands around the meat of your arms, rubbing up and down the skin gently. “Hey, no! I don’t think you’re stupid for anything, bun, why would you think that?”

“I… it’s just… you know how– well–”

Clark stepped a hair closer and cupped your cheeks, guiding you in to press a chaste kiss on your wrinkling forehead. “Take a second. String the words together.”

You released a breathy grumble and let your forehead fall into the dip of his chest, closing your eyes. “I don't think you think that. I’m sorry. I just– I knew it wouldn’t fit, and you even told me it wouldn’t, and you weren’t being mean, you were right, and I did it anyway and… now I’m just disappointed.”

Clark rested his chin atop the crown of your head, sighing in understanding. He raked his fingers through your hair out of habit. “Don’t be. You don’t have to feel bad because your body doesn’t work for something, things should work for you, remember? They’re only clothes.”

“I know, but sometimes I just feel so–”

“Do not say fat,” Clark squinted at you, nudging your head up. “We’re past that. Or do I have to make a scene in this store to remind you?”

Your cheeks flooded, and to his pleasure, a reluctant little smile graced your lips. Shyly, you mumbled, “No…” as a handful of moments came rushing back– moments where Clark showed you exactly how fat was never a bad word in his house, and how much use there was for that warm, soft body of yours…

Clark chuckled low at the dreaminess which crossed your face, and he traced his thumbs just below your eyes. “See? Don’t get in your head. You know you’re just right.”

“Mhm,” you nodded, burrowing into his hands. It only took a second to slip your arms around his broad back and squeeze, inhaling the fresh-laundry scent on his sweatshirt.

Clark hugged you tighter and spoke into the warmth of your temple. “Screw the skirt. You’ve got plenty.”

“I know, but I liked it.”

“I’ll find you a better one.”

“You don’t know the first thing about–”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He pulled back with a sarcastic little grin, poking at your cheek. 

You laughed and swatted him away, but he refused to release you from his arms. “Clark– hey, stop it!”

He jostled you until you yelped quietly, and he paused to see your hands shoot down. The unfastened skirt slipped right off your legs and pooled at your feet, and you were stuck in your panties, flushing red in the face. Clark burst into laughter and wrangled you back, even as you whined about how embarrassing the whole thing was.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Clark snickered, tickling the dips of your waist, fingers pressing into the rolling flesh. “I’ve seen you naked a million times!”

You gasped for air and fought between laughter and frustration. “Shut up! I– ah– let go!”

Clark only relented when you began to hiccup, because those only came once you really couldn’t breathe. He smoothed his palms over the abused skin and grinned, dipping to kiss your jaw. “Do you feel better? Did you forget?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, that makes me remember.”

“Remember what?” Clark hummed, as if his joke had all the intelligence in the world. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll take you to the mall.”

“But–”

“I’ll pay for it,” Clark promised, cradling your skull and tipping you back. He slotted his lips against yours in a slow dance, and he kept it up until you stopped protesting. Only then did he whisper, “We’ll find you something pretty. It’ll be like Cinderella, all… perfect fit, meant-to-be-like.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You shush. Don’t lock me out of the dressing room next time.”

The apartment was completely empty.

The white walls still smelled of fresh paint, and every step echoed across the hardwood floors without a single piece of furniture to soften the sound.

Once the realtor finished showing you around, you wandered through the place together.

Clark was studying it with the kind of focus you'd expect from someone diffusing a bomb.

You were already deciding where the couch would go, which wall would be perfect for hanging paintings, and where your shoes would inevitably end up piling together.

It wasn't until you reached the hallway that you frowned.

"Babe."

Clark looked up from the kitchen.

"Yes, honey?"

"It has three bedrooms."

"Uh-huh."

"It's just the two of us."

"Yeah..." Your boyfriend didn't seem to understand what the problem was.

"So why do we need three bedrooms?"

"Because it can be your studio," he answered as if it were obvious, gesturing toward one of the empty rooms.

You raised an eyebrow.

"My studio?"

Clark nodded as he stepped into the empty room, taking in the walls, the window, and the late afternoon sunlight spilling across the floor, already picturing it as yours.

"You can put your pottery wheel here. Your easels and sewing machine would fit a lot better. We can keep all your yarn, your brushes... You wouldn't have to pack everything away every time people came over. You'd have more space. More privacy, hon." He said it so naturally that he didn't seem remotely aware of how enormous that gesture was.

To Clark, there had never been another option. It was simply logical.

Your silence made him turn around.

"Unless you don't want to... We can keep looking."

"No. It's perfect." You shook your head. "It's just... I've never had a studio before."

He smiled with that quiet tenderness that seemed woven into his very existence. After crossing the room, he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Well... now you do."

In that moment, you knew you couldn't have chosen a better man to build a life with.

"What about the third bedroom?"

Clark pursed his lips, thinking.

"We'll figure something out."

Months later, you'd discover your boyfriend had always known you'd eventually claim the third bedroom too. Simply because there wasn't enough room in your studio for all your hobbies.

"Sweetheart."

You looked up from the sculpture you were restoring.

Clark was leaning against the doorway of the museum's conservation studio, wearing that smile reserved exclusively for you.

"Ready?"

He almost always picked you up after work. It didn't matter if it was raining, if you got out late, or if Perry White had just sent him across Metropolis to cover a story.

The only thing capable of stopping him was a criminal particularly determined to destroy the city.

Other than that... he always found his way back to you.

Sometimes you'd walk home together.

You loved wandering through the city together as the sun began to set, stopping for ice cream along the way or simply talking about nothing at all while your hands stayed intertwined.

But whenever you were too tired to walk, Clark would simply pick you up and fly you home.

Dating Superman definitely had its perks.

Like flying all the way to the museum just because he missed you... and discovering halfway through having sex in the employees' restroom that the walls were surprisingly sturdy.

Over the next few months, the apartment stopped feeling new.

The first thing anyone saw upon walking in was a photograph of the two of you kissing beneath the falling snow the day Clark asked you to be his girlfriend, just above the pressed flowers from the bouquet he'd given you that afternoon. Beside it was the first front page he'd ever made at the Daily Planet. Farther inside the apartment—framed just the same—was your name written across the sky in clouds by Clark.

A half-finished scarf rested over the back of the couch in the living room.

The bookshelves were crammed with novels, plays, and CDs that Clark insisted on organizing by author, while you kept rearranging them by color just to mess with him.

And perched on a shelf, a cactus was slowly dying because neither of you could ever remember to water it.

In many ways, the apartment had become a museum of your relationship.

One afternoon, Lois showed up with an urgent lead she needed Clark to look into.

You were knitting tiny hats for the Fortress robots. Clark was reading.

She watched the scene for a few seconds before saying that you acted like grandparents.

