Planet Press!

𐙚⋆ HCS - ♡- fluff ✿ - Smut/suggestive ✧ - Angst

⋆ I'm Your Man... - 6 ways Clark loves you, inspired by Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man | ♡ ✧ ✿

⋆ Roommate!Clark - Your awkward roommate slowly becomes the most important person in your life | ♡ ✧ ✿

⋆ Chronically Offline!Clark - Your boyfriend isn't very tech savvy... | ♡ ✿

⋆ Calling him 'Kal-El'! - Different ways you call him by his Kryptonian name! | ♡ ✧ ✿

⋆ "Well... Sure!" - Sometimes it seems like 'yes' is the only word in your bf's vocabulary | ♡ ✿

𐙚⋆ Drabbles - ♡ - fluff ✿ - Smut/suggestive ✧ - Angst

⋆ Magazine Cover - After winning the Pulitzer Prize, Clark agree to a photoshoot, only for Metropolis to realize just how attractive he was...

⋆ Office Crush PT 1 & PT2- Everyone has the hots for Superman, but you have the hots for your co-worker, Clark Kent... | ♡ ✿

⋆ Freaky Fragrantica - You and Clark were childhood best friends; now his words have a new meaning... | ✿

⋆ Clumsy Cooking - Clark gets a little distracted and nearly burns all of his food! | ♡

⋆ When She Calls - He's in love with you, but his feelings always come secondary when comforting you over bad dates. | ♡ ✧

⋆ A Few Cubicles Away - After Superman saved you, you realized he had been a cubicle away from you for months now | ♡

⋆ Sugar Talking - He's too busy and tries to buy it all away with flowers, all you need is his lips on yours | ♡ ✧

⋆ 500 Miles - Superman is homesick, thinking about how far away his wife is. | ♡ ✧

⋆ Kiss Her Idiot - Months of Endless flirting and he still hasn't kiss you! | ♡ ✿

𐙚⋆ The Big Fics - ♡ - fluff ✿ - Smut/suggestive ✧ - Angst

⋆ When Did You Get Hot? - You return to Smallville after years to find that Clark Kent isn't awkward and scrawny but... really hot. | ♡ ✿

⋆ When The Sun Goes Down - He meets you beneath dim lights and smokey air, then again the next day in the light, a whisper of who you were the night before. | ♡ ✿

⋆ Be good? - While being a local villain, Clark tries to convince you to join the Justice Gang. | ✿

⋆ It's Complicated - Clark has to pick between Lois Lane, the passionate journalist he fell in love with or you, his soulmate that he was falling for. But did he even believe in soulmates? Who would he pick? | ♡ ✧

⋆ Jacked and Kind - Your boyfriend's Jacked and Kind? How lucky! ♡

⋆ Interviews - An interview between the two of you goes a little off course... | ✿

⋆ Power Outage! - You visit Smallville with your husband, and just so happen to lose power! | ♡

⋆ The Bad Thing - Clark Kent bends your idea of marriage after repeatedly showing you kindness that your husband doesn't | ♡

Today he walked down the crowded street that led to Daily Planet. Jimmy had met him for coffee, and Clark tried to squeeze through and make himself as small as possible (unsuccessful). Jimmy was chatting his ear off, Clark looked up and saw the new billboard across the street from the big news building. 

Your face was on it, posing with fancy clothes and a pretty perfume that was ridiculously expensive. He didn’t care if it was expensive, he’d buy a million of them for that face. Without warning, Clark paused and raised his phone to snap a picture. 

“Taking a picture? Kent, she knows she’s on the billboard!” His friend teased, Clark rolled his eyes, texting you the picture with the caption: You are jaw dropping ❤️ See you tonight!

“I know that, James,” Clark retorts, crossing the sea of people to the revolving doors. Jimmy goes first and Clark follows close behind. “Then why are you taking a picture?” A few greetings from friends, Perry, Cat. The bustle of the newsroom distracts Clark.

“Because I want her to know that I think she’s pretty… I can never tell her enough times,” he said simply. Laughter bubbled from Jimmy’s chest as he shook his head. “Jeez, dude. I think she knows she is pretty! You’d be blind not to notice, but you do you.”

Times like this didn’t end.

When he had to shed the responsibilities of the bumbling Clark Kent, removing the glasses and soaring through the sky, he saw your face too.

The Hammer of Boravia was giving him a hard time. Though Clark had the upper hand, his punch sent Lex Luthor’s toy into the sidewalk below. It wasn’t long before the robot recovered, shooting up at a speed similar to his own and attacking again.

Clark tried to do the right thing, fly as far from people as possible. 

But Lex always had an alternative plan that made everything ten times harder than it needed to be. Luckily the Justice Gang was only a call away as hundreds more robots began to invade the sky of Metropolis.

As Superman took on the strongest bot, draining a good amount of energy, his eyes lingered on that pretty, pretty billboard. You were going to be the death of him. Literally.

As his eyes strayed to the side, looking at you on that billboard, the Hammer of Boravia took that opportunity to tug him by his cape and send him flying into the bricks below, completely knocking the wind out of Clark.

A crowd gathered as he groaned in the rubble. Mr. Terrific took time to hover down, scowling. “Quit fooling around!” He barked, not wasting any time. Clark weakly groaned, “I’m not fooling around… 'm doing important stuff!”

When the day was finally over, Clark stopped at the concession, grabbing your magazines. The ones with your face on the front. He bought multiple. One more his coffee table, for his ma and pa, and one for keep-sake. So you could admire it years into the future.

He stepped into your shared apartment, magazines tucked under his arm. You perked up from the couch, pausing your TV show, “Clark! I was worried about you, I saw the Superman news. You aren’t hurt right?” you asked hurriedly. 

Clark quickly shook his head, adjusting his glasses. “The sun charged me back up in no time, don’t worry about me,” he grinned, ducking down to kiss you. You noticed the articles under his arm and cocked an eyebrow. “Clark, you don’t have to buy these!” you insist.

He shook his head. “It’s a very beautiful cover!” He took in your oversized t-shirt, just your underwear to pair with it. Your heavy heating blanket was tugged over you and he wanted to just eat you up. 

“You bought… three!” you took them from him, setting them to the side to tug him into a hug.

He wrapped his arms around you, kissing multiple spots on your neck. “Me and my ma are your biggest fans. She loves when I send your ads. Ma always replies, ‘treat her right, she’s perfect’. Also, she said she wants you to try her apple pie so you have to come out soon,” Clark rambles.

You giggle. “You two are both too sweet to me.” Your nails run through his hair, and he hummed contentedly beneath your touch.

“Never…” he mumbles.

He was proud that the whole city got to see the polished, glamorous version of you—the one with heavy makeup, expensive dresses, and shiny skin. But Clark got to come home to the real you; the girl who leaves her shoes in a messy pile by the door, stole  his shirts, and loved watching low-rated movies just to laugh at how bad they were.

You recorded his body, showing you the happy trail of hair that led to his pretty, pretty cock that was making lewd noises as you slid over him, slow and mean thrusts.

“Wanna show the world how much of a mess I can make Superman…” you drawl, catching his needy, teary blue eyes on camera. 

“Baby, please!” he begged, his hand travelling up your stomach. His eyes weren’t on the camera lens but on you behind it. 

