Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.

One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.

The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.

He'd made Clark watch you die.

Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.

The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.

The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.

He needed to see you.

The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.

But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.

So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.

The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.

His knees nearly buckled.

He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.

Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.

“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”

He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.

The contact nearly undid him.

You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.

“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”

Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.

“Clark,” you whispered.

“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”

The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.

She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—

“Clark.”

Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.

“Clark, look at me.”

He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—

Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.

“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”

He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.

“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”

He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.

“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”

This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.

“Good. So good. Now out...”

He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.

“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”

She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.

“...and out.”

Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.

“In...”

It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.

“...and out.”

She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.

“In...”

She's alive.

“...and out.”

She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.

Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.

“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.

“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.

Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.

“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”

He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.

“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”

Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.

“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”

You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.

“Feel that?” you asked.

He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.

“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”

“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”

“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”

You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.

“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”

He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.

“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”

Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.

You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.

"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”

Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”

“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”

“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”

Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”

“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.

You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.

When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.

You kissed him again.

But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”

He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.

“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.

He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.

“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”

His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”

“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”

Clark blinked. “What?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”

A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”

“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”

And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.

“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.

You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.

“Stand up,” you said softly.

He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.

“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”

He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.

“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.

You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.

“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”

“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.

“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”

He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.

The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.

You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.

“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”

He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”

“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”

He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.

“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”

Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”

He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.

“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”

He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.

“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”

He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.

“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”

He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.

“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”

He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.

And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.

He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.

“Clark—”

“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.

You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.

“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”

You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.

“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”

He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.

“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”

“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”

He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.

“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”

“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”

He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.

“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”

“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”

He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.

“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”

“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”

He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”

“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”

Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.

“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”

You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.

Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.

“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”

“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”

You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.

“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.

“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”

Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.

He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.

adrian and chris had been at the bar for at least an hour. it was their regular bar they always met up at after work, usually with the other 11th street kids. but, even with all the hours spent drinking here, adrian had never seen you here before. trust he’d remember that face.

you honestly didn’t look like you belonged there, too pretty, too sweet looking. this dark, dingy bar didn’t deserve to have you in it. he noticed you the second you had walked in. about a half hour ago with your friend, a look on your face that read you’d rather be anywhere else, maybe it was your friends idea to come here, maybe that’s why he’s never seen you. you nursed one drink and chatted causally to your friend sitting across the table from you. adrian, ever observant, didn’t take long to notice a few cute little habits of yours (twirling the same piece of hair, messing with the lemon on the side on your drink, crossing your legs and kicking your foot almost nervously)

“dude, you’ve been staring at that chick for like 20 minutes, it’s getting creepy. when are you gonna go talk to her?” chris’ words snap him out of his daydream.

“what? i have not been staring at her!” adrian tries to defend himself.

“hey man it’s ok! she’s kinda cute. go buy her a drink!”

“first of all she’s way more than “kinda cute”, second of all—“ adrian’s eyes suddenly snap over to chris, who now has a huge grin on his face.

“i knew you were staring at her!” chris laughs, slapping adrian on the back,

“look, i’ve never seen you actually have the hots for a girl before, you need to go talk to her!”

“ew, i dont “have the hots” for her,” adrian grimaces.

“all im saying is if you don’t go talk to her soon….” chris sighs, adrian’s eyebrows pushing together.

“…i’m going to,” he rests a hand on adrian’s shoulder.

adrians eyes go wide.

“please don’t.”

“i’m gonna have to,” chris shrugs.

“no! fine. ugh! i’ll go,” adrian slowly and nervously gets off the shaky bar stool he was sitting on next to chris, reluctantly making his way in your direction.

you saw him across the bar, of course you did. he’s been staring at your friend basically the entire time you guys have been in here. you’re used to guys staring at her, she’s gorgeous.

it’s only a matter of time before he saunters over and cringingly asks to buy her a drink, it happens everywhere you guys go.

you never get hit on and honestly, you don’t really mind. the guys that usually hit on your friend are….unique looking… to put it nicely. and of…. below average intelligence with little to no emotional maturity or respect for women. again, to put it nicely.

you much prefer to be left alone, your distaste for men growing everyday anyway (especially the losers in these bars). it makes you feel bad for your friend even though she doesn’t seem to mind much. ordinarily giving the guy the time of day, for reasons unknown to you.

aaaand here he comes, right on cue!

he’s nervously wringing his hands and adjusting his big silver glasses again and again as he approaches. you stare into your drink, awkwardly stirring the straw as you wait for the usual dorky pick up lines.

“hi, uh, i’m adrian. and i just um…was just wondering if you would be ok with me buying you a drink?” he clears his throat as a beat of silence follows.

god, this guy sounds like he’s never talked to a girl in his life.

the silence drags on and finally, you look over at your friend to see why she isn’t answering him to find her staring at you. with furrowed brows you look up at the man to find him staring at you as well.

you look side to side with just your eyes.

“were you talking to me?” you ask with a monotone voice.

“well yeah,” he gives a small nervous smile and pushes up his glasses again.

you laugh dryly at his response and he presses his hands together again, his shoulders starting to slump, looking like a kicked puppy.

“sorry, this was dumb. i’ll just go.” he mumbles.

“no wait, you’re seriously asking to buy me a drink?” you raise an eyebrow.

“yeah?” his voice shakes a bit.

“why?” you cross your arms.

“why?” he repeats.

“yeah, why?” you stare at him, eyeing him up and down.

“cause…well cause, i think you’re pretty and my friend said that this is what you do when you think a girl in a bar is pretty,” he gestures behind him at his muscular friend who tips his beer bottle towards you with a smile, taking a sip.

you laugh at him again and look him over some more.

he’s actually sorta cute, in a dorky way. he looks like he’d have a comic book collection and unfortunately you’re into that.

“i guess so?” you’re still unsure but you look over at your friend who’s smiling brightly and giving you double thumbs up.

his eyes go wide and his smile stretches across his entire face, “really? sick!” he clears his throat again, “uh, i mean, what would you like? to drink, i mean,” leaning on your table. he’s really trying to be “cool” but it’s not working at all.

you give him your drink order and he shoots finger guns as he turns to make his way to the bar. hitting himself in the forehead with his palm and shaking his head on his way over there.

your friend immediately grabs your hand.

“oh my god! he’s a cutie! and so nerdy! just your type!” she giggles.

you let out a small laugh,

“he’s probably just talking to me cause he was too nervous to talk to you first. 20 bucks says he’ll ask me for your number.”

“what? why would he do that?”

“you think guys don’t ask me for your number?”

her smile falters, “but he seems into you! and he was so nervous, it was so cute!”

“girl, guys are never into me. they don’t ask me out and they definitely don’t ask to buy me a drink,” you tilt your head at her.

“well maybe because you’ve never met this guy! maybe the universe was waiting!” she grips your hand tighter.

“ok that’s a little dramatic for a guy i just met at a bar,” you roll your eyes at her.

“omg he’s coming back! and i “conveniently” have to go to the bathroom,” she winks at you and shoots up out of her chair to leave you alone. your hand extends towards her and you open your mouth as if you’re going to yell at her not to leave you when the man sets your drinks down.

“i’m back!” he smiles brightly at you.

“i see that,” you nervously reach for your drink.

“what happened to your friend?”

there it is.

“what happened to your friend” trying to casually bring her up so he can ask if she’s single.

“i’m not giving you her number. if you want her number you should’ve just asked her, buying me a drink is not—“

“i don’t want her number?” he looks at you like you’re crazy.

“you don’t?”

“no, why would i? am i supposed to? cause i really don’t. i didn’t even notice her there until i walked up to your table, really. why would i ask to buy you a drink and then ask for your friends number, that’s crazy!” he laughs, probably louder than appropriate.

“you’d be surprised how many guys think that works.”

you grab at the stem of the cherry in your drink as he looks at you in surprise.

“is that why you were kinda mean when i asked to buy you a drink?” he asks sheepishly.

“oh, was i mean?” you ask condescendingly, pouting slightly.

“yeah you kinda scared me,” he admits while still smiling at you.

“and yet you still bought me a drink.”

“yeah cause like i said, you’re really pretty. i wanted to talk to you. well actually, to be honest, i didn’t wanna talk to you. i didn’t think you’d talk to me, but my friend kinda made me,” he winces.

“first of all you didn’t say i was “really pretty”, you just said pretty. also it’s great that you’re only talking to me cause your friend made you,” you roll your eyes at him.

“no that’s not why!” he waves a hand towards you.

you stare blankly at him.