She took it back a week later after walking in on the two of you hurriedly pulling your clothes back on in a storage room at the Daily Planet.

You were heartbroken when Clark refused to ever have sex there again.

It had taken time to get there. To find that perfect balance between peace and chaos.

Getting used to Clark had never been the difficult part.

It was getting used to the man who disappeared halfway through dinner because a bridge had collapsed, who showed up late because someone needed saving, who sometimes came home bruised and battered.

And who, despite everything, always smiled the moment he saw you.

Little by little, Clark learned how to quiet your fears. And little by little, you learned to stop waiting for the worst every time he disappeared.

Because loving each other was easy.

Maybe you knew how to restore paintings that had survived for centuries. Maybe Clark knew exactly what words to write to expose an injustice.

You painted, knitted, made pottery, drew. He could lift buildings with his bare hands.

But loving each other...

That was the one thing that never seemed to take any effort.

It was perfect. Ridiculously perfect.

Then your phone vibrated against the worktable.

"We need to talk after work. Not over the phone."

"So... you're taking care of Clark's cousin now?"

The question breaks the silence that has settled over lunch with your friends for nearly a full minute.

The three of them have just heard your very condensed version of the past few weeks.

You simply take another sip of your coffee.

"Well, I'm not doing it alone. It's... Clark and me."

One of them frowns.

"Clark."

You nod.

"The same Clark you've only been living with for a year?"

"Yes."

"Your boyfriend—not your husband—who's always late 'cause he keeps having... 'emergencies'?"

You grimaced.

"Yeah..."

"And now you're raising a teenager?"

"We're not raising her."

They look at you like you've completely lost your mind.

"Girls..." You sigh. "I chose this. I'm an adult. I'm his partner. And... Kara didn't have anyone else."

That part, at least, is completely true.

You've been extremely careful about how much you tell them. After all, you can't exactly say: "She's an alien teenager whose planet exploded. Her cousin happens to be Superman, who also happens to be my boyfriend."

So you've simplified the story.

Kara is Clark's cousin. She lost her entire family. And now she lives with the two of you.

That's enough.

One of your friends sighs.

"So... how's that going?"

The question catches you off guard.

You think about your answer for a second before forcing a smile.

"Good."

The three of them fall silent again, exchanging a glance before turning back to you.

"Three days ago you texted us saying that girl hated you."

"She doesn't hate me..." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh, though you don't sound entirely convinced. "I was being dramatic. She's been through something horrible. She misses home. She misses her family. She doesn't know anyone here."

Your gaze drops to your coffee.

"I know what that's like."

They immediately understand what you mean, but you try to lighten the mood before any of them can reply.

"We're doing better."

Absolutely no one at that table believes you.

Especially not you.

Two weeks earlier, when Clark sent you that message, he apologized for scaring you, but he still arrived at the museum earlier than usual.

You were already waiting for him, your coat on and purse slung over your shoulder, as always.

The only thing that was different was the knot twisting in your stomach.

"We need to talk."

You'd been living together for a year, and the only recurring argument you'd ever had was about the obscene amount of salt you insisted on putting on almost everything you ate.

You had no idea what could possibly have led to this conversation.

And it terrified you.

Clark came walking toward you, a backpack slung over one shoulder, moving with that slightly awkward gait he always had whenever he was nervous. But he wasn't alone.

Walking beside him was a girl. A teenager.

You blinked several times, your gaze darting between the girl and your boyfriend—already wearing an apologetic look.

Before logic had a chance to intervene, your brain reached the most catastrophic conclusion imaginable.

That's his daughter.

Clark has a daughter.

Your boyfriend—the one you've been living with for a year—has a daughter he's somehow never mentioned.

The air left your lungs.

He noticed the exact moment the color drained from your face, immediately hurrying toward you with one hand half-raised.

"No," Clark said, already sounding dangerously close to panicking. "No, it's not that. It's not what you're thinking."

Without taking your eyes off him, you whispered, horrified. "You have a daughter?"

"No!" he hissed back.

The girl looked between the two of you with obvious confusion.

He took a deep breath. "She's... my cousin."

Suddenly, you remembered how to breathe.

A second later, your fist was already halfway to his chest before you remembered there was a teenager standing less than three feet away.

"That's what all the suspense was for?" you demanded. "Clark, I thought you were about to tell me she was your daughter! Or that you'd cheated on me! I didn't know your parents had siblings, but what's the problem?"

"Good gosh, no!" Now he looked completely horrified. "First of all, I would never cheat on you, and I definitely don't have any children." He paused to catch his breath. "And second...that's not what I meant."

"So what?"

Clark swallowed.

"Remember the ship I've been tracking?"

"The one you thought was Kryptonian." You nodded slowly, trying to piece everything together.

"Yeah... Kara was inside." He glanced at the girl. "We never imagined there'd be a teenager... or that she'd turn out to be my cousin. But... that's how it was."

You studied him for a few long seconds, saying nothing. Long enough to make your boyfriend visibly anxious.

"Okay..." Finally, you let out a slow breath. "I mean... wow, but... okay."

He nervously licked his lips before reaching for your purse, slipping it over his shoulder alongside the backpack.

"I'm sorry for showing up like this. I wanted to surprise you by telling you I'd found the ship, but... I was the one who ended up surprised." His voice grew quieter and he let out an incredulous laugh. "I couldn't leave her alone. And I didn't want to tell you something like this over the phone. She doesn't speak English. She's completely alone and..." His smile faded almost immediately. "She doesn't have anyone left."

"Hey..." You gently rubbed his arm, slowly shaking your head. "It's okay. You don't have to apologize. We'll figure it out."

Clark closed his eyes tightly for a moment.

"I don't want to force this on you. I don't want you to feel like you have to take on something this big when we haven't even talked about having kids." The words came tumbling out, as if he'd rehearsed that speech the entire drive over.

Kara looked back and forth between the two of you. She didn't need to understand English to realize her arrival had just turned both your lives upside down.

"You're not forcing me into anything." You took his hand, looking him straight in the eyes. "I'm your girlfriend. And one who has no intention of letting you go through this alone." It didn't matter that, on the inside, you were terrified.

Standing perfectly still, he finally released the breath he was holding ever since leaving the Fortress. Clark looked at you as though he still couldn't quite believe you'd actually said that.

Then he kissed your knuckles. And then your forehead.

"I'm so in love with you."

You couldn't help laughing.

He smiled too before turning toward the teenager.

"Kara."

You raised a hand in a shy little wave—with absolutely no idea whether that meant "hello" on Krypton or a formal declaration of war. So, you decided to trust the odds.

She answered with a smile so small, and so forced that something inside your chest tightened.