Your breasts out, bouncing with each roll of your hips, how your lips parted breathily, and how your hair cascaded down your neck and shoulders. 

“Please what, Superman?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. His hips bucked, and your free hand balled up into a fist on his chest, nearly biting a hole through your lip.

His biceps flex, and his jaw clenches at your particularly slow speed. “Just a bit faster, I’ll be so good.” You grin at his words; this is the most desperate you’ve ever got him on camera.

“Yeah? You’re a good man, save the world… You deserve it?” He throws his head back, moving you with his hands. 

Clark needed this more than he needed the sun. 

He nods, his groans getting louder. His hand moves to where you connect, rubbing your clit with his thumb, hard circles that make you gasp. 

Your hips start to speed up, and your whines get more desperate behind the camera. “This is embarrassing…” he said, whimpers escaping without his permission.

A small laugh bubbles up and you shake your head. “Mm… I think it’s very sexy,” you bite your lip, deep rolls of your hips, making him hit deeper than he ever thought possible. 

His eyes roll back, and his hips start to move against yours uncontrollably. “I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna—ah—cum, golly!” A moan ripped from Clark’s throat, his hips leaving the bed and you clench around him.

“Cum… Show us how pathetic Superman really is.” Clark didn’t hesitate, spilling his load deep inside you. His heart felt like it would explode out of his chest, your tight walls accepting every ounce he pumped into you. 

He had never seen anything so perfect; Clark didn’t even care that this camera was catching him at his most vulnerable.

Superman—the man of steel—who could knock over a building with a simple shove, or take on an army, was weakened underneath you with that silly camera. 

Clark loved the way you smirked, getting professional angles. 

He panted, coming down from his high. 

His hefty thighs under yours. Clark’s head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering open when you grabbed his chin.

“Smile for the camera, Clarkie…” you giggled, squeezing around him. He wore a fucked-out expression; a shaky laugh escaped him, happy to be the center of your attention.

Even Superman needed to be teased and ridden.

He knew you hadn’t cum yet; he reached a hand up, taking the camera from you. The equipment was small in his hand as he flipped it around. “Give it t’me… your turn, honey,” his deep voice rasped.

You liked how much more confident he was in his suit, how his hands roamed, how his voice was deeper, and how that cute little stammer faded. His drawl came out sometimes, and his beefy hips tightened as his hips left the mattress.

The camera lens on you now made you shy. You were used to being behind the camera, instead of in front of it. 

Clark held the camera steadily. “Ride it, sweetheart… come on,” he cooed, watching as you started up again, making yourself feel good—setting your own pace.

“Prettiest woman in the solar system. Look how good you take me,” he edged you on, watching your hands splay out on your chest as you took exactly what you needed. “Ah… Kal-El!” you called out, pressing your head into his bicep, sinking your teeth into his skin. 

He felt his cock pulse inside you; he loved when you called him Kal-El. Your stomach bulged with his thick, long dick. “Say that again,” Clark said, making you sit up again. Making you visible to the camera. He wasn’t looking through it, too busy watching you in real time.

“Kal-El!” He bucked up into you; his hand went to palm your breast. His thumb ran over your hardened nipple. “I’m so close,” you tell him, your mouth agape as you take him impossibly deeper.

“Come on, show the camera what my cock does to you,” he commands, thrusting up into your tight pussy. That opened the floodgates, his tip kissed your cervix, and you sat there, shaking over him as your orgasm flowed through you. “Oh, thank you, Superman.” 

You collapsed over top of him, and Clark hit stop, setting the camera down. “Come here.” You don’t hesitate to collapse into his chest, your face burying between his pecs and his big biceps wrapping around you and squishing you. 

He eased out of you, kissed the top of your head. Your body was sweaty, but gosh, that was too perfect to care. “Can’t wait to watch it later…” You giggle, making him chuckle too. “You're insatiable,” he jokes, knowing it was what he loved most about you.

When you were young and alive, when your laugh was enough to make a guy's heart stop. That in the city, you spent nights off campus in fishnets and sipping off whatever some sleaze at the bar had bought you.

That you’d spend nights in grubby dive bars, crawling with gentlemen who weren’t gentle where it counted. After getting free drink after free drink, you’d climb into Clark’s window, grinning from ear to ear as you tiptoed into his dorm room. You made sure his roommate was gone for the night before your lips were all over his. 

“You're drunk, aren’t you?” he’d ask, and you giggle, tugging the sheets up higher. “Yeah… So what?” He shook his head, burying his face into the soft skin of your neck. “Troublemaker.” Clark’s teasing tone made your laughter bubble out; you bit onto his collarbones and neck, playful intentions behind it all.

Everything was about not getting sentimental, and you lived like every night deserved to be remembered.

In class, while you were writing notes, you were already brewing up the next party or trip with your friends. All packing into the car, blasting the tunes of your time, with all the windows down as your hair whipped in the wind. 

Sometimes Clark was driving, always the designated driver. Sometimes he got to sit back and watch you sing along while leaning over his lap to pick the next song, too many people packed into one car. But you guys were just college kids; who would let that stop you?

He looked at you now, your eyes dim with the excitement they used to have. How you turned in your high heels for sneakers. Clark knew in a few years you’d be flipping through a book of sex tips and making shopping lists instead of planning out the next party.

That your days would go from teaching dance and late nights to multiple laundry trips and scrubbing old dishes.

Clark had met your husband, and he’d do anything for you to see the mistake you were making.

He wouldn’t make you change.

You could be a wife. You could be a mother. You could build the quiet life you’d always dreamed of.

And you could still be the girl who danced on tables when the music was good, who dragged everyone onto the dance floor when the room got too quiet, who arm-wrestled someone twice her size just because you thought it would be funny.

Clark didn’t want the ‘old you’ back. He just wanted you to know you didn’t have to lose her.

You didn’t have to trade one life for the other.

You didn’t have to tame yourself for anyone.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧AN: Had to change the color for this because it is that serious... based on the AM song! Enjoy, I enjoy writing these cause Clark would hateee to see his best friend/ex-fling/whatever dulling herself

Here's the song, if you haven't heard it:

You both always bumped into each other in the newsroom or at the coffee machine. And that’s how it started. “Cream for your coffee?” he asked, pouring a generous splash into your cup. You grinned, making small talk on the way back to your desk.

Soon, it was articles together and late nights at the office spent head-to-head at your desks as you tried to crack a case or get all the information and interviews on file. A tedious job that had ultimately led to a deeper bond.

He couldn’t help but notice how, when you laughed, your hands lingered on his arm, how you’d naturally lean over his desk and fix his tie. You took care of him subconsciously, and it made him feel safe around you.

And of course, he learned your coffee order. Always coming in with a hot cup of coffee in his hand, setting it gently on your desk with a grin. “I think I got your order down now!” he prided himself, your eyes creasing in the corner as you laughed. “It’s not that difficult, Clark…” you teased. In reality, he just wanted a reason to talk to you, to linger at your desk. 

He was so curious, and he just wanted more.

When you came into the office after him (very rare, considering he was chronically late), you’d surprise him by wrapping your arms around his neck from behind. A warm hug that made him melt. “Hello to you too!” he greeted, unsure if he should hug you back.