“ok technically- if you wanna get technical, that is why. but it’s because he really wanted me to talk to you,” he defends himself, his voice getting a bit higher.

“i wouldn’t stop staring at you and he said it was creepy.”

“you were staring at me?”

“yeah, who else?” he laughs again like you’re crazy for thinking any different.

“it probably was creepy.” you deadpan but then give him a slight smile so he knows you’re joking.

“i wasn’t trying to be!” he whines, throwing his hands up.

you let out a small laugh and then pause for a moment,

“what was your name again?”

“adrian!”

“ok, adrian. what about me is so pretty to you?”

“you want me to tell you what i think is pretty about you?”

you nod, knowing he’s not going to have anything to say and you can prove that he really wants your friend.

“ok…well,” he begins, voice slightly shaky,

“the first thing i noticed was your eyes. they’re so big and pretty, i couldn’t stop looking. i like your outfit too, i don’t wanna sound like a perv but it looks really good on you. also your hair, it looks so soft and shiny. and your um, your lips, they look soft too,” he gets quiet at the end of his sentence but you still heard.

“and you smell good! which i didn’t know obviously until i was near you but still, you smell like a strawberry field!”

suddenly, you can’t look him in the eyes and you can feel your cheeks heating up. good thing you’re wearing blush otherwise he’d be able to see how pink they are right now. you’re not used to people, let alone cute guys, complimenting you.

“oh. well, thank you for the drink,” your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

“you haven’t told me your name,” he says after a moment of silence.

“well you haven’t asked, genius,” you cross your arms.

maybe you’re being a bit meaner to him that he deserves but whatever.

“shit sorry! ok, what’s your name?”

you tell him and he repeats it back with a smile.

“did you know penguins mate for life?” he asks suddenly.

“i did know that, actually.” you say, caught slightly off guard by the random animal fact.

“well did you know spiders dance to attract mates?” he leans excitedly towards you a bit.

“so what, are you gonna dance for me?” you laugh and tilt your head at him.

“do you want me to? i can.”

and then he’s out of his seat, next to your table, hands in his belt loops, moving his hips in a circle.

“oh my god stop!” you grab at him, a bit embarrassed, and make him sit back down as you laugh so hard your stomach starts to hurt.

“did it work?” he looks at you with big puppy-like eyes.

“that dance was supposed to attract me?” you’re still laughing so much you can barely get the words out.

“yeah! it’s the best one i’ve got! maybe you need to see it again.”

“please no! it worked, okay! i don’t need to see it again!” you force him to stay in his seat, covering your face a bit with your hand.

“ok i-i’ll stop as long as you don’t cover that…pr-pretty face,” he stutters through that line, trying to flirt but he’s obviously not very good at it, grabbing your hand to move it away from your face.

“ew that was so corny,” you scrunch up your nose.

he smiles wide at you in response. his smile is actually really cute, it’s so big it takes up most of his face and he’s got dimples.

damnit.

“did you know crows can remember faces?” he tells you.

“you sure know a lot of animal facts,” you smile at him because it’s weirdly appealing.

“i know so many! i could probably take a test right now and become like a zoologist or something.”

you giggle because unfortunately his big glasses and nerdy facts are charming you.

suddenly, you feel eyes on you. turning to your left, you see adrian’s strong friend still at the bar but now with three other people, 2 women and 1 super tall man, all staring at you guys.

“do you know them?”

he looks over to where you’re gesturing and sighs.

“yea sorry, those are my best friends and coworkers. we come here a lot but they’ve never seen me talk to a girl before so they’re just being nosey. you can ignore them.”

he waves his hand in their direction as if waving them off but just as he finishes his sentence an absolutely beautiful woman with dark braids starts walking over to you.

“hi! my name is adebayo! i’m really sorry to interrupt cause this is super cute,” she points between the two of you, “but i have to steal adrian.” she gives you a sad look as adrian whines.

“nooooo, seriously? why?”

“look, i wouldn’t if it wasn’t important, okay? we have to go.” she gives him a weird look that he apparently understands and he sighs as he starts to stand up.

“sorry, i actually do have to go. i really liked talking to you though,” he pouts.

“it’s okay, i liked talking to you too,” you stand awkwardly infront of him.

“you did?” he says it like he almost doesn’t believe you but you huff out a small laugh and nod your head yes.

both of you smile at each other for a moment too long before adebayo interrupts.

“but you got her number, right adrian?” she nudges him with her elbow.

“oh shit! i would’ve killed someone if i left here without your number.” he laughs and shakes his head.

weird joke but okay.

he fishes for his phone in the pocket of his jeans that look like a dad from a 90’s sitcom should be wearing. you get your phone out of your purse and you swap, typing your number in as he types his. when you trade back he notices you put a little pink heart emoji next to your name and his stomach does a small flip.

he thanks god for ads reminding him to get your number even though, had he forgot, he 100% would’ve just found you and followed you around a bit to see you again. there was no way he was letting you get away.

“well, we really gotta go! nice to meet you girl, you’re adorable!” adebayo smiles as she drags adrian, who hasn’t taken his eyes off you, away. you give him a small shy wave, wiggling your fingers and he copies you, tripping over his own feet as the woman pushes him away.

he meets back up with the team and they immediately leave the bar, harcourt explaining that she’ll go over the mission on the way there. he steals one more glance at you before he’s shoved out the door and he can’t believe that you were already looking at him, your friend back by your side, a big smile on her face, you two no doubt talking about him.

maybe he should feel too needy about texting you immediately but he can’t stop himself. his fingers hit send before he even has his seatbelt buckled in the back of economos’ van.

adrian 🧜‍♂️: did you know that if the female spider doesn’t like the male spiders mating dance, she eats him?

why the hell did he save his name with the mer-man emoji? he’s so weird, you think as you smile to yourself.

you: good thing i wasn’t hungry

adrian laughs out loud at your response, making the rest of the team look his direction.

“awwww look who’s texting his girlfriend,” chris teases, tousling adrian’s hair.

“she’s not my girlfriend,” he rolls his eyes and unsuccessfully bites back a smile.

“this is so cute,” ads smiles.

“it’s weird. but anyway you need to focus.” harcourt adds, harshly.

adrian pouts but puts his phone away, already thinking about how when this mission is over he’s going to call you and tell you every manta ray fact he knows.

Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”

Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”

You bit back a smile.

That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.

Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?

The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.

And it made him very, very easy to fluster.

And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.

You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.

Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”

Clark didn’t even look up.

“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”

You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”

Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”

“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”

Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.

“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.

You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.

Clark reached for the biscuits.

“You want another one?”

“Yes please.”

“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.

You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.

-

Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.

Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.

“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”

Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”

You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.

“…Am I allowed?”

The room went silent.

Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.

Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.

“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.

You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”

Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.

“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?” 

You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”

Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.

Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.

Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.

“Honey, what are you talking about?”

You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”

“The cobbler…”

“Yes.”

Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”

“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”

You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”

Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.

“Clark Joseph Kent.”

Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.

“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”

Pa Kent crossed his arms.

Clark looked even more panicked.

“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”

You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”

“Why would I not want you to?!”

Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.

“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”

Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”

“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”

You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”

Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”

“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”

Clark looked genuinely devastated.

“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”

He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.

“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”

Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”

Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"

"Clark," you said.

“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”

“Clark.”

“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”

“CLARK.”

He stopped his rambling.

He looked at you.

You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.

The entire table stared at you.

“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.

You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”

Silence.

Clark blinked.

“…What?”

You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”

Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.

Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.

Clark remained frozen. “You…”

“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”

Clark looked deeply betrayed.

“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”

You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.

Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.

“I cannot believe you.”

You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.

“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"

He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.

"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”

You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.

"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."

"I know."

"In the rain."

"It wasn't raining."

"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply. 

You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.

Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.

Everyone at the table burst into laughter again.

Clark looked around defensively.

“What? She’s eating for two.”

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy

@nixandtonic @bl00dstained @vestafir @sweettbepbo @icybarness

@skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey

@soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars

@qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179

@kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser

@ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan

@randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit

@tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani

@kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie

As long as you've known Clark you've only seen him under the influence once before. It was…terrifying. The red in his eyes, the way that soft caring voice morphed into something cold and cruel. It had changed him. Down to his very core.

When it finally wore off he had morphed into a puddle of fear and guilt. Apologizing for everything that he said and did and you forgave him in an instant. You knew that Clark wasn't like you and all the baggage that came with it.