While his cousin wandered off to study one of the paintings in the hallway, you leaned closer to your boyfriend again. "Just one question."

"Yeah?"

"Are you absolutely sure you two are really 'the Last Son and Daughter of Krypton'?" You lowered your voice even further.

Clark already knew exactly where this was going the second you used that tone.

"I mean, another cousin isn't just gonna show up? Or a long-lost aunt? A secret wife? Five children scattered across the universe?" You pointed an accusing finger at him. "I'm not about to find out you have another life besides being Superman—like—a third life?"

Clark was genuinely concerned by your remarkable ability to imagine catastrophic scenarios, but, as always, it softened into a mixture of resignation and affection.

"I can assure you," he said at last, "I'm not married... I don't have any children... and I definitely don't have a third life."

You narrowed your eyes for a moment. He seemed to be telling the truth, so, slowly, you nodded.

"Okay." You took a deep breath. "Then let's go home."

Clark smiled softly before pressing another kiss to the top of your head.

The decision had already been made.

You were going to take care of Kara.

At first, you were far too hopeful.

On the way home, Clark explained everything Four—the robot from the Fortress of Solitude—had translated: Argo survived for years. Kara's mother had died slowly from radiation poisoning. Her father sent her to Earth when there was nothing left to save.

By the time you reached the apartment, the girl remained silent as her eyes wandered over the photographs on the walls, the framed paintings, the dried flowers you'd carefully preserved, the books lining the shelves.

The home you and Clark had spent the last year building together.

And you couldn't shake the feeling that all it did was remind her that hers no longer existed.

The room that was meant to be hers didn't help much either.

Only a few hours earlier, it had still been one of the places you disappeared to whenever inspiration hit.

There were paint stains on the walls, a few forgotten paintbrushes, balls of yarn scattered across the floor, scraps of fabric draped over a chair, and several half-finished craft projects waiting to be picked up again.

The moment your boyfriend stepped inside, he let out a sheepish little laugh.

"I forgot this was your little lab."

Looking around the room, suddenly you just wanted to crawl under the bed.

"We could give her my studio..."

"No. That's yours," Clark answered softly. "This'll be her room." He looked around the room for a moment before turning back to you and his cousin. "Just... not tonight."

You managed a faint smile.

"I'm so sorry." Even though the girl couldn't understand a word you were saying, you started gathering up balls of yarn, paintbrushes, jars of paint, and open sketchbooks. Clark crouched beside you almost immediately, after setting Kara's backpack down next to the bed.

Neither of you said another word.

That night, she went to bed fully dressed without eating a thing.

As you watched her for a few moments, your heart ached for everything she'd been through.

All those years you'd spent trying to rebuild yourself after the fire that destroyed your home had been leading to this. Because you knew what it was like to lose a home. You knew what it meant to start over.

And you were convinced that if anyone could understand Kara... it was you.

You thought that would be enough.

Clark closed the bedroom door with the same care someone would use when trying not to break something that's already broken.

He leaned against the hallway wall for a few seconds.

Then he looked at you. As if he wanted to ask one last time if you were really sure about this. As if he wanted to tell you it wasn't too late to change your mind.

And, at the very same time, beg you not to.

You rose onto your tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

"Hey..." You cupped his face for a moment. "We'll be fine." A soft smile appeared on your lips. "It's us." You paused. "We're two adults who love each other. We have good jobs. And we're perfectly capable of taking care of someone in our family."

For the first time since leaving the museum, Clark smiled.

A real smile.

"I love you."

"I love you."

Silence settled between you before he spoke again.

"I guess..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We're gonna have to start using the car more."

"Why?" A small frown tugged at your brow.

"'Cause we can't exactly fly everywhere anymore... or even walk everywhere if it's the three of us."

It took you a second to understand what he meant.

A normal couple with a teenager didn't fly across the city. A normal couple with a car... used the car.

You couldn't help smirking.

"Well, look at that."

Clark looked up.

"What?"

"You're already thinking like a..." You dropped your voice dramatically. "Father figure."

His smile faltered, and even in the dim hallway, you caught the faint blush creeping across his cheeks. He opened his mouth to protest.

"I'm not—" He stopped himself as you stepped closer and slipped your fingers into his.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, yes, you are."

Clark let out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head, still unable to understand why you believed in him so completely.

You watched him for a few seconds before repeating: "We'll be fine. It's not like we just opened a daycare."

"Yeah... about that..." He grimaced, lowering his voice. You raised an eyebrow. "There's a puppy..."

"You adopted a dog?"

"No." Clark shifted awkwardly. "Well... kinda, but not really." He sighed. "He came with Kara and... I didn't really feel like I was in a position to tell her we couldn't keep him."

You took a slow breath.

"So... we have a Kryptonian dog."

He nodded very, very slowly.

Immediately, your mind filled with memories of all the things he'd accidentally destroyed.

The headboard pierced clean through by his heat vision while he was making love to you. Coffee mugs crushed to dust between his fingers whenever Lex Luthor pushed him too far. The bent balcony railing after one too many fights, when he'd misjudged his own strength.

If a grown Kryptonian still had accidents... What would a Kryptonian puppy do?

Oh, God, what would a Kryptonian teenager do?

"And..." Clark cleared his throat and you looked at him expectantly. "I was thinking..." He hesitated for a second. "Maybe I could bring Four tomorrow. He could... translate until one of us learns the other's language."

A quiet nod was all the answer he needed.

You weren't entirely sold on the idea of living with either a robot or a Kryptonian puppy, but it didn't seem like there was much of an alternative.

You took a deep breath.

It was decided.

You were going to take care of Kara.

Her Kryptonian puppy, too.

And apparently, Clark's robot would also be joining the household.

Because you were two responsible adults.

Because you loved each other more than anything.

Because you wanted to do this right.

You could do it.

Your friends drive you home after spending half an hour very deliberately avoiding the subject of Kara.

The moment you open the apartment door, the first thing you hear is:

"Krypto! No! Drop it!"

You don't even have to look. It's exactly what's happened every single day for the past two weeks.

Still, you step inside and set your purse down on the kitchen island.

Clark is chasing Kara's puppy around the living room.

Krypto has a shoe clamped firmly between his teeth. Not just any shoe—one of Clark's.

"That's not a toy!"

Trying to get away, the puppy launches himself straight toward the ceiling.

He bounces off it, sending a fine cloud of dust drifting onto the rug, before landing right back on the floor and taking off again.

Your boyfriend is right behind him.

Four—somehow now your household's unofficial translator—watches the entire scene unfold.

"The domestic canine has committed theft."

"I noticed," Clark mutters.

"Bruh."

"I still don't know where you keep learning those words, Four." He actually stops chasing the puppy just to complain.