And gradually, it changed to kisses on the cheek. “Bom dia, Clark!” you’d exclaim, kissing his cheek before walking over to your desk and pulling out paperwork—as if you hadn’t caused this romantic turmoil to start fumbling around his brain.

It became every morning when you walked into the bullpen. You kissed his cheek when he was at the coffee maker. He stood, mouth slightly open and his glasses crooked on his nose. His ears turned a bright shade of red when you gave him a small smirk. “Why do you always look so surprised when I kiss your cheek?”

“I’m not surprised,” Clark quickly covered up, waving you off as he walked back to his desk to hide his reddening cheeks. “You’re blushing!” You exclaim, following him closely. “It’s warm in here…” he lied, pretending to tug at his collar for some air. You just shook your head. “I smell smoke… I think your pants may be on fire, Clark!” 

This earned a groan from him, but he spent his time hoping you’d press your soft lips to his cheeks again.

The break room was usually packed, so you opted for eating at your desk. Clark just so happened to share a break with you, so he’d roll up his chair next to your desk and listen to you talk. You always brought different dishes or snacks for yourself.

Today you had Coxinha in your tupperware, tucked away for later. He eyed it carefully; you raised an eyebrow. “Want to try some, Clark?” you asked, holding it out for him. “Yeah… sure. What is it?” he asked, bringing it to his lips. It smelled nice; it was warm from the microwave still. “Coxinha,” you said simply.

He raised an eyebrow, eating it anyway. “Shredded chicken with batter around it,” you explained simply. He hummed appreciatively as the flavor hit his tongue, heavily seasoned with chicken broth. “It’s really good!” Clark chirped, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he finished it off in moments. You offered him another one that he took gratefully.

Soon you were packing lunches for two; he rarely seemed to eat enough at work anyway. So you spoiled him with many other Brazilian treats, teaching him how to say it, no matter how bad he said it at first.

“Pão de queijo?” he asked one afternoon, surprising you. You hadn’t brought it in before. “I researched a little!” he admitted, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. “You researched my lunch?” 

“I wanted to know what you liked…” You grinned, kissing his cheek before offering him a roll. “So considerate, Clark.”

By then, you were going steady, with nice dates and walks in the city. He spent a lot of time talking about his family, teaching you about his Midwest customs (which totally explained the random twangs in his voice and ‘golly!’), and in return you talked about Brazil. 

As you walked, your shoes clicking on the sidewalk, his casual shirt left his biceps barely contained. Your hand went to his bicep, walking and talking casually. His mind was on your soft hands and how you were touching him so casually. Thirty seconds later, his ears were bright red.

You paused mid-sentence, “Clark?” you confronted. His eyes darted to yours. He was absolutely listening. He just can’t, for the life of him, remember a single word you said because of the hand on his bicep. 

This is normal; you do this all the time, and it still turned him into a big mush for you.

“Exactly…” he replies, half-confident. You pause, holding back laughter. “Exactly what?” His eyes widened behind his glasses, because he hadn’t actually caught a word. “Sorry, sweetheart! Your hands are just too sweet, make me feel all fuzzy and distracted,” he quickly blurted out.

You toed off your shoes at the little welcome mat, setting them in a neat row next to Clark’s shiny dress shoes. Everything had become two, and that thought warmed you. Two pairs of dress shoes, two toothbrushes, two coats on the rack. Having a roommate made everything better, you thought. You stepped deeper into the flat, your tights making you slide across the wooden floor. Around the corner was Clark, tower slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, glasses foggy. “Hi!” You exclaim, sitting down at the island counter. Two plates were already lined up there, two mismatched cups side by side. He gave you a dimpled smile, one he kept hidden from the world and reserved for only 3 things: his parents, you, and his weird, weird dog, Krypto, that kept leaving and reappearing. You stopped questioning it.

“How was work?” He asked, stirring the pasta before attending to his chicken; it was starting to burn at the edges. You shrugged; it hadn’t been bad or good, just long and boring. You were an editor at the Daily Planet. You two hadn’t ever crossed paths before, working on completely different floors. Sure, he’d seen you in the break room, but even then, he didn’t really see you. “Editing papers is so boring sometimes. Your work is so alive, and some people on your floor struggle with that,” you comment. Clark nods at the compliment, putting the chicken on the cutting board. “Struggle with making it alive?” Clark always asked questions; he liked to hear you talk and watch your hands move as you explained something. 

“Like, had some interesting words, make you visualize the story instead of just explaining it. When you're writing for the paper, you can’t be boring and irrelevant. You have to be bold, creative!” You explained, pulling the hair tie from your ponytail, your hair cascading down your shoulders. He watched, paying attention more to your hair than what he was cutting. Luckily, you weren’t paying attention as the knife met his finger in a swift slice, leaving no damage behind. 

He hadn’t mentioned the whole Superman thing yet, not that he didn’t trust you. Clark just needed to make sure he could really trust you.

Clark wasn’t in love with you, but you caught his breath sometimes; he saw the sparkle in your eye, and he couldn’t help but relish the fact that sometimes that look was directed towards him. It was incredible. “Yeah, I get it. We have a lot of people that haven’t found their voices yet; it’ll come. Perry doesn’t hire just anybody,” Clark explains. He always found the good in people and advocated for them like they were his to protect. You just shook your head, a smile spreading across your lips. 

“You have too much hope for this world.” The taunt made him laugh and shrug his shoulders. He scooped pasta onto your plate. Your favorite noodle shape covered in a thick, creamy sauce. Clark could do it all. “Do not…” He grumbled under his breath, dishing his own plate. He clicked the stove off before moving to sit at the island beside you. Dinner was light on conversation, too busy eating what Clark made—all of it melted in your mouth, and you knew it was Ma Kent’s recipe. 

You hadn’t been to Smallville, but in the 5 months that Clark had moved in, you’d grown accustomed to them and Martha’s home cooking that was nearly to die for. She sent him with a little box of her recipes, and you were so grateful because you’d never tasted anything better. 

Five months ago, dinners had been almost silent. Clark would quietly eat whatever either of you cooked, thank you for the meal or for sitting with him, then disappear into his room, a novel tucked under his arm or a work project on his laptop. Mornings weren’t much different. Instead of knocking on the bathroom door or calling you from your room, he’d leave pastries beside little handwritten notes, the scrawl uniquely his own.

So you invited him to movie nights on the couch, board games, and eventually he warmed up. His humor was dry but charming—how didn’t he have a girlfriend? You knew about him and Lois Lane, a thing of the past, but he didn’t talk about girls much at all. 

“This is really good, Clark…” you mumbled, cutting up the chicken. He looked over at you and gave a thankful smile, wiping his hand on the napkin in his lap, always so proper. “After dinner… Were still on to play a game?” Clark asked, eyes hopeful.

 It was Thursday, your established game night. After dinner and the kitchen was clean, you’d play board games until all of the city's lights were out, your bottle of wine was getting low, and your body grew sleepy. 

You nod quickly, always excited. Growing up, you played games every night at dinner; all of your past roommates had been subject to a game night many times. “Yeah, what game tonight?” He pretends to think for a minute, knowing he had been waiting for this since last Thursday. “A few options: Battleship, Monopoly, or Risk.” He used his hands for the ideas, keeping tally with his fingers on the games he listed. Monopoly was the obvious choice, considering it was one of your favorites and got you both the most fired up.