He explained that red kryptonite has wildly unpredictable affects on his kind. That each strain is a little different and will alter him in different ways. But he swore that his contact with that red rock would be incredibly rare and he'd do everything he could to make sure what happened would never happen again. And he kept that promise until today.

You aren't mad. More worried. How will this affect him? What will this do to your boyfriend? The dread seeps into your veins as you send texts to Lois to tell her to be on alert. But you don't get very far in your message when a loud crash comes from your bedroom.

"Clark!" You shout as you run into the room.

Eyes wide as you see him crumpled on the ground. His superman suit torn and burned from whatever the hell he was dealing with. The faint glow of red in his eyes make you freeze.

"Clark?" You ask softly, like approaching a baby bird.

Your heart pounding in your chest and he can hear it. He whips his head up, a look you can't quiet describe on his face. You let out a sharp gasp as he appears right in front of you, using his super speed to pin you against the wall. His eyes clouded with black and red as he stares you down.

"I've been craving you all day baby." He purrs as he buries his face in your neck. Kissing the spot that he knows makes you go weak.

"Clark wait-" You say as he wraps his arms around your waist and cuts you off with a kiss.

This kiss is so unlike Clark. It's rough and messy and desperate. Clark normally kisses with care and a certain restraint. Though you have to admit he's making your head spin with this intensity. But as much as you're enjoying it, he's not in the right frame of mind. He's not your Clark right now.

"Stop." You say firmly and you're a little surprised to see he does. His hands dropping to his side immediately.

"Wh-What did I do wrong?" He asks, lip trembling as he stares at you with the saddest eyes you've ever seen.

"Nothing honey, absoutely nothing but you're not yourself right now." You say cautiously as you see tears well up in his eyes.

"No no I've done something wrong. I went and messed it all up. I'm sorry I can fix it I promise." He starts to pace back and forth. His cape swooshing rapidly behind him.

"I love you so much, I love you I can't…" You watch in shock as tears fall down his face. What has this strain of kryptonite done to him? His voice catching in his throat as he looks at you.

"Baby, you haven't done anything wrong." You reach out to touch him but he flinches.

"No. I. You were scared of me earlier. I saw it, I heard it. I could hear it. You're scared of me." He shouts.

He saw the way you approached him with fear deep in the back of your mind. Unsure of what he'll do or how he'll react. He remembers the way he made you cry the last time he was infected with red kryptonite. That red rock that is another trace of his home planet. Of his true origins. It hurts him but it's also a part of his life that reminds him that no matter how hard he tries, he will always be an alien.

"I don't want you to be afraid of me. I love you I need you please don't leave me please please." Your heart breaks as Clark falls to his knees.

Looking up at you like you're a god when he's the one from another planet. A violent desperation takes over his whole body as he crawls to you. Hands reaching to grab your waist and pull you close.

"I'm so lonely." He whispers, his grip tightening on your shirt. You stifle a sob as you gently rest your hands on his face.

"I've always been so different and I've tried so hard to blend in. To become like you and your people. I love you and I love metropolis and I love how humans sing and dance and how badly they want connection and how people feed stray dogs and hold the door open and say please and thank you to strangers." He rambles as his tears stain your shirt.

"I love my life with you and at the planet but god I feel so lonely sometimes. I'll never be human to you or the world." You feel a couple tears roll down your face as you kneel down. His head hangs heavy in your hands as you try and get him to look at you.

"That's not true Clark." You say firmly but he doesn't seem to hear you, trapped in the storm of his own mind.

"Yes it is and I'm terrified you'll wake up one day and see it too." He whispers.

"Oh baby." You crumble too his words becoming too much to bear.

"I love you Clark. I love you and that's all that matters."

"And what if that's not enough." He looks up at you. He looks defeated as he reaches out and brushes his thumb across your lips.

"You love me but what happens when I have to miss another date because of who I am? Or an anniversary? Our wedding? What if I miss our kids first day at school or their soccer game and they sit and wait for me but I don't show up because no one else can do what I do?" He can't ignore the call to help and it would only be human for you to give up on him. You may love him but love can only take you so far.

"So we'll figure it out." You try to say but he just he scoffs.

"You don't get it. You'll never get it." He snaps.

"What if one day I get you killed?" He squeezes his eyes shut as the very though makes him sick.

"You won't."

"You don't know that. I watched Lex Luthor put a bullet through an innocent man's head all because he helped me up." His voice chokes up again. He wipes his eyes but the tears aren't giving him any respite.

"What do you think someone would do to my friends? To the love of my life?" He questions and you don't have an answer. Well you don't have an answer Clark would like.

"You die and it's all because of me. Because I wasn't fast enough or because I have to pick between you or the world." He doesn't think he's strong enough to make that decision.

"All of this is so far in the future, we'll take it one step at a time." You don't miss the way he mentioned starting a family or marriage. Things you haven't really talked about yet with Clark.

"I think about the future so much. I build this fantasy in my head and I've never wanted something so badly." He admits.

"I love you. I love you so much it hurts but how much can love carry the burden until it crumbles." You press your forehead against his and hold him as tight as you can. His arms lay limp at his side and it makes your chest tighten.

"I know that you're alien and I know what your duty to the world means. It's part of the reason why I love you so much. I understand and even if I don't I know you and I trust you with every fiber of my being. Please Clark, you have to listen to me." You beg.

Whatever strain of kryptonite this is has completely clouded his mind. Bringing his insecurites bubbling to the surface and exploding all at once. He's never been this raw and vulnerable before and contrary to what he thinks, he's never seemed more human. He pulls your hands off him and stands up, walking over to where he flew through your balcony door.

"You can say it's fine, but one day you'll get sick of it. Sick of me. I didn't ask to be sent to Earth but I chose to be this." He gestures to the symbol on his chest. The crest of the House of El. His blood.

"Clark this is just the kryptonite talking." You try and get up but hiss as a shard of glass from the window digs into your hand.

Blood pools in your hand as you try and pick the glass out of your hand. Yet another sign of your biological differences. He stiffens at the sight of you hurt and kneeling on the floor. A flood of emotions crashing over him again.

"Oh god." He whispers.

His hands reaching out to you but stopping just short. You're hurt because of the glass he created by smashing through your door. He was reckless, careless. Only thinking about himself.

You're hurt because of him.

He hurt you.

"Stop it, I'm so serious Clark you stop that right now." You snap seeing the panic in his eyes. You need him to snap out of it, to just listen to you god dammit.

"But I-"

"Enough! You're scared I get it, so am I. I'm scared that you'll go off one day and never come back. I'm scared that you'll find someone else and I'm scared that one day you'll face an enemy that's too strong even for you." You cry and the tears that fall down your face make send a sharp pain right through Clark's heart.

"But I've never been scared of you. Of what you are. I love you Clark Kent. I love your alien side and your human side. All of it. So please, just come here because I need you." Your voice breaks as you reach out for him.

He tenses his jaw, taking in the scene before him as the red kryptonite slowly starts to leave his system. His hands clench tightly at this side as more insecurities swirl around his head. But you're hurt and you need him and that seems to push through all the noise.

He brushes the debris and glass aside and away from you. He gently wraps his cape around your hand to stop the bleeding. The deep shade of blood blending with the vibrate red of his cape. The one that's supposed to represent hope and everything good.

This exposure has completely wrecked him. What happens when it wears off you don't know. But it breaks your heart to think that he's been carrying this for so long and you won't tell him but the fear that he's right sits deep in your heart.

His head rests in your lap as he holds your hand tightly. He watches as the blood spreads and he lets out a quiet whimper.

"Don't leave me, please please just don't leave. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." His whole body shakes as he buries his face in your lap.

"I won't honey, I'm right here." You brush your free hand through his hair. Combing it gently as he cries in your lap.

She’d booked the rooftop venue with a suspended dance floor two months ago. There was a signature cocktail in her honor. A hashtag already circulating. A photographer somewhere in the crowd waiting for candids. 

There was no ditching this one.

So, you’d both cleaned up nicely and showed up on the dot.

Clark in black-on-black, collar open enough to see the line of his throat. You in that dress, the one you bought with trembling resolve and a credit card you almost put stuffed back in your wallet. Short. Sleek. Nothing about it said farmer’s market or Sunday potluck. 

Now, heat bloomed across your chest, your dress clinging to your sweat-slicked spine. Your hem rode up high from how often you shifted, and the breeze did nothing but toy with your hair.

The cocktail in your hand was the only cool thing about you. Lime slice half-drowned. The bass from the lower floor traveled up through your heels and into your calves, steady and intoxicating.