Kara is sitting on the couch with a book in her hands, looking thoroughly embarrassed as she watches her dog race around the apartment.

She's the first one to notice you.

"Hey," you say.

Clark looks up. His entire expression changes instantly.

"Hey!" he finally manages to rescue his shoe, ignoring Krypto's indignant barking and walking over to kiss your cheek. "How was your lunch?"

"Great."

A lie. But Clark smiles anyway.

You aren't sure whether it's because he believes you or because he needs to.

Then he turns toward Kara, asking if she'd like anything in particular for dinner now that you're home.

He carefully strings together a few words in Kryptonian. His pronunciation is still awful, and Four corrects him at the end, but it still makes you smile.

"Anything is fine."

Four translates in Kara's own voice.

The answer is short. A little distant. Not quite rude. And after a few seconds, she glances at Clark, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly in an attempt at a smile.

It doesn't quite work, so she looks back down at the book Four translated for her.

He only hesitates for a second before nodding.

"Okay." Clark smiles—even if it's nothing more than a tired line across his lips—before turning back to you as if that brief exchange hadn't just punched him straight in the heart. "And you?" he asks. "Anything you're in the mood for, sweetheart?"

"Pasta sounds good." Now it's your turn to try smiling. It's probably more convincing than either Kryptonian's.

You just hope it's contagious.

Settling onto the couch, you leave a careful gap between yourself and the girl—not too close, but not too far away either.

"How was your day?"

Four translates the question.

"Fine." Kara doesn't even look up for a moment. After a brief pause—as though reminding herself she should—she finally lifts her eyes to meet yours. "Thank you..."

You nod, just like Clark.

And that's when you look around.

A Kryptonian puppy who's now decided one of your couch cushions is far more interesting than Clark's shoe. A robot wearing a tiny knitted hat. Your boyfriend's alien cousin putting on a pair of noise-canceling headphones. And your boyfriend—Superman himself—trying to wipe dog slobber off a shoe while practicing an alien language.

And somehow, the robot is still your favorite of the three new additions.

You try to remember why you'd been so certain this was going to work.

The panic shopping the very next morning.

Trying to guess Kara's size.

Painting over your own experimental murals.

Cooking everything you knew how to make because you had no idea what Kryptonians ate.

Even Krypto.

Especially Krypto.

Together, you'd poured so much of yourselves into making that place into a home for her... never imagining that only a few weeks later, it would become the very place where all three of you would begin to feel like strangers.

Every time you look at Kara, you keep thinking the same thing.

That you can help her because you understand her. That you desperately want to help her because you can't bear the thought of her spending years trying to save herself all alone. That you have so much of yourself to give her.

You thought that would be enough.

No. The last thing either of you had planned was staying at work this late. When you finally looked up from your monitor and noticed the clock, a weight settled in your chest. It was already almost four in the afternoon, and the two of you had important plans. You let out a deep sigh as your fingers moved to your forehead, gently massaging your temples in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up after so many hours staring at the screen. The exhaustion lingered in your eyes and at the back of your neck, but you couldn't complain out loud because you knew Clark was just as tired.

The overtime had been an unexpected punishment. Just as the two of you were packing up to leave, backpacks already slung over your shoulders and excited to get an early start, your boss had called you into his office. Perry had explained that he needed your help with a breaking story, that Lois was out of town with Jimmy, and that there was no one else he could trust. It wasn't really a request—it was an order disguised as a favor. And even though deep down you knew there hadn't been any other choice, you couldn't stop yourself from feeling a little frustrated.

You glanced over at Clark, who was sitting beside you with his fingers still resting on the keyboard, his face illuminated by the glow of the monitor. His blue eyes moved quickly as he read through the files the two of you had spent the past several hours reviewing. Despite everything, he didn't seem nearly as bothered as you were. Maybe because he was more patient. Or maybe because he genuinely believed everything would work out in the end. But you knew him well enough to recognize the tiny line that formed between his brows whenever something weighed on his mind, and right now it was there, etched into his forehead like a small crease.

You reached over and rested your hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of his shirt. You gave him a gentle squeeze, hoping to reassure him with such a simple gesture. Clark turned his head toward you, and your eyes met. There was no need for words anymore. The bond between the two of you had grown strong enough that sometimes silence said everything.

"We'll make it there on time," you whispered, leaning closer to place a brief but tender kiss against his dark curls.

For just a moment, the scent of his shampoo surrounded you—that familiar smell you had long since begun to associate with home and peace. Clark nodded slowly as a faint smile appeared on his lips, though you noticed it looked almost forced, as if he were trying to convince himself that everything would be okay.

"I know," he replied quietly, but his voice carried far less confidence than his words.

It was Friday. Under normal circumstances, the two of you would already be back at your apartment by now, changing clothes and getting everything ready before heading out. Your usual time to leave work was three in the afternoon, but that week you had requested permission to leave early—specifically at one-thirty. The reason was the town festival, the annual Smallville tradition that Clark had looked forward to with the same excitement ever since he was a child.

Clark had spoken about that celebration with so much enthusiasm that you couldn't help but catch his excitement every single time he brought it up. He had told you that during that special time of year, the people of Smallville filled the streets simply to spend time together. Some handed out little bags of candy to children, others served hot coffee or pumpkin juice to the adults strolling through town, and the more generous families prepared homemade dishes to share without charging a single cent. It was a celebration of community, kindness, and togetherness. And for Clark, who had grown up there, it meant far more than just another fair.

He had told you that when he was little, his parents would take him walking through the streets lit by hundreds of warm lights, and every year he felt the same comforting warmth blooming inside his chest. Seeing neighbors smiling, sharing food, and chatting with one another had become one of the memories that shaped who he was. That was why, this year, Clark had told Martha and Jonathan that he wanted to hand out his own candy bags to the children. Martha had volunteered to bake her famous chocolate cookies the week before, and he had been genuinely excited about giving them away with you by his side.

Even while he told you these stories, his eyes sparkled in a way that always made you smile without even realizing it. You already knew Martha and Jonathan—you had met them during your third month of dating, when Clark decided it was finally time to introduce you to his family. And now, after eight months together, your relationship had become much more serious. You couldn't wait because this would be your first year celebrating in the town where Clark had grown up, where he'd spent his childhood, and where he'd learned to become the man he was today.

More than anyone else, you understood what all of this meant to him. It wasn't just about handing out candy. It was about sharing a piece of his childhood with you, showing you the streets where he'd run as a little boy, the places where he'd hidden with his friends, and the little shops where he'd bought ice cream during the summers. Clark had even insisted on driving there in his pickup truck, despite having the ability to fly there in seconds if he wanted to. But to him, tradition wasn't about getting somewhere quickly. It was about arriving with your heart, living every moment, and enjoying the journey without rushing.