“Duh, Monopoly,” you replied, getting up to start cleaning the kitchen. Clark was a clean cooker; the counters were wiped down, all dishes were in the sink, soaking and ready to be washed. All you had to do was put the leftovers in a container and wash the dishes, and you weren’t complaining. He laughed, shaking his head. “I should’ve guessed my other options didn’t stand a chance. I’ll take out the trash,” he offered, taking the last few bites of his plate while watching you scoop the leftovers into the little tupperware with a pink lid. “You sure? I can do it perfectly fine.” Clark just nodded, getting up swiftly, pulling the trash from under the sink and tying the bag. He swung it over his shoulder and walked out, whistling lightly to himself. 

The night was then spent head to head; you sat across the coffee table from each other as Monopoly went on. The carpet was soft beneath your bodies, and the sound of laughter bubbled from the apartment until nearly 11. Once you triumphed in a second game of Monopoly, you jumped across at him, teasingly trying to poke at his sides for fun. He started to laugh, “Shouldn’t I be doing this? I’m the loser and seek my revenge!” Clark swiftly tugged you closer, tickling you, your head thrown back in laughter. You smelt like your perfume with a tint of some kind of earth abundance; when his hands stopped tickling you just sat against his chest, looking each other in the eye. This was normal for you. To Clark? It was different; he didn’t think he could ever get used to it. 

Your cheeks relaxed as you came down from your laughter, getting up and starting to clean up the game. “Thank you for a very well-played game, sir,” you tease, holding out a hand. Clark took it and shook firmly. “I will remember this for next time. I’ll pick a game I’m actually good at.” Clark usually lost, but he always beat you in Chess and, surprisingly, the board game Life. 

The next day at work, he sat in his office chair, his keyboard clicking away rapidly as he wrote an article. Lois and Jimmy were huddled over Jimmy’s pictures. A notification from Clark’s phone, he looked down, noticing your name light up across the screen. “We have to try this, Clark!” it read. He clicked on the video attached—a dessert recipe of a treat he hadn’t had in years. The smile on his face never faded, and Clark quickly typed back, “Scrolling at work? What would your supervisor have to say about this?” before hearting the video. When he looked up, Lois and Jimmy were staring at him. 

“What?” He asked.

“Who were you just texting?” Lois asked first, walking over and attempting to get a glance at his phone. Clark hit it from her, swiveling in his chair. “Why do you ask?” Clark’s tone was suspicious as Jimmy wheeled over, eyebrow raised. “Do you have a secret girlfriend, dude? Why were you smiling at your phone like that?” Lois nodded along with Jimmy, arms crossed as she leaned on Clark’s cubicle. “No… It was just my roommate. She wanted to try to make this dessert and—” Jimmy cut you off. “Just your roommate? Are you sleeping with her?” He asked. Clark furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You like her?” Lois added, eyebrow cocked. 

His phone lit up again, your name next to the little kissy face cat emoji, and his cheeks warmed. “No, she’s just my friend. It’s like she’s my best friend,” both of them frowned. “She isn’t replacing you guys! She just matters to me as much as you guys do, nothing more,” Clark defended, knowing that his bright red ears weren’t helping. 

He didn’t like you like that… He didn’t think. 

“It’s okay to like someone, Clark. You deserve to be happy,” Lois said first, before returning to her desk. When she left, Jimmy lowered his voice. “It’s okay; she’s gone! You can tell me if you're banging her now.” Clark shook his head. “Banging? Are you 16? And you know I don’t do that stuff…” Jimmy gave a disappointed huff.

“Lois is right, you know?” Jimmy then rolled back to his desk, typing out an email. 

Clark shook his head to himself; his friends got crazy ideas sometimes. He looked down at his phone to see you sent an emoji in reply. So he just tucked his phone away and went back to working, the conversation at the forefront of his mind now. 

You deserve to be happy. 

Not with something so valuable, gambling away your friendship just for a silly crush. After lunch break, he pushed it away and worked effortlessly.

Friday nights were free rein; you usually watched a TV show or a movie while snacking. Sometimes he joined you, sometimes he sat on the porch and read instead. He texted you saying he’d be out with friends; in reality, he was out on patrol. Lex Luthor had more scandals; bigger anomalies and monsters were being released into the city, but to distract him from what?

The elevator dinged open to your floor; his hair was messed up, it was late, and his work suit was ruffled. He looked like he had been out with someone more than a friend, and that bothered him. He didn’t want you to think that he was sleeping with someone. Clark didn’t know why, but he just didn’t. 

He turned his key in the lock and slipped inside. Your movie was playing, and he expected you to peek your head up and say hi as you always did. When it was silent, he slipped his shoes off, set down his bag, and walked to the couch. 

You were fast asleep, your soft breathing coming through your lips that were slightly parted. Your hair was messy; you had kicked the blanket off half of your body. Clark couldn’t help but smile to himself, his hand going down to touch a strand of your hair. It just felt right, nice and soft in his fingers. 

Carefully, he picked you up, holding you like a baby. The blanket dragged with him as your grip on it refused to let up. A small groan of complaint as you nuzzled deeper into his chest. Clark nearly bumped into the wall, too distracted by watching you. 

He had watched Lois too, the way she breathed at night, her small twitches—you were so human it was hard for him to look away.

Clark pulled back the covers and set you in bed, tugging them up to your chin. “Clark?” you croaked out, turning onto your side. “Yeah?” his voice was deep, trying to be quiet and gentle. His heartbeat in his ears, piqued with curiosity. “Goodnight,” you mumbled, and his heart slowed. “Goodnight, honey.” He stepped out of the room carefully, spending the next few hours staring at the ceiling, turmoil in his head. 

Work wasn’t there—nothing that Lex Luthor had done, but what Jimmy and Lois had said. Were you just a roommate, or was his doting devotion to you something more than friendship?

Time passed quickly with your busy schedules; you had editing and friends, he had Superman and articles. Outside of that, you two were inseparable. You always asked for advice, and Clark always gave it happily. 

“Clark?” You asked, swinging the door to his room open unannounced, making him jump. He had only been reading, but it still scared him. “Sorry. What should I wear?” Clark took you in, leaning in his doorway, wearing his shirt that he’d been looking for for a month now and underwear. He wasn’t filthy; he could handle it just fine, just something that had been hard to get used to. The first time you did it, after he had been living with you for 3 months, he hadn’t been able to look you in the eye. 

“Hey! I’ve been looking for that!” Clark complains, sitting up in his bed. You roll your eyes. “Tough luck, Clark. It strains against your muscles anyway; give it a break. Now what should I wear for my date?” You started holding up different dresses and then a more casual jeans option with a million shirts he thought were all very pretty. You noticed his muscles in his shirt?

“Date?” he asked, catching the clothes that you were tossing at him. The word ‘date’ hung between you both; he swallowed his strange disappointment and helped you anyway. You nodded like it was obvious. You talked about getting a boyfriend a lot, saying it would be nice. He noticed that you had dating apps downloaded, and he pitied that idea. Clark wanted you to get asked out extravagantly; you deserved something romantic. “Yeah, a guy on this dating app. He’s an accountant and likes to run with his dog.” Clark’s brows furrowed. “You don’t like to run, and you don’t like dogs,” he reminded you. You just shrugged. He helped you pick the outfit regardless, something slightly nice since it was a dinner date. You pulled the jeans on right in front of him, his eyes watching helplessly. 