Lois burst into laughter beside you, head tipped back toward the open sky. Cat murmured something wicked in response, and your own giggle slipped out. You leaned into Lois’s shoulder, tipping your drink back for another sip just to keep your hands busy.

Clark stood just behind you, half turned toward Jimmy, head ducked as he listened to whatever dating escapades his pal was rambling about. He swirled amber in his glass with a tilt of his wrist. You knew that was for show, but he liked the illusion, the social rhythm of it.

Cat turned to you suddenly, manicured fingers plucking your drink from your hand before you could protest.

"Enough hovering!" she declared. "C’mon, girls. I wanna dance!"

Lois whooped immediately and spun toward the stairs.

You let yourself be pulled, pulse rising, laughter bubbling up again, but not before you brushed your fingers over Clark’s forearm as you left his side. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, raising your hand for a tiny wave.

He lifted his glass in a silent toast, go on, have fun, topping off with a soft, lovestruck grin, before turning back to Jimmy.

Your heart fluttered, and turned toward the music with a carefree laugh.

.

Things started out easy. 

Bass rolled under your feet. Strobe lights swept overhead. Sweat clung to your forehead, but it didn’t matter. You, Lois, and Cat stayed close, hands brushing, shoulders knocking, your cocktail buzz sitting perfectly in your veins. 

You were glowing, safe, and happy to be in this moment.

You didn’t realize someone joined the tight circle until a hand landed on your hip. 

It was firm, cold, fingers pressing into your dress like your body was something he’d purchased admission to.

Your smile fell instantly. The buzz you’d been riding the last hour evaporated. The music kept playing, but it felt further away now. A little less sparkle, a little more static.

Turning your head, you saw a man, older than you, maybe. Or just overconfident. Radiating some cheap cologne and entitlement. He leaned in close without invitation, cutting through your comfort like a knife

"Hey, beautiful."

You took a step back. He stepped with you, deliberately keeping close, like this was flirtation instead of an intrusion. Like he’d decided this was all harmless fun and you’d eventually laugh about it fondly with friends Monday morning at work.

Except it wasn’t funny. Not to you. Not now or ever.

Cat clocked it immediately, her expression dropping like a curtain. Lois followed suit, shifting her weight and pushing forward, placing herself between you and him to signal that he wasn’t welcome.

"Excuse you! She’s with someone," Lois snapped, her tone was the kind of warning you only gave once.

"Back off!" Cat added with a glare.

He didn’t. Of course not, that would be too easy.

"She can answer for herself," he said with a smirk, clearly proud of himself for saying it like he was taking some kind of moral high ground. His eyes flicked to Lois, then Cat, then back to you. "So what do you say, pretty lady?"

You stiffened. Your fingers curled around Lois’s, and you tugged her just slightly back towards you and Cat. You were furious. Protective—not just of yourself, but of your friends.

"I’m not interested," you answered clearly, lips tight with disgust.

The man blinked like you’d smacked him.

"You don’t have to be rude, baby," he insisted, irritation quickly dominating his tone.

"I’m not being rude, I’m saying no."

He took another step forward, ignoring Lois when she reached out to block him again. He dragged his eyes down your body, lingering where your dress clung to your waist, then where your glistening chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His tongue wet his bottom lip, not even subtle about it.

"Just one dance, baby. I’ll make it worth it."

You felt something primal rise in your chest now, something sharp and furious at his repeated advances, the repeated pet-name only one man could use on you. You said the first thing that came to mind—

"You know what? My husband's around here somewhere."

Husband. 

No stuttering, stumbling, or hesitation. Like you’d rehearsed it for months in the privacy of your own thoughts. Beneath the anger and the adrenaline was the image of Clark earlier — head tipped toward Jimmy, listening politely, but glancing at you every few seconds

"He’s not going to like you doing this," you added. You didn’t look at Lois or Cat, didn’t want to see their surprise. "You should go before he sees you harassing us."

The man scoffed, mouth tugging crooked when he snatched your left wrist. The man’s hand was a vise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your wrist, a sharp, possessive grip that made you gasp. The sound was small, lost in music.

"Really?" he smirked, amused. He forced your left hand to curl, and you wondered if he saw your pulse, a frantic counter-rhythm to the club’s beats. "Funny, I don’t see a ring."

You were about to respond—sharp, cutting, done with the conversation—when a solid wall of heat brushed your back. 

A hand brushed gently on your waist, a touch that didn’t pull or grip. It just rested. A claim without bravado. A presence you’d know anywhere and you flushed instantly.  

Clark.

His other hand closed over the man’s wrist, not with violence, but with an immovable, calm finality. The pressure on your own wrist vanished, peeled away quickly.

"Is there a problem here?" Clark asked, his voice deceptively even.

He wasn’t angry, per say, but his tone was tighter than usual. That soothing, easy tone flattened to something quiet and clipped. It was the voice you’d only heard a handful of times, when he’d seen something he couldn’t ignore. When he’d been pushed just far enough.

The man, who had seemed so large a moment ago, seemed to shrink into himself. He tried to yank his arm back. It didn’t budge. Clark’s fingers were like a cuff.

Jimmy stepped in behind Lois and Cat, muttering frantic check in's, gaze flicking between you and the man without missing a beat. Cat nodded once. Lois folded her arms, heat in her eyes.

"Hm, she said she has a husband," he scoffed, a weak, blustering sound as he gestured  vaguely to you. "That supposed to be you?"

Clark didn’t turn away. His eyes were fixed on the man, a storm brewing in their usually kind, blue depths. You saw his jaw tighten.

"Yeah," he replied. Calm. Certain. Lethal, like the crack of frost splitting a windshield. "That’d be me."

"Didn’t see a ring," the man instantly muttered, a last, pathetic stab.

"Didn’t hear my wife say anything, but no," Clark retorted just as fast, his stare just as powerful even behind his glasses. "Once should’ve been enough."

The message was clear: This discussion is over. You are leaving now.

The man faltered. He took in Clark’s height, the breadth of his shoulders that even his simple button-down couldn’t disguise, the quiet power in his stance. The calculation was swift, cowardly. With a final, grunted curse, he wrenched his arm free—because Clark let him—and melted back into the crowd, a shadow swallowed by brighter lights.

The music slowly thumped back into focus. Jimmy remained a steadying presence, his concern a stark contrast to the dance floor's neon lights. Lois exhaled sharply, her own protective fury deflating. 

"What an asshole!" she spat, adjusting her top. 

Cat, ever the poised hostess, smoothed a hand over her hair, her gaze already scanning the crowd for any other potential disruptions. She then touched your arm.

"Hey, hun, you okay? That guy was a real ass."

You blinked and nodded, your throat tight as you were still transfixed on where the man vanished. "Y-yeah. I’m alright. How are you guys?"

"We’re fine, we’re good, we’re—"

"Actually, we’re gonna grab another round. You guys...take a minute," Lois interjected, her eyes darting meaningfully between you and Clark. She hooked her arm through Jimmy’s and Cat’s with little resistance. "Come on, guys. Something tells me the birthday girl needs something stronger!"

They were gone, leaving you in a pocket of sudden privacy on the crowded floor. You reached for Clark’s hand without thinking, and he, without hesitation, threaded his fingers through yours.

When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you—lingering on your lips, tracing the rapid flutter of your pulse in your throat, before settling down to your wrist where you had been grabbed. His eyes were still dark, jaw set tight.

"Hey, you," you started, catching his attention back to your face, "how did you know? That we needed you."

Clark’s thumb traced a slow line along your knuckles before he answered. 

"I was listening to Jimmy, but I always keep an ear out," he admitted. "When you stopped laughing, I knew something was wrong. Then I heard you say no."

He didn’t elaborate further. You didn’t ask him to.

"Are you sure you’re okay?" he murmured, leaning in when the music surged louder. He gently brought your forearm up, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the fading red marks. "Lois? Cat? Nobody hurt?"

"We’re okay, Clark," you managed, raising your voice just enough to carry over the bass. You swallowed, trying to quell the thrill that had everything to do with how close he was. "I’m okay. Thank you."

He hummed, a non-committal sound that said he didn’t entirely believe your casual tone, but was accepting it for now. Still, his hand tightened around you, guiding you subtly toward a slightly less crowded, quieter pocket of the dance floor. 

Once settled, you turned into him. Your palms flattened against his chest, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath your hands. His hand remained at your hip, but he kept a deliberate inch of space between your bodies. 