"The truck makes it more special," he'd told you one evening over dinner. "It's not the same as flying there. Driving down the highway, watching the scenery change, seeing the town lights appear in the distance... that's part of it."

And although you knew he was right, you also understood that the real reason he wanted to drive was because it meant more time together. More time to talk, to listen to music, and to watch the sun disappear behind the endless cornfields. Clark wanted to show you the entire drive again, even though you'd already done it before, because he insisted that this particular night was different. He said the people of Smallville lined the roads with glass jars filled with candles, placing them along sidewalks and lamp posts until they created a glowing path that welcomed every visitor into town. They also hung colorful papel picado decorated with stars, pumpkins, and little animals that danced in the breeze, making a soft rustling sound that felt like a constant whisper accompanying everyone who walked beneath them.

You remembered perfectly the day Clark came home carrying two enormous boxes. Three weeks earlier, you'd heard the front door open and walked out of the kitchen to see what he'd brought.

"Honey, where have you been? What's all this, Clark?" you asked as you watched him lower both boxes onto the floor without showing the slightest sign of fatigue despite their size and apparent weight.

Clark smiled—that smile of his that always made you feel as though everything in the world was exactly as it should be.

"It's everything we need to make the best candy bags for the kids," he said proudly as he placed the boxes on the living room table.

Curious, you stepped closer while he opened one of them. Inside was a large black bag, and when you unzipped it, you found dozens of clear cellophane treat bags, perfect for packaging candy. But what truly caught your attention were the designs printed on them. Every single bag displayed a brightly colored image of Superman, his red cape billowing behind him and the famous crest emblazoned across his chest.

You picked one up and looked back at him with a raised eyebrow, trying to hide your smile.

"Superman?" you asked, amusement coloring your voice.

Clark shrugged, putting on an innocent expression.

"There weren't any others, sweetheart," he said.

There absolutely were.

You knew he was lying. He had gone to several candy stores and craft shops, and you knew perfectly well he could have found bags decorated with animals, flowers, or just about anything else. He had chosen those on purpose.

Before you could tease him about it, he cupped your face in both hands, gently cradling your cheeks, and kissed you. It was brief, but overflowing with affection—the kind of kiss that made you forget whatever complaint you had been about to make.

"I didn't greet my girlfriend when I got home, and that's just bad manners," he said.

Then he leaned in again and placed another soft kiss on your forehead, as though he wanted to make absolutely sure you knew just how important you were to him.

The weeks passed, and the two of you worked on the candy bags together. Every evening after dinner, you'd sit in the living room with the television playing softly in the background while filling each bag with colorful candies, chocolates, and the cookies Martha had sent. Clark carefully tied every single bag shut with ribbon, making sure each one looked perfect. You helped by counting the candy and organizing everything into boxes so nothing would get crushed.

It became a project the two of you shared—one that somehow brought you even closer together.

But then Friday finally came.

Just as the two of you were ready to leave, Perry had called you into his office, and suddenly the entire plan had fallen apart. Now, after hours of unexpected overtime, you had finally finished. Clark had told you he'd already sent over the files, and you quickly reviewed them to make sure everything looked right.

"I got them. I'm just going to check everything over," you said as you moved your mouse across the screen.

He nodded and remained silent for a moment, watching you with that intensity that sometimes made you feel nervous—but in the sweetest way. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and when you looked up, you found yourself meeting his blue eyes.

"Do you really think we'll make it in time to hand out the candy bags to the kids?" he asked, and there was a trace of uncertainty in his voice, as though he feared all the effort he'd put into this would end up being for nothing.

You let go of the mouse and looked directly at him, your confidence coming from how badly you wanted this moment to be special for him.

"Yes, Clark, we will," you answered firmly. "I'm not going to disappoint those kids... and I'm definitely not going to disappoint my boyfriend."

You watched a faint blush spread across his cheeks.

He lowered his eyes with that shy little smile that only you ever got to see—the one that always made you want to wrap him in your arms.

The two of you focused on work for a few more minutes, and finally, when the clock struck four in the afternoon—an entire hour past your usual time to leave—you clicked the Send button.

"Done," you sighed in relief, leaning back in your chair for just a second.

You picked up your bag and glanced at your watch.

The festival started at seven, but you still had to stop by the apartment first. You needed to grab your backpacks with your clothes and personal belongings, along with the three boxes filled with the candy bags you'd spent weeks putting together with so much care. After that, you'd have to head out onto the highway from Metropolis, and traffic at this hour was always horrible.

You quickly did the math in your head.

It was four.

You'd get home around four-thirty.

Leave again by five.

With traffic... you'd probably arrive in Smallville around eight that evening.

Four hours altogether, counting the city traffic and the drive to town.

You sighed.

Maybe it wasn't enough time.

But giving up wasn't an option.

"We'll have to take the shortcut back to the apartment," you murmured, almost to yourself, as you slipped your laptop into your backpack.

Clark looked at you in surprise.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his eyes instinctively scanning the empty office hallway, as though making sure no one could overhear.

"Yes," you replied without hesitation, adjusting your bag over your shoulder.

The two of you made your way up to the rooftop of the Daily Planet without anyone noticing. After saying goodbye to Perry with polite smiles and quietly slipping out of his office like two teenagers getting away with a prank, you hurried through the empty hallway toward the staircase that led to the roof.

The afternoon wind hit your faces the moment you stepped outside.

Clark reached for your hand while making sure no one had followed you.

Below, the city stretched endlessly, overflowing with traffic, noise, and movement.

But none of that mattered right now.

The only thing that mattered was getting home as quickly as possible.

Clark wrapped a firm arm around your waist, and you instinctively held onto the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his body pressed against yours as he prepared to take off.

It wasn't the first time you'd flown with him.

But every single time, your stomach still tightened the instant his feet left the ground.

The wind whistled in your ears as the city blurred into streaks of lights and colors beneath you while he effortlessly wove between skyscrapers with a grace that never stopped amazing you.

Only seconds later, the two of you were hovering outside the window of your apartment.

Clark carefully slid the window open so you could climb inside without any trouble.

He helped you through first, keeping a steady hand around your waist while you stepped one foot inside, then the other.

The moment your shoes touched the living room floor, you turned just in time to watch him slip in behind you with the same effortless agility as always.

You didn't waste a second.

You hurried toward the bedroom, pulling both backpacks from the closet and placing them on the bed to make sure everything was packed.

"Don't carry anything heavy, sweetheart," Clark said from behind you as he approached with quick steps. "Just make sure we have the chargers and our jackets."

You nodded without stopping your inspection.

You unzipped both backpacks, reaching inside to feel for the phone charging cables before checking that the portable battery packs were still where they belonged.