He needed this to stop; he couldn’t hold back his reactions anymore. Clark shifted uncomfortably as the lump in his pants started to increase, his thick comforter luckily covering it. You walked out to change into a nice sweater and heels next. You looked incredible; your hair was perfect, and your lips were so sweet. 

Gosh, he could treat you better than any of those other losers. “Golly, you look great,” Clark commented with a small smile. You gave him a grin, and he melted into his bed. When the front door finally clicked shut behind you, he let out a pent-up groan. How could you not know what you do to him? The fancy red underwear you wore flashed in his mind, wondering how many other guys that same pair had worked on. 

Shamefully, Clark was reaching into his pants, nursing his thick cock that dripped with pre-cum. Soon he was thrusting into his fist, biting his lip to hold back the needy whines that kept dying in his throat. It didn’t take him long to finish, right there in his pants, but he was embarrassed afterwards. Some pervert he was, jerking off to his roommate…

That was the first time he noticed his undeniable attraction to you, when the means of friendship started to bend as he contemplated what you really meant to him, if you were just pretty or something much more than he’d want to admit. 

He was in bed, his laptop playing an old movie because he didn’t want to sit on the couch; it felt too far, and maybe just maybe… he didn’t want to run into you tonight and hear about that date. Not just yet; his heart couldn’t take it.

 The door clicked open, and he perked up. Clark called your name, pausing the movie to get up and greet you. He heard a sniffle, and his door creaked open. In your hand were your heels, dropping them on his floor. Then he saw your face, the mascara staining your cheeks, fat tears rolling down your face; your sleeve was damp from wiping your face. 

“Sweetheart, what happened?” he asked, concern flooding his tone. You’d never come home this distraught before, nothing that ice cream couldn’t fix—but tonight, your silence was loud as you climbed onto his bed, into his lap, and wrapped your arms around his middle. You pressed into his chest; you’d never done this before. 

He assumed you didn’t quite trust him, but now he felt the quiet trust. Clark figured his secretiveness drove a wedge between whatever relationship was blooming now.

Yet, you squeezed him as your body wracked with tears. 

Clark tried to sit up, but you mumbled, “Please stay with me, Clark.” The plea in your voice made him tug the covers over you and hold you closer in his big arms. “Okay,” he whispered into your hair. It wasn’t long before you’d fallen asleep, still in your jeans and sweater, make-up rubbing off on his shirt. Not that he minded, his head clouded with ideas of what that guy could have possibly said to you. After fading in and out of sleep all night, getting strong whiffs of your natural scent, the sun finally peeked through the curtains, not fazing you even a little bit. He knew that you could sleep through anything, and for a long time. 

When you finally woke on his chest, the sun stripping you of peace and the dark. You took a deep inhale, the smell of leftover cologne, ink, and a unique musk; the warm body under you caught you off guard. “Morning…” Clark rasped under you, his eyes on your face already. Then it all came flooding back. The date, drinking too much, and eventually crashing on Clark’s chest in a moment of desperation and loneliness. You liked Clark more than you wanted to admit, more than friendly. He was always there for you, and he held onto secrets well. You knew you could always trust him, that he’d never judge you, despite seeing the grimace he swallows every time you say the word ‘date’ around him (He wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought).

Your head ached. “So bright.” Your nose nuzzled into his armpit, shielding yourself from the sun. He shifted to get up, and the small sound of complaint made him freeze before he continued. The curtains swept shut, the sun being shut out, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee grinder started up, pans and bowls clinking as he worked.

You sank into his bed, bigger than yours and smelt like him. His comforter was heavy, and the ache in your head wouldn’t settle. Clark came in with a plate of pancakes, coffee beside it with the perfect amount of cream. “Hangover cure, I think.” Clark hadn’t been drunk before (he literally couldn’t, but he wouldn’t get into that), so he just copied what he'd seen in college. “You think?” you asked, sitting up with a raised eyebrow. 

You had never been more grateful for Clark until now, the syrupy pancakes in front of you sponging up the stuff in your system and giving you a small boost. “I’ve never been drunk. Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” he asked, curious, a sad furrow in his brow.

The sadness wasn’t fake. He was upset that someone had done this, and suddenly he found himself thinking again about how he could do much better than the average man. Clark was doting, had a big heart, and cared about you more than anyone in Metropolis. To see your spirit crushed like this was devastating. 

“It was all messy, Clark. I was too tipsy, and he was too. He wanted to go back to his place, and then this girl showed up… and it turned out that was his girlfriend, and that I was just gonna be a side thing!” you complained, shovelling another bite in your mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening. His eyes went to the pancake on your fork and you. You offered him a bite, which he took gratefully, climbing into bed beside you to put an arm around you. 

He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips before speaking. “Sorry. Men are terrible. Maybe you should delete the dating apps; there are plenty of fish out there.” You shrug, melting into his side. “You're a man,” you state. He shrugs and looks into your eyes with the sweet sparkle it always had. “I don’t claim to be even half decent.” You scoff, “You're crazy. You're miles past decent.” 

His eyes lit up with something unfamiliar, the compliment sinking into his skin—like he’d been waiting to hear it. Clark took in the way the dark room cloaked your face, how you chewed slowly and packed it away in your cheeks, making him smile. The smile made your heart flutter, and he heard it. 

Weeks passed, and you found yourself missing the warmth of his arms, where you could pretend for a moment that he was more than a friend. 

Clark missed it too, the soft noises of sleep you made that made him tense beneath you. This is when he realized his love for you ran deeper than he thought. Every waking moment, you plagued his mind when he saw a pretty bouquet or an idea online. 

Of course, he kept it under wraps, not wanting to scare you away. You seemed to bounce back quickly from the whole incident; the next day you were back to joking like it was nothing. All the turmoil halted to a stop. Almost.

“Clark? Wanna go on a run with me?” you asked, already dressed in your shorts and t-shirt. Your headphones were around your neck, and he could hear the music blasting from them. “A run? Since when do you run?” he asked. He got up from bed, grabbing his shorts from his closet. “Since today! And I know that somehow you are freakishly strong, even though I’ve never seen you pick up a weight before, so you promise not to outrun me and make me look weak?” A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest as he shook his head. “I promise,” he reassured, waiting for you to leave so he could change. “Sorry, forgot you’re all closed off and private,” you said, leaving the room while humming off-key. He emerged from his room, glasses down, perched on his nose, wired earbuds hanging from his shorts pocket, and a t-shirt. One with some pop band that you had thrifted for him. 

‘You need more casual shirts to wear, Clark!’ you had insisted, before coming home with 3 bags full of shirts for him to pick from. You donated back the ones he hated. 

“You're gonna run with your glasses?” you asked, stepping forward to grab them from his face. Clark jumped, quickly guiding your hand away. “Yes, I don’t have contacts, remember?” he gave a guilty smile, making you suspicious, but you shrugged and went for the door. 