"Thanks for going along with the whole husband thing," you smiled shakily, looking up at him through your lashes. "I probably shouldn’t have said it. Sorry, I just—"

He shook his head immediately, thumb stroked a small arc on your hipbone.

"Don’t say sorry, never for that," he murmured, eyes softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t fully left them. "Just irritated you had to lie to get someone to listen."

Before you could respond, the music changed again. Pulsing electronic beats faded to something slower. Heavier. A low-thumping with a sinuous, grinding R&B rhythm vibrating through the floor, curling around your ankles and into your bones. 

Clark pulled you into him as the dance floor crowded again on on cue. Chest to chest, hips aligned like clockwork. You could feel him breathe against your temple. His other hand slid from your hip to the small of your back now, less cautious, less hesitation. You felt the weight of him press against your belly, already thick and twitching beneath his slacks, already there. 

You melted into the dizzying touch, one hand drifting up to the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the warm skin just beneath the curls. The other ghosted lower, below the button of his slacks, below the waistband, teasing, testing.

"It wasn’t a lie," you finally responded, the remnants of alcohol and adrenaline making you bold. "It was a premonition."

His grip faltered for half a second feeling your fingers toy with his belt buckle, then tightened as a group of women passed behind you. He grinded you along his thigh once, rough and helpless, and you bit back a whimper. 

"A premonition?" he repeated huskily, brows furrowed. 

The crowd blurred around you. Lights and shadows smeared together. You finally pressed your palm flat over the hard line of his cock while your body made its own demands again. You reached for his large hand, guiding it down to cup the curve of your ass.

"Yeah," you confessed into the crook of his neck. "You were really fucking hot back there, calling me your wife, saying you’re my….my husband."

You tasted the word again, slowly this time. Like honey dripping off your finger.

Clark exhaled hard. He didn’t answer this time. Just held you tighter, allowing your nose to graze the column of his neck. You swore he shivered as he fisted the fabric at your bottom just a hair. Grinning, you shifted your hips, slow and deliberate. Grinding once, twice. The friction of your thighs against his drew a quiet, pained sound from the back of his throat.

"My protective husband," you drawled, lush and amused. "The one who would never let a man cross a line with me."

His breath hitched against your temple. You kissed the corner of his jaw this time, hot and slow.

"My kind husband," you gushed, rubbing your palm harder. You felt him sigh so deep you felt it in your chest. "The one who checks on Lois and Cat while still managing to look like he could ruin someone without even raising his voice."

"My strong husband," you purred, both of your hands curling around his biceps as you pressed your chest closer to his. "The one who didn’t even need to do anything. He just showed up, and suddenly the problem wasn’t a problem anymore."

Clark flexed his arms as his hips shifted forward this time. He chuckled, pained and breathless, as you squeaked. "Sweetheart, you have to stop soon."

You recovered, grinning against his skin. Didn’t let up.

"My intelligent husband," you whispered, sugar-slick and utterly devious as you tapped his glasses. "Knows better than to let me say these things on a dance floor if he’s not planning to do anything about it."

That was the final thread.

He moved before he could think, hand still firm on your ass, the other rising to cradle your jaw, tilting your face up, breath mingling with yours. His eyes burned under the strobe lights, far from playful.

"Don’t," he gritted out, his nose tracing the sensitive spot just below your ear as he leaned in. His lips moved against your skin, his heated warnings scraping over every nerve ending. "Don’t say things like that when I can’t take you home. We made a promise: No flaking tonight."

"Then don’t be so possessive, baby," you teased, nipping at his jaw. You felt him shudder. "You know how I get."

"Yeah, impossible." He retorted, though there was no real reprimand.

His hand on your ass adjusted, hiking your leg up a notch higher against his leg. The thin barrier of your dress and his pants did nothing to hide the hard, insistent ridge of his erection pressing against your stomach. The size of him, even confined, made your mouth water.

"You have no idea what it does to me. Hearing you say things like this. Seeing that man’s hand on you, hurting you."

You moaned, the sound swallowed by the bass. Your fingers tangled back in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tugging, just a little, and his head bowed, his forehead resting against yours. 

The world, the party, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy—it all blurred into a distant, irrelevant haze. There was only the heat of Clark, the smell of his skin, the desperate rhythm your bodies were finding against each other beneath shadows and rhythm. 

"What does it do?" you pressed, breathless. You ground down again, seeking that perfect, maddening pressure as your eyes remained locked on his. "Remind me again, husband?"

He answered by finally capturing your mouth.

It wasn’t a gentle in the slightest. It was a claiming kiss. Firm and demanding yours to part, and you did immediately, a soft sigh escaping you as his tongue swept in.

He tasted like the whiskey he’d been sipping and spearmint. His thumb stroked your cheek as he kissed you deep and slow and filthy. It was a kiss that said mine, that chased away the ghost of the stranger’s leer. Your hands slid down from neck, over the hard plane of his chest, down to the waistband of his pants. Your fingers played with the belt buckle once more, a silent, desperate question.

The hand on your ass squeezed, a warning and a promise. 

"Keep this up," he rasped against your skin, "and I’ll forget where we are."

You bit your lip, fighting your wicked grin. Then, just loud enough for him to hear: "So take me somewhere. Somewhere you can forget. Somewhere you can really let go for me."

For a heartbeat, he just looked at you, his gaze searing into yours.

"You’re serious?" he asked, the gentleman in him fighting a losing battle with the man who’d just staked a very public, very primal claim.

In answer, you squeezed the thick length of him once more. He jerked against your palm this time, a sharp, involuntary thrust. 

"Yes, I need you, Clark," you whispered, raw and honest. "Now. Even for a little."

Clark stared at you like he was seconds from losing it completely, then glanced at the bar behind you.

Cat was now laughing too loud at something Lois said, one hand fluttering toward a waiter balancing an entire tray of champagne. Jimmy was nodding along, chatting animatedly with a fellow party guest. 

None of them were looking at you. None of them would miss you for a few minutes.

"Come on."

He took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours, and turned, guiding you through the crowd. You weaved past dancing bodies, spilled drinks, and strobing lights that painted his broad back in flashes of reds, blues, and golds. You couldn’t help but giggle as you slipped away like teenagers, the thrill of pure, illicit excitement coursing through your veins.

He led toward a shadowy hallway marked with a glowing ‘EXIT’ sign, past a smaller placard for restrooms.

The noise of the club suddenly became muffled, a dull thump-thump-thump through the concrete walls. The air grew cooler as you both walked deeper into the narrow, unused hallway. It was lit by a single, dim sconce, the walls painted a deep, matte black that absorbed all other sound. 

The heavy fire door at the end guaranteed even more seclusion.

The second you were clear of the last partygoer heading to the bathroom down the hall, Clark spun you, your back meeting the cool, unyielding stone of the dark wall. He was on you in an instant, his body caging you in, his mouth crashing back down onto yours. 

His tongue swept into your mouth, tangling with yours. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands flying to his hair, gripping, pulling him closer. This was nothing like the soft, exploring kisses you’d shared before leaving for the party. 

This was filthy. 

This was married. 

This was the kiss of a man who’d just been called a husband and decided to act like one.

Meanwhile, Clark’s hands were greedy and searching like they couldn’t pick just one place to stay.

One remained at the back of your head, protecting it from the wall. The other slid down your neck, over your shoulder to push the thin straps of your dress down, gently groping a breast before roaming to your hip, hiking up your dress.

The cool air hit your bare thighs, and you shivered.

"Shit," he breathed against your mouth, the curse so rare from him it sent another jolt straight to your core. "The way you looked at me when I stepped in. Like you wanted to jump me right there."

"I did, Clark," you moaned, arching your back as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your throat, his teeth scraping lightly over your pulse point, ending with a gentle bite that made you cry out. "I do!"

You fumbled with his belt, a project you’ve been rounding back on the past half hour, fingers clumsy from escalating need. The buckle finally gave way with a sharp clink. The button of his pants popped open. You dragged the zipper down hastily, and pushed his pants and briefs down just enough to free him. 

He sprang out, thick and heavy, the head already glistening with precum. You licked your lips as your mouth watered, collecting spit into your palm to slick the way. You stroked him, a lewd, wet sound echoing, your thumb smearing the bead of moisture over his slit.

A groan tore from Clark's throat, deep and guttural. He pressed his forehead into the wall beside your head, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still. 

"Geez," he hissed as you stroked him. Your movements were slow at first, then faster, your thumb swiping over the slick head, spreading the wetness. 