Then you walked over to the closet and pulled out two thick jackets. Even during that time of year, Smallville nights tended to get chilly.

You folded them quickly and laid them neatly on top of one of the backpacks.

While you were doing that, Clark had already started changing.

He slipped out of his work shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket before pulling on a loose plaid button-up and a pair of well-worn but comfortable jeans.

You changed as well, trading your office blouse for a soft sweater and a pair of dark pants that were much more practical for walking around town.

Your work clothes joined his in the laundry basket.

Once you were finished, you grabbed the large travel bag where you packed both jackets, the chargers, and a few personal belongings for the two of you.

Meanwhile, Clark had already carried the backpacks and the three boxes filled with candy bags down to the entrance of the apartment building, carefully stacking them so nothing would fall over.

You quickly ran through a mental checklist to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything: the truck keys, the jackets, the candy, the backpacks with extra clothes, the chargers, and your phones.

Everything was ready.

Finally, you pulled the apartment door shut with a firm click, and Clark picked up the jackets you'd packed, draping them over his arm while you grabbed one of the backpacks.

The two of you headed downstairs to the parking garage, where Clark unlocked the truck with the remote. The rear doors swung open, and he loaded every box and backpack with the effortless strength that never failed to amaze you, arranging everything neatly in the back while you climbed into the passenger seat.

The engine rumbled softly to life.

Clark settled behind the wheel, adjusted the rearview mirror, and pulled out of the parking garage.

The drive to Smallville was a long one, but one of the many wonderful things about being with Clark was that he could spend hours talking about something without ever growing tired of it. Somehow, it always helped him relax, even when the two of you were stuck inside a vehicle.

You listened attentively as he shared stories from his childhood—about climbing trees just to watch the sunset, or about all the ways he'd hidden his powers whenever he played with the other kids in town.

Sometimes his stories made you laugh.

Other times, you simply enjoyed the sound of his voice while watching through the window as the crowded city slowly gave way to wide-open fields.

About halfway there, you stopped at a gas station.

Clark shut off the engine while you stretched your legs.

The convenience store glowed with bright white lights that contrasted beautifully against the orange sky of the setting sun.

He went inside and returned a few minutes later carrying two sandwiches, a bag of potato chips, and two bottles of water.

When he climbed back into the truck, he handed you your share with a smile.

"I didn't want us getting there hungry," he said as he started the engine again.

The two of you ate while driving, sharing the chips and passing the bottles of water back and forth.

The farther you got from the city, the quieter the road became.

Before long, the constant chorus of horns and engines had been replaced by the gentle whisper of the wind and the soft music Clark had playing on the radio.

Then, at seven-thirty that evening, you realized Clark hadn't been exaggerating.

The very moment the Welcome to Smallville sign came into view, something in the air seemed to change.

There were no impatient drivers.

No blaring horns.

None of the endless noise that filled Metropolis.

Instead, there was only a quiet sound...

A gentle murmur that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

The streets were decorated with colorful lanterns and garlands stretched from one lamp post to another.

People wandered through town carrying bags, chatting with one another, smiling as they walked.

Without realizing it, you found yourself smiling too.

Tiny lights twinkled between the branches of the trees, and several homes had carved pumpkins glowing softly in their front yards.

Everything looked so warm.

So inviting.

So completely different from the endless rush of Metropolis.

"We made it in time... isn't it magical?" Clark asked, glancing toward you for only a second before returning his attention to the road.

His smile was genuine.

His eyes shone with the same excitement they always did whenever he talked about his hometown.

"It really is," you whispered, feeling as though words simply weren't enough to describe how beautiful everything looked.

Clark steered the truck toward Smallville's town square, where a large crowd had already gathered.

Rows of tables had been set up, and many of the townspeople were already serving food and drinks.

He parked nearby and turned off the engine.

The two of you climbed out, leaving your backpacks inside the truck and putting on only your jackets now that the cool evening air had begun settling in.

Clark opened the back of the truck and effortlessly lifted all three boxes of candy bags, stacking them on top of one another as though they weighed absolutely nothing.

He carried them over to where his parents were standing.

The moment Martha saw him approaching, an enormous smile spread across her face when she noticed the two of you together.

"I'm so happy to see you both!" Martha exclaimed as she hurried over and wrapped you in a warm, tight hug.

She still carried that familiar scent of fresh baking and cinnamon that always made you feel at home.

"We baked more cookies for when you got here," she added as she stepped back, smiling at you affectionately.

"We're sorry we're late," you said, unable to hide the guilt in your voice for not having been there from the beginning, even though you knew it hadn't really been your fault.

Martha simply shook her head and gave your arm a gentle pat.

"That doesn't matter," she said warmly. "What matters is that you're here."

Meanwhile, Jonathan walked over with his usual calm stride and kind smile.

"Clark texted us," he said, giving your hand a firm shake before pulling his son into a quick hug. "But I'm glad you both still made it."

Clark had already opened the boxes and begun taking out the clear cellophane candy bags decorated with Superman.

The children nearby immediately crowded around him the second they spotted the candy.

It didn't take long before a small, makeshift line had formed.

Every single child greeted him like he was an old friend.

Some happily called out, "Clark!"

Others simply giggled and stretched out their hands, eager to receive their little candy bags.

Martha and Jonathan took their places beside one of the tables and began handing out the chocolate cookies they'd baked earlier that afternoon.

You walked over to Clark and stood beside him, watching the way he treated each child with endless patience and kindness.

His eyes sparkled as he handed out the candy bags, asking each child how they were doing or whether they'd already gone to see the town lights.

Every child who stepped up received one of his genuine smiles, and some of them even thanked him with quick little hugs that he happily returned.

"Hey, Clark... is she your girlfriend?" a little boy asked, pointing at you with a curious finger. A dinosaur backpack nearly as big as he was hung from his shoulders.

Clark looked at you, and his smile only grew wider.

"She is," he answered immediately, without even a second of hesitation. "She's my girlfriend."

The little boy stared at you with wide eyes before looking back at Clark.

"She's pretty."

You laughed softly and bent down to hand him an extra candy bag.

His face lit up, and he ran off toward his friends without another word.

Then, from somewhere behind you, you heard a woman's voice that made you stop in your tracks.

"I'm sure Clark's already practicing for when the two of you have kids," she said playfully, clearly teasing.

Both of you froze for a moment.

You didn't recognize the woman, but you were certain Clark did. In a small town like Smallville, everyone knew everyone else.

Turning around, you saw a group of women standing near the cookie table, watching the two of you with knowing smiles.

"Martha must be thrilled," another woman chimed in.

Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks.

An older gentleman standing behind them added in a deep but friendly voice,

"Wedding first, don't you think?"

Clark kept handing out candy, nodding politely as he did, but his eyes drifted toward you with an expression that mixed embarrassment and affection.