His pace was steady, his Kryptonian genes keeping his breath even, making him look unaffected. You, however, were not the same. Your breathing was heavy, your heartbeat pumping through your chest, and your pace staggered after the first half a mile. He kept up with you perfectly, and you tried to ignore how easy he made it look. The streets were busy for a run; you occasionally had to yell an apology as you kept trotting on. Once a mile from home, you stopped to catch your breath. He gave you a big grin, showing no signs of fatigue. “How the hell are you not winded?” 

“I ran in high school. Guess I never lost it,” Clark lied, hoping it went over your head and it was never to be brought up again. He didn’t talk about his high school experience much; he had been too busy trying to control the lasers burning the back of his eyes to want to talk about it. “You’re terrible…” You groaned, picking back up into a run towards home again. He chased after you. You called behind you, “First one home gets to shower first and doesn’t have to make dinner!” Clark watched as you collided into another person, losing your balance. 

Clark chuckled, watching you scurry up and start to run again. “Hope you have a good recipe in mind,” he teased. Ultimately, he let you win. It was only fair, considering he had superhuman strength. So you triumphed and went inside victorious, making sure to rub it in. “You were sooo sure, weren’t you, Clark?” you teased, a proud grin on your face. He just shook his head, happy that you were happy. “You're not a very humble winner; go take a shower!” Clark needed to think of dinner ideas anyway.

You did, the music from your speaker flowing out. It was a random spouting of songs, but ones he ultimately enjoyed, considering you had reshaped his music taste since he’d moved in. He hummed along to the ones he knew, and noted the ones he didn’t to ask you about later.

Pasta bubbled in the pot as he stirred up a sauce, loud noises filling up the kitchen and masking the sound of the bathroom. When he swore he heard you leave, he padded off to the bathroom. The negatives of having a roommate who doesn’t know your Superman is that he has to wear his glasses 24/7. And it’s really annoying when they fog up, or his telescopic vision picks up on the little fingerprint smudges, ultimately distracting him.

Clark swung the door open, grabbing his small cloth from the top drawer. “Clark?” He heard your voice. “Is that you?” His eyes darted over to the steaming shower, your outline through the shower curtain making his blood run cold. “Oh my… golly! I thought you were out; I really needed to clean my glasses—sorry!”

You mentioned him not needing to worry about it, but still, he shut the door quickly behind him, grimacing as he hustled back to the kitchen. You’d think he would have noticed the sound of the shower, but his brain was caught up in the moment. Now dinner would be awkward—God, had he ruined everything?

 Panicked hadn’t settled over you, because you left the door cracked on purpose. How much could your sweet roommate take? Did it take open doors to bring on something more than friends, because walking around in your underwear hadn’t worked.

You strolled out in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt—also his—your hair taken care of and dripping down your back. Both of you picked not to mention this mishap, as it meant little to you, and far too much to poor Clark. 

“Mind stirring the sauce while I take my shower?” he asked, eyes on the sauce and looking for an excuse not to meet yours. “All you have to do is stir and then in five minutes at the oregano, salt—” you give him a small grin. “Pepper, chilli pepper flakes, sugar. I know, Clark,” you finished for him. Shooing him aside and stirring the tomato sauce around in the pan as he hustled off to the shower. 

He showered much quicker than you, scrubbing his back nicely and making sure his curls weren’t matted. You had spent an hour helping him detangle his curls, and scolded him about it ever since. You helped him pick out products on his phone, cuddling up to his side as you explained them, before helping him scrunch them in.

Clark came out in similar attire, gray sweatpants and an old t-shirt from college that squeezed his biceps mercilessly. What he didn’t know was that you loved those sweatpants more than a friend or roommate ever should. That they made his big thighs look tastier, and the fabric wasn’t shy on showing off his muscles—or his very cute butt.

“Welcome back, my arms are tired of stirring,” you say, passing him the wooden spatula. “You know you don’t have to stir the whole time, right?” He asked, eyebrow raised as he took over. His tongue darted out to taste the sauce on the spatula, its flavour evolving so far. 

You admired his glasses low on his nose, a little crooked even, the sweatpants lower on his hips and that easy grin on his face that showed his approval. “I told you I knew what I was doing,” you prided, plopping onto the couch. 

“How many more runs do you plan to drag me on?” he asked curiously as you flipped through channels. 

You thought for a moment before sighing. “Another one right now sounds like hell, so maybe you’ll get lucky, Smallville.” Clark just shrugged; it wasn’t any challenge to him. Though he realized now he should’ve pretended to be more winded. 

His secret was starting to slip as he felt his attraction growing, as he felt the bond shifting.

“It’s okay, I like growing roots into the floor like a potato anyways,” he teased, a laugh slipping from his lips. The sweet sound was nearly ecstasy to your heart. You didn’t know what was happening, but sometimes you couldn’t resist gushing over him.

People at work had started to notice too. While waiting for copies to print, you found yourself smiling as you texted Clark. “Who’s the guy or gal?” your work friend asked, wiggling his eyebrows in jest. “He is just my roommate, nothing more or less.” Your tongue was sharp the first time it came up, like you were trying to deny feelings that you were hiding from even yourself. “Sure, girl. Sure.”

You flicked to the news channel, weather reports, threats of snow in Metropolis. Yeah, right. “Very funny, Clark,” you tease, grinning as you stand up again to watch over his shoulder. You started to talk over the news, your arm occasionally brushing his as he stirred in the cheese. 

“I don’t think this is a two-person job, honey,” he admits, eyes going down to yours for the first time since his accident. You looked up at him with those begging eyes, except tonight they weren’t begging. Full of an emotion he couldn’t place. Your hand was on his arm, making the hairs on the back of his neck nearly stand up straight.

He swallowed hard, his eyes moving back to the sauce. “Soon, do you wanna watch this movie with me?” you ask, stepping back as he suggested. Your legs were sore anyway, and sinking into the couch sounded better than being alone in your bed. 

Being alone meant more time to contemplate these weird feelings. Why did your stomach drop when Clark Kent entered a room? Or when he flashed you a dimpled smile?

“Sure, after dinner. What movie?” Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, listening to you settle onto the couch again and channel surf. You gave an intelligible grunt, one that led him nowhere, so he shrugged.

Dinner was served and over before he knew it. 

How he got here, he was unsure.

You had helped clean the dishes while he took care of some last-minute article stuff, then he sat on the couch waiting for you. Tugging the blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over himself. Clark wasn’t cold, but it was a trick he picked up from his parents on looking more ‘human’. Or at least that’s what he told himself. 

Sometimes he was hoping to feel more human than he was. 

You slid in a DVD… Was it Star Wars? He couldn’t even remember; he was so in tune to how you slid under the blanket with him casually. How your heart wasn’t beating out of his chest while his was. 

“Clark?” you asked, looking back at him. Clark was smooshed into the corner of the L-shaped couch, you close by, half your body resting on the cushion, your back to him. “Yeah?” He perked up, ready to accommodate anything you needed.

“Can you rub my back?” you asked, eyes full of pleading. “Or scratch it? I’ll do your back!” It was something you found comfort in since you were young. Clark hesitates before nodding, unsure how to initiate this. He’d never scratched anybody’s back, let alone a girl he liked.

It wasn’t long before he was lying on his back, you sprawled on his chest like that terrible date night. The pads of his fingers ran up and down your back under the fabric of your shirt. The Star Wars movie continued to roll on. Your breathing was light, and the small stutters of your breath as he carefully set a rhythm.