"You’re so fucking big," you whispered, shaky with awe. You’d felt him before, inside you, countless times, but it always struck you anew. The sheer, magnificent scale of him. Being the only woman to have this part of him. "I love your cock, baby. I love how hard you get for me. How much you want me."

"A-always want you," he rasped. His hands went to your hips, yanking your dress up around your waist. The cool air hit your bare thighs.

"Lift a lil’ bit for me," he urged, one shoe tapping against your heels.

Not breaking your grip on him, you lifted one leg, then the other, letting him peel the scrap of lace down your legs and past your shoes. He stuffed it into the pocket of his pants, a possessive, thoughtful gesture that made you squeeze your thighs together. He traced your slit once with an eager finger, exhaling deeply.

"Sweetheart, you’re already—you’re so wet. All because I told some guy to get lost?"

"Y-yes, of course! It was hot!" you panted, arching he parted your folds further, circling your swollen clit with rough, perfect pressure. "C-clark!"

Your head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, your strokes faltering.

"No, call me the other thing. The other word," he pleaded, doused in want.

He pushed one finger inside you, then a second almost immediately, the stretch delicious, filling. Your inner muscles clenched around him, a wet, tight grip.

"You mean—husband?" you whimpered, your hips rocking against his hand as you gripped his shaft harder and faster. "My—husband."

He nodded, eyes half-lidded in hunger, his breath coming in harsh pants. He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside you that made your legs buckle.

You cried out, the sound echoing off the stone, and your grip on him tightened. He groaned, bucking into your hand while he added a third finger, the stretch exquisite, filling you perfectly, preparing you for what was to come. You could feel the muscles in your walls fluttering around the intrusion, aching for more. 

"That’s it, hon. Relax for me, beautiful. Feels good?"

The praise, combined with the rough, intimate penetration, had you spiraling. You dropped your head back against the wall, your breath coming out in ragged pants. 

"So damn good, baby… please—I need you."

He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth. He never broke eye contact as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around his own digits, tasting you. The visual was so erotic you thought you might come from that alone. 

"You need me how?" he asked, peppering light kisses along your burning cheeks, your jawline, waiting for your answer. 

"I-I need you t-to make love to me—fuck me—whatever you want to call it," you begged, beyond pride, beyond anything but the desperate, clawing need between your soaked thighs. "I just need you inside me!"

He lifted you then, his hands under your ass, boosting you up effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, clinging to the collar of his shirt. The rough fabric of his trousers scratched your inner thighs as he guided himself to your entrance, the broad, wet head nudging against your slick cunt, stealing your breath. 

You moaned as you kissed Clark while he pushed in. You took in the love, the possessiveness, the barely leashed power of the man who gently kiss your forehead every morning, and the one who was about to wreck you right into concrete.

It started off as a slow, steady pressure, a breathtaking stretch that burned so good. A guttural groan tore from his throat, and your own mouth fell open in a series of quiet cries as your nails dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders. You felt every inch as he filled you, stretching you open, claiming a space that felt made only for him. 

"O-oh," he breathed, his own composure shattering as your walls already started tightening around him. He didn’t move for a long moment, just held you there, trembling, letting you adjust, letting you feel the complete, overwhelming fullness of him.

"You feel... Gosh, you feel like heaven, sweetheart."

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, small huffs of air against his galloping pulse, encouraging him to move. He pulled back, almost all the way out, the drag exquisite and torturous, then surged forward again. 

The rhythm soon turned hard, desperate, a raw piston of his hips that drove you back against the stone with every thrust. Slap-slap-slap of skin on skin mingling with the muffled bass from the club. 

His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging in, holding you open for him, adjusting the angle. Each thrust rocked you, jolting you against the unyielding, rough surface, the friction of his body against your engorged clit with every snap of his hips sending sparks flying behind your eyes.

"You feel incredible like this." he grunted. He shifted his grip, one arm banding across your lower back to hold you steady, the other hand dropping to where you were joined. His thumb found your clit, circling it with rough, perfect pressure. "So—tight—warm."

You were babbling, a stream of filthy, worshipful praise buried in the crook of his neck. 

"Yes, f-fuck y-yes… so deep… you fill me up so good, Clark… please—h-harder…"

"S-say it," he grunted, his pace never faltering. "Say it again."

"My husband," you cried out, voice breaking on a particularly deep thrust. "My Clark. My good, strong, incredible man. Fuck me."

One of the thin straps of your dress had slipped entirely down your shoulder. Clark ducked his head, his mouth finding the swell of your breast, peeling the silky pasty off your nipple with his teeth, the little snap of adhesive loud in your ears. He spit out the cover, then his hot, wet mouth closed over a peak, sucking hard, his tongue lashing the sensitive bud. 

The dual sensations of deep, relentless pounding and the sharp, sweet assault on your breast pushed you toward the edge with terrifying speed. Your impending orgasm coiled tight in your belly.

"B-baby, I’m–Ah!---gonna… I’m so close…gonna cum—"

The music through the walls swelled again, a pounding beat that matched the pounding of his hips, the pounding of your blood. You were a mess of sounds: his ragged grunts, your high, desperate mewls, the slick, wet schlick of his cock driving into your soaked cunt, over and over.

"I got—you. You’re everything," he whispered hoarsely against the valley of your breasts. "A-always—have been."

It was the tenderness in the midst of the filthy, frantic fucking that undid you. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your climax ripped through you. Your entire body convulsed, a raw, ragged cry tearing from your throat as the pleasure blinded you, white-hot and all-consuming. Your walls clamped down on him in rhythmic, milking pulses, and you felt him swell even larger inside you, felt the first hot, urgent pulse at the root of his cock.

"That’s it, sweetheart," he praised, slowly his thrusts as you rode out your orgasm, feeling a new wave of slick coat his shaft. 

"Mmm, c’mon, baby," you challenged, raw and desperate for his release. "Fuck me like I’m your everything then. Like I’m your wife already. Like I'm already a Kent."

He made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "Y-you will," he promised. "You’ll have—my name. You’ll wear my ring." He rocked into you again, a rough, possessive surge in energy.

"Right here." He kissed your left ring finger where it lay against his neck. "You’ll wear it to work. In the shower." Another sharp, deep thrust that made you cry out. "In bed when I’m making love to you. You’ll never take it off."

"No, never," you breathed, the promise a vow. 

You could feel another orgasm building, a fast, deep, internal tightening sparked by his words, by the feeling of him still moving inside you, by the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it all.

"God, baby…don’t stop…please don’t stop—"

"I’m–not," he panted, his pace gradually increasing again, finding a new, deeper rhythm. "I’m never gonna stop."

He thrusted into you with a new, devastating force, losing all rhythm, becoming pure, driving need. His eyes held yours for a moment, a blue flame in the dim light. You could see the moment his control shattered.

"I’m gonna—hon, I’m —" he choked out.

"Do it," you gasped through your pleasure-fogged brain, your body clamping tight around him again. "Fill me up. Give it to me, baby!"

With a final, deep, grinding thrust that seated him impossibly deep, he came with a guttural moan, stifled against your shoulder and by the pounding club music. 

You felt it, the hot, sudden flood inside you, an abundant rush that seemed to go on and on. A thick, spill began to seep out around the tight join of your bodies, a slow trickle down your inner thigh onto the floor.

The feeling of being so utterly filled, claimed, was profoundly satisfying, and triggered another climax out of you.

Both of you trembled in the aftermath, clinging to each other, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in ragged, syncopated pants, sweet nothings, and kisses. 

His softening cock slipped from you with a wet, soft plop, followed by a trickle of his release down your thighs. You shuddered at the sensation, the explicit evidence of what you’d just done in the dark corner of a high-end club.

.

Slowly, carefully, Clark lowered you until your heels touched the floor again. Your legs buckled instantly, and he caught you, his arms a steady band around your waist. 

For a long moment, neither of you really spoke. There was only the sound of your breathing, yours uneven and his not much better, and the distant thump of the next song being remixed. 

He pressed soft, scattered kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips. His hands, so rough and firm moments before, were gentle as he tugged your dress back into place, smoothing the tabric over your hips. He reached in his back pocket, offering your thong. 

You stared at it for a moment, and instead of taking it, you stuffed it back in his back pocket, a smug, wicked grin gracing your lips.

Clink blinked once before turning away to laugh. 

"You’re impossible!" he exclaimed, though the fondness directed at you gave him away completely.

He lifted both hands to your face, thumbs swiping carefully under your eyes where your mascara had smudged. 