Once the line of children finally began to thin out, he quietly walked over to you and gently took your hand.

"Don't feel pressured..." he whispered, leaning close enough that only you could hear him. "You know how people are around here... everyone gets involved in everyone else's business."

He smiled sheepishly.

"I know you want to focus on your career first... and I support that."

"Your dreams come before mine."

As he spoke, he lifted his free hand and gently brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, carefully tucking it behind your ear with such tenderness that a lump formed in your throat.

"I'm not feeling pressured, Clark," you assured him, holding his gaze.

"I'm not afraid of imagining a future with you... a wedding... children," you admitted aloud for the very first time, surprised by how steady your own voice sounded.

"In fact..."

A small smile spread across your face.

"It's one of my dreams."

Clark simply stared at you for several seconds.

He didn't say a single word.

It was as though he was trying to process everything you'd just told him.

Then, slowly, he leaned in and kissed you.

It was a soft kiss...

But it carried every feeling the two of you couldn't possibly put into words.

You kissed him back without hesitation, closing your eyes as the warmth of his lips melted against yours.

Around you, several neighbors who had been watching couldn't help reacting.

"Awww..."

A few chuckled fondly.

Others smiled to themselves.

The sound made you smile against Clark's lips before you pulled back just enough to look at him again.

Fear simply didn't exist when you were with Clark.

Whenever he was by your side, everything felt easier.

Lighter.

Even talking about a future that, not so long ago, you'd never dared to imagine now felt natural...

Beautiful...

As though it were the only thing in the world that truly made sense.

You let the rhythm of his breathing lull you back into a state of sleepiness, but as you close your eyes and sense yourself drifting off, you feel him shift around carefully, running his hand down your back and settling across your hip with a loving grip. You don't move, hoping he was simply stirring, and allow you to hold onto the moment a little longer.

"Morning, honey," he mumbles, burying his tired face in your neck, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your throat.

Of course, he could probably sense the change in your heart rate. You knew better than to think you could get anything past Clark.

"Good morning, baby," you reply, your voice coming out a little breathy. Clark could always do this to you, even after being together for so long, make you flustered from just a little kiss and some cuddling.

He holds you tighter, blushing at the sleepiness of your voice. He slips a hand under your sleep shirt--the huge band tee you stole from Clark, but really, he gave to you--and rubs warm circles on your waist. He moves his head slightly away from yours and lets his gaze linger on you, hair decorating the pillow and head burrowed into his side.

"You're so beautiful, honey," he coos softly. You hide your face, a bit overwhelmed by Clark's adamant need to dote on you so early in the morning.

He kisses your hair and mutters, "I love you like this. Messy hair, bare face, in my--I mean our--shirt."

He chuckles at the last part and you finally lift your head to meet his in a slow, intimate kiss.

"I love you, Clark," you mumble into his lips. And you meant it with your whole heart. Truthfully, there wasn't anything you didn't love about him. He was passionate, thoughtful, and so damn stubborn. He gave so much of himself to others, and still, he saw you and loved you in every way. Most importantly, he was your Clark, the most loving best friend and partner you could have wished for.

"I love you, honey. So much," He says, finally pulling away from you and swiping his thumb softly over your cheek. "You ready to get up?"

"Just a few more minutes," you whisper, already getting comfortable back in his embrace. You finally close your eyes and let his soft kisses in your hair put you back to sleep.

He knew he shouldn’t have done that stupid job. Ollie insisted on it, of course. The idiot swore to him that if he only broke into the lab and got the hostage scientists out, the League would round up the rest. He promised that there wasn’t anything Clark had to be careful about, no dangerous substances or valuable equipment. Even when he pressed on what they were making in that lab, Ollie had dismissed him with a smirk and said, Just do the job, Big Blue, and save the day, okay? And now he knew he should have never listened. God, Ollie could be such a prick sometimes, always keeping something from him. 

It had to be then. When he flew through the glass wall and shattered it. He remembered scooping up the hostages and shielding them behind his body to absorb the bullets raining from the kidnappers; they were in the rafters of the lab. He managed to grab one who hopped down and flung him across a table, and a few vials shattered. Clark watched for a split second as a pink powder plumed into the air, and suddenly the scientists were screaming and running for their lives through the glass. Clark didn’t waste another moment, he simply blew a big puff of air to knock the remaining attackers down around the top of the room, and he swept away, leaving the scene for Ollie’s guys to comb. 

He should’ve known when everyone started running that he’d released something in the air. Only scientists would be afraid of something inside a vial. And now he was suffering the side effects of it. Very, very loudly.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Huh? I didn’t say anything,” the cashier flushed. “Just… waiting for her order.” 

As you stood beside him, arm looped through his and studying the menu at the coffee cart, Clark felt his neck burning. The girl behind the station was not hiding her curious eyes well, and he could’ve just sworn he heard a string of words come out of her mouth that were entirely inappropriate. They rang in his ears clear as day: “God, what a lucky bitch. I can’t believe she gets to fuck this guy, he looks huge.” 

The girl’s mouth didn’t move. He was staring right at her. Yet, he heard the words. There was no doubt someone said them. Clark did a quick scan of the street, but they were the only people on line. The voice was close, so it had to be her. You wouldn’t have reason to say something like that. He scratched the nape of his neck in confusion. 

After a minute of hard decision, you smiled at the cart girl and asked, “Could I get that horchata cold brew? That sounds so good!”

“Absolutely,” she nodded curtly, giving Clark an unusual glance before turning the card reader over for him to swipe. “I’ll get that started for you.”

As the girl shifted to make their drinks, he leaned down and whispered in your ear, “Did you hear what she said?”

“What do you mean?”

“Before you ordered. She said something really, like, vulgar,” Clark winced. 

You chuckled softly, furrowing your brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you sure? She seems sweet.”

“She does,” Clark pulled away, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s probably nothing.”

When the cart girl handed over his black coffee and your sugary concoction, he gave her a restrained grin. When you tugged his hand back in the direction of the Daily Planet, though, he heard the same voice again, almost as if it was against his neck: “Man, he is just unreal. She better take advantage of all that.”

Clark’s entire body tensed with shock. There was definitely, definitely something in that powder. His hips ached.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

The next one was even worse, because it was Cat who had the next word. Cat Grant, who was equally impaired by the stick up her ass as she was willing to flirt with every man in her eyeline, was leaning over your desk and checking a story edit. When Clark came by to offer you a refill on your water, she smiled up at him.

“So attentive,” she teased. “I never thought I’d see the day Clark Kent stopped fumbling files and started dating coworkers."

“Hello to you, too, Cat.”

You kissed his wrist as he patted your cheek and handed him your bottle. “I’d like that, actually. Thanks, Clarkie.”