Suddenly, it wasn’t about awkward, steamy shower encounters; it was about the softness of your skin and the light thump of your heart. 

When the credits started to roll, Clark didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he closed his eyes, drifting off with you on his chest. 

Ultimately, the beginning of your friends-with-almost-benefits relationship began. When your bed was cold, or a nightmare was plaguing you repeatedly, you found yourself climbing into Clark’s bed. He took you under his arm like it was nothing, like this was normal.

Sometimes you cried about the dreams, and he’d coaxed the tears away, holding you until you fell asleep. The next morning, he’d be out of bed already like nothing happened, breakfast pastry on the table and him already long gone for work.

He tried to think of it as normal, for his own sanity—but Jimmy Olsen was never any help. 

“She sleeps in your bed?” he asked, setting his coffee down and leaning forward in his office chair. “Well, only when she’s had a bad nightmare… or just feels lonely, I don’t mind.” Jimmy looks at Clark like he’s insane. “Oh yeah? And do you kiss her when she says, ‘Oh, Clark! I just need you sooo bad!’ or what?” Jimmy’s mockery made Clark’s brows furrow. 

Lois came in, setting a paper on Clark’s desk, cocking an eyebrow. “Jimmy isn’t very quiet, unfortunately. You know, most people don’t sleep in the same bed as their roommates. Especially when they have a room of their own,” she said, pouring sugar into her coffee at the coffee station.

“You guys are both blowing this out of proportion!” Clark exclaimed, throwing his hands up, then down into his lap again. “She just needs someone… a friend! That’s okay!” Jimmy laughed, shaking his head. “Just admit you love her, you fool! Who knows the relationship stuff you could be missing out on right now because you’re being too friendly. Imagine all the dates and sex you could be having.”

Clark shakes his head, tossing a pad of sticky notes at Jimmy. “It’s not all about sex, Jim. Plus, if I admit… that I love her, then I can’t let her sleep in my bed. It’d be too much. I can be a friend for as long as I need to be!”

As the words left his mouth, he knew he was making a mistake. Clark knew you wanted something more in someone, and that he’d be perfect for that role.

He understood you better than anyone; he knew how you liked your pancakes, and that laundry day was on Wednesdays, like a midweek refresh was what you needed. Clark knew that you preferred juices over Soda, and that you liked hot baths over showers. He knew you best by now.

So he kept letting you sneak into his bed, and it went from a once a week thing to every other night, and he loved it. 

You enjoyed it too, the way he held you to his chest was comforting, like you were his whole world in that moment. And you were. 

The feelings between you both lingered. There was always push, pull. You’d mention a cute guy, and Clark would lose hope. He would mention Lois Lane and suddenly you felt silly. 

All of it was swept under the rug.

Clark came home ridiculously late, hair messy, glasses crooked and you immediately knew something had happened. He had been saving Metropolis—of course, you didn’t know that though.

Instead you just made him some boxed mac and cheese, vegetables on the side and rubbed his shoulders without any questions. That’s what Clark appreciated. You trusted him, you didn’t feel the need to pry. All it was, was “Busy day?” He had smiled, shrugging. “Something like that.”

“Your shoulders are so tense from all the slouching you do…” you grumbled, trying to dig your thumbs intot he meat of his shoulders. It was a difficult task, considering he was a man of steel. But he appreciated the effort. “Can’t scare people off with my height now, can I?” he quipped quickly, the paper open as he crunched on a carrot. 

You shrugged, giving up and polling down at the chair right next to him. His curl was on his forehead, the rest of his hair smoothed back compared to this morning. You had stopped questioning it, considering he usually came home like that. “You aren’t abnormally tall, I don’t know why you act like you are. Wouldn’t kill you to walk with your shoulders high, once in a while. You know, girls like confidence!” You advised.

Clark laughed. “Do they? Because you keep going out with some not-so-confident dudes and end up picking up the pieces…” He leaned back in his chair, a carrot stick in his hand, his eyes watching over yours. “First of all, rude. Second, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate confident guys.”

You gave him a grin, reaching out to fix his curl. Clark let it happen, his cheeks flushing. “Sorry, just saying.” He stood up, bringing his plate to the sink. The cuffs of the wrists on his work shirt were damp as he started to wash the dish. His shoulders rolled back and neck a little straighter. 

Confidence. 

You noticed his straighter posture and smiled to yourself watching him pad off to his room to change. And you definitely made sure to admire his butt in those work pants on the way. He was so cute, and he hid it all under those baggy clothes. Poor thing.

This love for him was starting to bubble up in your gut. Especially, when people kept pointing it out. 

The other day you had come home from work, groceries in hand and the old woman across the hall came out. “Excuse me, dear… Is your boyfriend home? I need his help switching out my fire alarm batteries. It won’t stop beeping!” her voice was weathered with age and her skin was wrinkled. 

“Oh… he’s not my boyfriend! He mentioned being able to hear it, though.” You pause, setting your groceries down right outside the apartment door. Clark had been hearing it for 2 days now, the high screech really bugging his super hearing, and you hadn’t heard it even once. “Let me help, do you have a step ladder?” you asked.

So there you were, the apartment door open as you balanced on an old chair from the 1960’s, easily. It creaked under you as you stretched your arms up and started to unscrew the beeping fire alarm. It was loud and shrill, and you could see how annoying it could be.

As you switched the batteries you lost footing on the old stool, and somehow, Clark happened to be coming home, running to catch you just in time. He held you to his chest, almost like Superman or something. “Oh there your boyfriend is! Glad you’re okay, dear.” Both of you froze as he put you down. “Not her boyfriend, ma’am,” he told her again, switching it himself, considering he was 6’4”. The woman sent him home with many cookies, and too much lemonade in your stomachs. 

She was a nice woman, but she liked to talk. “Gosh, I always leave her house weighing 10 more pounds than I came in as,” you mumbled, packing the groceries away. A small laugh escaped Clark as he shook his head. “She’s just lonely, needs somebody to feed.” 

“Well, if you enjoy being this full then you can have some of my treats next time were there.” Clark shrugs. The perks of being Kryptonian is that he ate for the taste, all of the food burned off within minutes due to the sun’s energy.

“You know, it’s funny she called me your boyfriend,” Clark comments, his eyes searching yours for a hint of liking to that idea. He heard your heart rate flutter, then watched you shrug. “I already told her we weren’t dating, she’s just forgetful.” He didn’t let his smirk fade, despite being disappointed by that answers. Though he didn’t know what he had expected, it wasn’t like you were going to confess your love outwardly. 

Clark nods. “I guess that’s true.”

Though he felt the hot feeling pang in his stomach at the idea of being your boyfriend… of you showing him off and kissing him in front of people. An dream so much closer than he thinks, but it felt so far away.

You watched his smile falter and felt your gut wrench. He was so off and on, too shy to tell you what he was thinking in that pretty head of his. What was behind those glasses? And why wouldn’t he just admit it?

Maybe because you hadn’t either. 

Clark hadn’t realized just how much he missed having you in his bed until you went out of town for the weekend, a ‘girls trip with so much drinking, and lounging by the pool’ as you had said. He stayed up late working, and the covers beside him were empty. There was no sign of that familiar lump, where your face was buried into his favorite pillow, hair sticking out at many angles. 