"Hm, mascara’s a little… dramatic," he murmured, his voice hoarse but tender. "Very punk rock. A little incriminating."

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, and leaned your forehead to his chest, listening to the strong, gallop of his heart slow to something recognizable again. His hand came to the nape of your neck, massaging lightly.

"I meant it, you know," you murmured.

His hands stilled. "Hm? Meant what?"

"The husband part. All of it," you whispered, the vulnerability sharp after the intense physicality. "Wanting to be your wife."

A soft, wondering sound escaped him. 

"Oh." He took your left hand, lifting it between you. He pressed a slow, gentle kiss to your ring finger again, his lips warm and lingering on the bare skin. 

"Well I meant it, too." he murmured against your skin. He glanced up at you then, not teasing or cocky. Just earnest in that infuriatingly sincere way that made your heart skip a beat. 

"We can talk more about it at home, but," he added quietly, thumb tracing the base of your finger, "you’ll have something right here soon. And nobody’s ever going to question it again."

"Sounds like a plan," you sighed before tugging him down for another kiss, open and steady, a kiss of aftermath and promise. 

You pulled back first, reality quickly seeping in as the corner of your eye caught the neon red EXIT far down the abandoned hall.

"Shit!"

You scrambled, reaching for his phone in his other back pocket, ignoring his confused protests. You blinked at his phone screen lighting up your face with dawning horror.

"Oh no."

"What? What’s wrong?" he asked immediately, alert again in a completely different way.

You turned the screen toward him sharply. He squinted against the brightness, straightening his glasses has mouthed his notifications: seven missed calls. Twelve texts. A group chat notification exploding with dramatic punctuation from Lois. One from Jimmy that simply read: dude, u guys alive?

Clark winced, sucking a sharp breath between his teeth. "Oh, uhh…hm. Yikes."

You glanced at the timestamps. Your jaw dropped. "Clark!"

"We’re still here, aren’t we?" he reminded weakly, words pitched high. "We kept our promise. Not total jerks!"

"We did not promise to disappear for almost an hour!"

"Eh, more like forty-seven minutes," he corrected.

"You are not helping!" 

He lifted his hands in surrender, except he was smiling now, that infuriating, dimpled, boyish smile that meant he absolutely was not sorry.

"Okay," he began, tipping his head slightly, as he raised an index finger, "but for the record… I wasn’t the one who asked to be taken somewhere first."

Your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. "You are unbelievable."

He shrugged, crossing his arms. "Just stating facts."

You swatted his shoulder. "Stop that!"

He caught your wrist easily, laughing louder this time, and tugged you closer so the scolding couldn’t gain any real traction.

"You said you needed me," he murmured, quieter now, not entirely teasing. "Who am I to deny my beautiful girl?"

You tried not to melt. "Well, you didn’t have to agree so enthusiastically."

"Oh, I think I did," he replied, completely unapologetic.

You both stared at each other for a second, then down at his phone, truly feeling like teenagers caught sneaking out.

"We’re never gonna live this down, are we?"

"No, never," you bemoaned, smiling back despite yourself. 

You were a still a mess—makeup smeared, dress wrinkled, evidence of your lovemaking warm between your thighs—and you had never felt more perfectly, completely his.

Clark slipped his phone out of your grasp and into his pocket and reaching to take your hand in his again.

"C’mon, Mrs-Eventually-Kent," he sighed deeply, nudging his shoulder against yours, squeezing your hand once. "Let’s go face the music."

And together, still a little breathless and entirely too pleased with yourselves, you walked back toward the party you had absolutely, undeniably flaked on.

Again.

.

Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!

“I- uh. Yes.”

“Clark, at least have the balls to look at me.” You demanded, letting go of his hand and crossing your arms defensively. You looked particularly pretty today, so he rather not look up as he was saying it. Also, you could probably see in his face how awful he felt. He looked up, glancing at you once before his eyes drifted away to the window as if there was something interesting going on.

“And may I ask why?”

“Uh- I don’t think things are working out.”

“What things?”

“Y’know… things. Like you snore when you sleep sometimes.”

“You’re going to dump me because I snore sometimes?” You continued your inquiry because you didn’t believe for a second this was actually what he wanted. You knew Clark; he wasn’t a blabbering idiot. If he wanted to talk or had a problem, he’d come right out and say it. This wasn’t a sure Clark, this nervous and unserious man in front of you seemed like he had a gun pressed to his temple and was forcing him to do this.

“Among other things-“

“What other things? Clark, Jesus Christ, look at me. Look me in the eyes and repeat the words and I’ll believe you.” You put both of your hands on the table, smacking them down and making him look at you. He tried to focus on your eyes, a deep breath and instead of saying what he meant, his eyes started to fill with tears.

“I just think you deserve better.”

“Better? What are you talking about?” Clark looked up and blinked away the tears pricking his eyes as he looked up to the ceiling now.

“I- I’m an alien, for god’s sake! And I can’t be there for you all the time, I have so many things to do. You deserve someone who’s there for you.” Clark’s words were more rushed and seemed like he had been holding them in for a long time, like they had been hammering into the back of his brain since he thought them.

“Clark, you’re there for me! Where did this come from? You’re pissing me off now. You think I’m some sort of weak woman that can’t decide what she wants? What she needs?” You sounded angry, offended and confused as to the conversation you were having. You were supposed to go out for sushi and then come home and pretend to watch a movie while you fucked. How did it turn into this?

“No, I don’t think that. I think you’re amazing, as are all woman - not the point- but I don’t want you to settle.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m settling for Superman? Do you hear yourself? You’re a fucking catch, Clark. Do you not see what everyone thinks of you? How much they love you? I’m so lucky to have you. Don’t tell me what I want.” You whispered the last part, as if your anger was fading into sadness. The last thing he wanted. Clark’s mind had been somehow relaxed as he heard what you actually thought of him and let his fears and insecurities quiet down somewhat to listen to you. How there was no stutter in your breath, no doubt in your words. You were mad he had a considered doing this.

“I- fucking love you, Clark. I don’t want anything more, I don’t need it. I need you. Can you just- listen to me? To yourself?” Clark nodded, standing and taking you into his arms with a tight hug, mumbling sorry’s and I love you’s into your mouth as he finally convinced himself to push all those negative thoughts.

“Don’t do this, don’t sabotage yourself. Scared me to death, you idiot.” You said and finally took his kiss, the anger seemingly melting away from your mind as you felt how desperate and sorrowful he was against you. This had probably been eating at him, his stupid brain baiting him into thinking he was noble and kind to try and force you to find someone better. The tears kept falling from his eyes, and they were on the verge of falling once again half an hour later while you took a break from riding him with force of a knight in battle and were drawing small circles with your hips.

“Trying to leave me, huh? You want some other girl? Is that it?” You asked as you held his head back, pulling on his hair. His hands were steady and brushing on your hips, trying to get you to go faster again but with no increase. You were calling the shots and he was so into it.

“No, no, baby. I want you.” Clark shook his head, what a preposterous accusation to think you hadn’t ruined him for everyone else. There was nothing better, no one better.

“That’s right. How could you ever think I’d allow anyone else but me to have this cock? This is mine.” Clark groaned at your words, nodding his head eagerly.

“I’m yours. Everything is yours.” He was pretty sure your pussy had been molded to fit him too. It always felt like the perfect fit, the perfect press. You nodded with a smirk and went back to riding him with harder movements, hips grinding back and forth, up and down, feeling the perfect kiss of his dick onto your cervix.

Your hips rolled as you continued to ride him, still holding his hair back with your hand to force him to keep his head up looking at you. Looking at what he wanted to give away.

“You’re- you feel so good. Taking me so deep.” Clark whispered basically, eyes midway shut like he couldn’t keep them open with his dick receiving the tide of his life but he still wanted to look at you, not only because you wanted him to, but because he wanted to. You were a sight for sore eyes, sweaty and hot and your mouth hung slightly open to help you breathe. Your lips were plumped from the kissing and the necklace he got you for your sixth month anniversary hung from your neck. He was such a fucking idiot.

“What were you gonna do without me? Huh? Be alone? Find some Smallville girl? Some alien? Think they’d make you happy?” Clark shook his head, your grip getting harder and hips getting rougher as you even entertained the idea of Clark being without you. You could feel him twitching inside you, his palpitations on his tip making your pussy squeeze; Clark moaned at the feeling and pressed the fingertips of his hands harder into your hips. You knew he was close, you could tell all the signs by now. Idiot.