Clark felt mushy for a moment at the name, and as he moved to step toward the water cooler, he heard Cat say, “Clarkie? God, that’s lame. I’d be calling him Daddy or something, at least.”

Clark whirled around quickly and sputtered at the blonde. “What did you just say?”

Both yours and Cat’s heads flicked up, wide eyes peering at him like a couple of spooked meerkats. Cat frowned. “What?”

“What you just said,” he pointed at her accusingly. “That– you can’t say stuff like that! We’re at work!”

Cat snickered and quirked an eyebrow. “I think you need to get your ears checked. I didn’t say anything, Kent."

He huffed in exasperation at you, but you were no help. You seemed completely confused by his behavior. Confused and so cute, all tucked into your dress and waiting for your stupid water refill. Clark grumbled, “Forget it,” and walked away. 

As he stood idly at the water station and watched the bottle fill, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering towards what other names you might call him if prompted. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

It only got more ridiculous as the day dragged on. Almost everybody at work had something entirely insane to say about you and him together– or rather, think. None of them were speaking at all, he discovered. He was hearing their thoughts. That was the only explanation. That powder gave him the ability to read people’s minds, and he was horrified. People were so much more perverted than he imagined. 

When you stopped for groceries on the way home to work, the cashier– some teenage boy with a nice zit right on his nose– thought, “Man, I bet he puts her through the mattress.”

The girl who lived two apartments over was getting her mail out of the lockboxes in the lobby when they came through the front door. After a brief and courteous hello from you both, she thought, “I wonder what position they do it in most… he seems like a doggy guy.”

And then again, when they were walking up the stairs, she followed them up, and Clark heard, “I’d do anything to see them fuck. It’s probably so hot.”

By the time Clark got into the apartment, he was sweating and embarrassingly hard. He’d been fighting it off all day, but after hearing so many ideas and seeing so many mental images of you and him doing nefarious deeds, he couldn’t keep up. He was still half-human, after all, and desperately in love with you, and not to mention incredibly weak. Only so many people can be indirectly told how fuckable their girlfriend is before they collapse under the weight. 

He got to work putting the groceries away, hands eager and somewhat trembling as he ushered you out of the kitchen. You smiled suspiciously, hanging your coat by the door, and you leaned in the archway. “What’s gotten into you today?”

“What do you mean?” he muttered shortly, stocking the fridge. He hadn’t even taken his coat off. It was… disguising him. 

You studied his jerky movements in the low light. Clark never acted like this, so clumsy and jumpy. He could be awkward here and there, but he’d left behind the bumbling act a while ago. Something had to be bothering him, you were sure of it. You crossed your arms. “You’ve been acting off all day. Accusing people of saying things they never said, blushing, stammering… what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” he lied, pushing a few cereal boxes into the cabinet over the counter. “I’m fine.”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“I’m not hiding anything, really! I mean it!”

Clark knew it wouldn’t be long before you found out. He was an awful faker. He stared at you, shifting his weight between his feet, fussing with the buttons on his jacket. He could feel your smirk burning into him like a brand. 

You thought to yourself, You don’t want to tell me? Fine. I guess I’ll shower alone then. “Okay. Just don’t forget to put the eggs on the top shelf. I’m gonna go wash up.”

Clark nearly whimpered at your conflicting tones. You wouldn’t press him, you never did, but now he knew that you were sassing him behind those eyes, thinking of punishments, judging his actions. The erection in his pants was painful enough to make him see stars. He shoved the eggs in the fridge carelessly before following you. You didn’t make it halfway down the hall before he was grabbing you up and pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. 

“Mmf!” You squeaked, startled by his sudden ferocity. “Clark– hey!”

“I breathed something in,” he panted, hands tugging at your blouse, slightly tearing the seams. 

“What?” You wriggled, trying to stop him from ripping the shirt clean off. His pupils were so large you couldn’t even see the blue in his eyes, and his cheeks were so dark they could’ve been purple. “Clark, easy!”

Clark whined pathetically and buried his face in your neck, licking at the skin. Something terrible was overcoming him. All those thoughts, all the time spent alone inside his head today with you, it was making him insane. He worried that the powder was influencing his hormones. He didn’t want to hurt you. And then again, he was worked up after eight incredibly jarring hours. Maybe any man would lose his mind. 

“The other night," he groaned, tasting the salt of your skin and nearly blacking out. “That lab rescue– mm– with Ollie. Breathed something in, some powder… can hear people’s thoughts.”

It was hard to listen when he latched onto the weak spot behind your ear, but your concern still radiated. “Wait, you what? Why didn’t you say anything?” Fucking idiot, you thought. 

“Don’t call me an idiot,” Clark smiled against your neck. 

Your heart dropped like it weighed a ton. “You heard that?”

“Mhm.”

“...Woah,”

“Yeah, woah,” Clark laughed, but then he scooped you up by the thighs. The throbbing of his cock against your leg was quite apparent now, and your lashes fluttered through an onset of desire. “All day, been hearing things… people think about us…”

As he barged into the bedroom and tossed you down, you yelped and erupted in laughter. Clark crawled over you as you inquired, “Like what?”

“People are disgusting,” he offered, yanking your body free of that shirt-and-pants prison. You frowned as he tore the clothes, but he’d buy you more, he always did. “They see us together and think about what we do. When we’re alone.”

You gasped as he reattached himself, teeth sinking into the meat of your chest. Your fingers sunk into his hair. “Like about us sleeping together?”

“Yeah,” he grunted, helping you unbutton his shirt. “Perverts.”

“I think you’re the pervert,” you grinned, dragging him up to get another look at that wild face. “You listened.”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t be so horny if it bothered you,” you squinted playfully. “You liked it. What did they say?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Clark laughed incredulously.

“Why not? Come on!”

“Because it’s– it’s wrong! You shouldn’t hear what people think about you! Besides, what they– you’re– no,” he stuttered, flushing darker than should be possible, even for a Kryptonian.

Your smile widened. “They must have thought some dirty things about me if you’re so embarrassed."

Clark hid in your shoulder, grinding helplessly against your thigh. 

“About you?”

Clark’s hips stuttered.

“Oh, baby,” you giggled, “you are so hopeless.”

Clark studied the stars behind his eyelids as he rutted against your leg, whimpering like a dog. “I just really need you… I think I might explode, I don’t know if this is a side effect or what, but just– please.”

You scratched at the base of his neck and tilted your head. Then, because you were cruel and decided he deserved it for being so withholding, you thought very clearly: Show me what they thought. Fuck me like they imagined. 

Clark’s head shot up, and you cackled at the pretty expression of surprise. It was all fun and games until he tossed you onto your stomach. 

“Woah– oof!”