“No fucking way, baby. I’m it.” His moan was whiny and absurd as he unloaded inside you, a ridiculous amount of cum filling you up as you still fucked yourself on him, slower and with longer jumps. You pushed his head to look down; letting him see how his cum poured out of you with every slight movement. It wasn’t about finishing yourself off, you knew Clark wouldn’t let you go without making you finish; but about letting him see how much you knew him. What he liked; how to get him to spill his heart from his dick in copious amounts.

“I love you, honey. I love you to death. Forever, you and me. Right?” Clark spoke as he looked back into your eyes when your hand finally let go of his hair. You smiled, nodding as he kissed your whole face. You could tell he was sorry. You closed your eyes as you felt his mouth wander around your face, so it took you off guard when he grabbed harder onto your hips and lifted you off, gasp escaping your mouth. He placed you onto his face, holding you up by your ass as he looked at your pussy still gushing and swollen.

“I’m gonna spend forever between these legs.” He said and kissed the tip of your clit, looking at the mess of white he had created inside you, marked you his. He sucked your clit into his mouth, making your laugh get lost between a whine.

You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.

There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.

That nervousness in him undid you.

Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.

You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.

“You're staring,” you murmured.

A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”

“You don't sound sorry.”

His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”

You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.

But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.

That was your first mistake.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.

Not cocky. Not assuming.

You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.

Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.

The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.

You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.

For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.

No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.

Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.

It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.

Oh.

This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.

You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.

Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.

You had spent years believing that.

And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.

The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.

Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”

Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.

Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you answered too fast.

“Was it too much?”

The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.

“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”

“Then why are you crying?”

You swallowed hard.

Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?

So instead, you lied.

“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”

Clark's entire face softened at that.

Relief flickered visibly across his expression.

“Oh.”

You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”

“It isn't stupid.”

His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.

“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.

The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” you whispered again.

Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”

Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.

“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”

And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.

When you were younger, love looked medicinal.

Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.

Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.

Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.

You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.

You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.

Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.

You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.

At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.

Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.

You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.

Smaller.

And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.

You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.

Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.

You could ruin entire days that way.

Then dating started, and everything got worse.

Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.

How many exes have you had?

Have you ever been in love before?

How many girls have you slept with?

You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.

Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.

It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.

Then you'd do it again anyway.

The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.

You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.

Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.

Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.

No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.

There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.

Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.

But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.

You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.

The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.

But Clark remained painfully consistent.

He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.

And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.

But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.

Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.

Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.

And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.

That should have healed something.

Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.

Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.

You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.

The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.

You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.

“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.

You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”

“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”

“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”

Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”

You frowned and finally looked up.

That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.

Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.

“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”

Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”

“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”

You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.

Most men did.

Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.

“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”

His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.

You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.

“Nice to meet you,” you said.

Clark smiled then.

And God.

He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.

He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.

There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.

Clark still looked soft around the edges.

Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.

You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'

Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.

That was the problem.

Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.

It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.

Then they became irreplaceable.

Clark settled into your life slowly after that.

At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.

And he looked at people when they spoke.

Really looked at them.

Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.

Clark paid attention completely.

The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.

“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”

You laughed despite yourself.

“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”

His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.

“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”

The comment startled you.

Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.

“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”

A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”

And there it was again.

That sincerity.

After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.

He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.

You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.

One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.

The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.

No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.

“You sounded upset,” he said simply.

The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.

It was the consistency.

Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.

Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.

He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.

Made it home safe?

That was it sometimes.

Four words.

But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.

There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.

Sorry. You asleep?

Did you remember to eat?

It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.

You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.

Like he couldn't believe you were real.

And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.

Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.

You hated that hope most of all.

Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.

And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:

Maybe this was it.

Maybe this was finally the antidote.

One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.

It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.

His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.

The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.

It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.

That thought hit you strangely hard.

Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.

Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

God, even that smile hurt now.

Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.

You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.

Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.

Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.

Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.

A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.

You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.

You should've ignored it.

Instead your thumb moved anyway.

The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.

Of course.

Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.

You clicked the next photo.

Then another.

And another.

A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.

A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.

You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.

Had he loved her?

Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?

Had she ever stood in this kitchen?

You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.

Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.

But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.

Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.

Every photo became evidence against yourself.

Her legs are thinner than yours.

She looks easy to love.

She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.

Clark noticed the shift immediately.

Of course he did.

“You okay?”

His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.

You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”

The answer came automatic, almost too fast.

You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.

Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.

“Hey.”

You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.

“Talk to me.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.

You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.

“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”

Clark's brow furrowed immediately.

“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”

There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.

Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.

You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.

Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”

The question sat between you for a second too long.

Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.

“No,” he said softly.

You looked away first.

“But you've loved people before.”

“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.

The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.

“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”

Clark went very still.

The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.

Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.

Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.

You didn't.

His palms were warm around yours, steady.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”

“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.

Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.

It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.

That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.

And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.

Maybe not cruelly.

Maybe sadly.

But he'd leave.

Because people always did eventually.

Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.

“What is the point? Please tell me.”

And there it was.

The impossible question.

You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.

Fix me.

Please.

Tell me why I feel this way all the time.

Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.

Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.

Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.

Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.

“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”

The words landed heavily between you.

Clark looked heartbroken.

Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.

“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”

That did it.

You started crying fully then.

Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.

He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.

That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.

Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.

And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.

Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.

You folded against his chest instinctively.

His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.

“I've got you,” he murmured softly.

The words nearly broke you apart.

Because he meant them, completely.

“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.

But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.

Small.

Persistent.

Cruel.

Then why doesn't it feel like enough?

Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.

Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.

And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.

Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.

Clark tried so hard.

Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.

And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.

That was the unbearable part.

He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.

There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.

“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”

And sometimes you couldn't.

Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?

Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.

Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.

The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.

He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.

He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.

“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.

You tried. God, you tried.

But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.

“I can't,” you admitted weakly.

Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.

“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”

The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.

Not 'calm down.'

Not 'get it together.'

Not 'what's wrong with you?'

There you are.

Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.

And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.

Clark kissed every scar like reverence.

Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.

The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.

Clark handled all of it carefully.

The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.

It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.

Then his thumb brushed over the scars.

He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.

Your chest tightened instantly.

Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.

Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.

And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.

That disconnect tortured you quietly.

Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.

Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.

Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.

Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.

You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.

That realization gutted you.

Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.

“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.

You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”

Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.

Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.

“C'mere.”

Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.

And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.

Steady.

Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.

And maybe sometimes it helped.

There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.

But eventually the pain always returned.

You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.

And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.

Because Clark was trying so hard.

You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.

But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.

And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.

You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.

But healing didn't work like that.

Love didn't either.

That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.

Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.

There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.

But it was not a cure.

His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.

And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.

Not that Clark failed to save you.

But that he was never supposed to.

The fight happened in winter.

It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.

There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.

The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.

By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.

The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.

Nothing fit right.

Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.

The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.

The blue one made your shoulders look broad.

The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.

Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.

You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.

Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.

“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.

Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.

You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”

There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.

“You look beautiful.”

The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.

Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”

Silence answered immediately.

Heavy silence.

The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.

Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.

God.

Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.

Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.

Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.

Concern softened his face instantly.

“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.

You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”

Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.

“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”

Your throat tightened immediately.

Because he meant it.

That was the problem.

Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.

“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”

The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.

Because there was hurt in them too.

Not anger.

Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.

Not at him.

Never at him.

At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.

Something inside you snapped.

“Because you love me.”

The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.

Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.

You watched the pain cross his face in real time.

Not offense. Not anger.

Pain.

Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.

“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”

You opened your mouth, and closed it again.

Because maybe it was.

Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.

Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?

The silence stretched painfully between you.

Clark stepped closer slowly.

Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.

“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.

You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”

“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”

He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.

Not trapping.

Just there.

Grounding.

“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”

Your chest hurt.

Clark's voice softened further.

“I know you.”

The words landed heavily.

Completely.

“And I still love you.”

His voice wavered slightly on the last part.

That nearly destroyed you.

Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.

And he loved you anyway.

Tears blurred your vision instantly.

“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Raw.

Ugly.

Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.

Why wasn't his love enough?

Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?

Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?

Clark looked devastated.

Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.

The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.

The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.

And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.

He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.

“This isn't something I can save you from.”

The words shattered something inside you.

Not because they were cruel.

Because they were true.

You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.

But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.

Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.

You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.

Clark followed you down immediately.

Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.

He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.

“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”

You couldn't.

Everything hurt too badly.

“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”

The words cracked something open inside you all over again.

Because Clark sounded scared.

Not exhausted. Not resentful.

Scared.

Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.

“You won't,” you whispered automatically.

But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.

Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.

Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.

“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”

That one hurt the most.

Not because it was harsh.

Because he was right.

Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.

Love won't fix you.