Now it was empty, and he was able to use his favorite pillow for himself. Except, it didn’t feel like his pillow anymore. It used to smell like curl cream and now it smelt like your fancy shampoo that he wasn’t allowed to touch, that he definitely still used anyways. The 2-in-1 man’s shampoo and conditioner combo he had brought from single living wasn’t satisfying, it didn’t make his hair nice.

And in the bathroom, when he was brushing his teeth, the buzz of his toothbrush filled the room. But you weren’t beside him, yours buzzing loudly as you scrubbed your gums and lectured him on flossing. 

“You have to, Clark! It’s like… not putting syrup on your pancakes!” you’d insisted, then both of  you flossed together in the big mirror.

You were the major influence of his life. All his habits had been slowly changed to yours, and yours had adapted to his. You both read the paper, drank coffee, and ate the same pastries in his bed nearly every morning, unless one of you needed to be in the office early for some reason. 

That was the longest weekend of his life. Not having you around might as well have been torture. How could he do these routines without you? He only knew how to do them with you now. Clark’s heart ached to have more of you—to be more than your roommate, more than your best friend.

He wanted to be the cute roommate he oversaw your friends texting him about. The one that was over bearing and so sweet that you ‘have to snatch him up before someone else does’. He had definitely tried to push the texts about his butt out of his mind. 

“I’m homeee!” you announce excitedly, putting your backpack on the floor as you slid your shoes off, looking around for Clark. He was waiting for you on the couch. He set his coffee down, his paper, but not fast enough.

You threw yourself over the back of the couch and landed flat on his chest, wrapping him in a bear hug. He quickly recovered from being winded, giving you a tight squeeze. “How was it? You do look tanner…” he commented, knowing that girls liked it when guys noticed things about them. At least that’s what Ma had taught him. 

“Thank you for noticing, it was so good. I still have a headache but me and my friends got to catch up so much, and having no work was like… the best thing ever!” you explained excitedly, sitting up, your legs on either side of his legs. Your hands moved as you talked about the things you saw and the nice rental house you had already showed him ten times. “Though I will say, my bed being empty was a change,” you giggled, standing up to stretch your legs. You opened the porch doors, filled with energy.

He sat up, following behind you as you started to unpack. “I’m glad you noticed too, I was feeling lonely in my bed too,” Clark practically squeaks, his ears flushing red as he admitted it. “My friends teased me the whole time.” Clark almost asked but you made sure to explain.

“What, you can’t sleep without a big puppy dog in your bed?” your friend teased, after asking about the sleeping arrangements. You rolled your eyes. “You guys are just jealous that I have a very handsome roommate cuddling me at night, and you don’t.” Another friend chimed in, a grin spreading across her face. “He cuddles? I thought it was just a same bed thing.” You gave a nod, suddenly feeling prideful to share this. Almost like he was your boyfriend, even though he really wasn’t.

Clark pouts. “I’m not a puppy dog… and I’m not big per se…” he defends, sitting on your bed as you tossed stuff into the now over-flowing hamper in the corner of your room. “You are big, Clark. You’re ripped and cast a shadow over people. And you cuddle like a puppy… all nuzzled up into me like you're protecting me.” You watched his cheeks heat and get up to leave from embarrassment. “Stop! It’s cute! Just sit down.” He sat back down quickly—like any doting puppy dog would do.

When night rolled around again, he poked his head into the bathroom, your mouth foaming with toothpaste and your hair pulled back, lotion spread into your skin making it shiny. “Goodnight…” he said, giving a soft smile. You spit into the sink. “Where do you think your going? It’s Monday night!” 

Monday’s were for movies, just to get the lazy lull of that day to roll off your shoulders. “Isn’t it late for a movie, it’s ten.” He cocked an eyebrow, coming back into the doorframe, crossing his arms and leaning on it. Clark was just wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing irregular, but right now he was the apple of your eye. So perfect… so Clark right now. The little guilty grin on his face that you could just smooch off his face.

You quickly shook that thought from your head, just shrugging. “I guess your right, I can’t party forever. You didn’t get used to an empty bed right?” the tease made him grin, his face melting into pure happiness. And you couldn’t believe those dimples were reserved for you. “How could I?” he asked. He watched you half-heartedly put away your headband, rinsing your mouth under the faucet quickly.

Then you were jumping into his arms, him carrying you like a princess. You deserved to be treated like a princess in his eyes.

It wasn’t long before you were pressed into his side, talking nonsense as you used his bicep for a pillow. Clark listened to your voice get slower and your words start to scatter, until you were sleeping.

Lois’s words played again: You deserve to be happy.

And so he allowed it, he allowed himself to melt into you. Hug you like he meant it, discard his glasses and press his nose to your cheek. Sleeping in minutes.

This is where he was supposed to be—holding his roommate/best friend crush to him close and allow it to be something more, if it was what she wanted.

And you wanted it. 

The next day, Clark dragged his feet when he came home. He wasnt lively, he just smiled and nodded at your stories. You thought maybe he was mad at you, or the cuddling had been too much.

Clark couldn’t reveal that he was drained from work and being Superman, that Lex luthor had sent out the Hammer of Boravia to nearly kill him in front of half of Metropolis. It certainly was a hit to the ego, and to let it roll of his shoulders was difficult.

After dinner he took a hot shower, buried himself under his covers and stared at the ceiling. When sleep wouldn’t come—well… He found himself with his hands stroking his cock, slow strokes that made him spring into action. 

Clark hated resorting to this but sometimes it was just what he needed. And it never took long. 

You were walking by his room, thinking about coming in to ask his what’s wrong. The door was shut—unusual for Clark—so you reached out to knock. Before you could knock you heard a small groan tear from his lips. His breathing heavy on the other side. 

Slowly you opened the door. You shouldn’t be in here, not while he was pleasuring himself, but you were still turning the door handle and stepping inside. You watched him jump, his eyes going big and his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. “Oh my god! I am so sorry, I should’ve locked the door. I can move out like—” he panicked, pulling his hand from his pants and sitting up.

“Clark… calm down,” you cut him off, stopping his worry train before it could start. You watched him settle, eyes full of curiosity as you kept coming closer. His breathing was still heavy, a lump in his sweatpants now. You crawled up next to him on his bed. You pressed your forehead to his, your heart beat in your ears. “Let me help you relax?” you asked.

Clark’s heart nearly exploded, were you offering to help him? He didn’t think he could take it, he literally hasn’t felt a woman’s touch in over a year, he’d be a mess under your hands. “O… Okay,” he whispers, watching you gently tug his sweatpants down.

“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart?” your voice was quiet, soft like the moment. He lifted his hips, his underwear coming down with. His meaty thighs were in front of you, spread just enough. His cock was hard between you both, flopping on his stomach and leaking at the head with precum. “You don’t have to do this…” His voice was flooded with plea, and you shushed him. 

You wanted to do this. He had spent many nights taking care of you drunk, making you dinner, entertaining you silly movies without so much of a grunt. You wanted to help him relax, feel seen and loved. Because you did love him, a lot.

You stroked up and down his shaft, your other hand up his shirt and running down his muscles. Your steady rhythm stopped to tug off his shirt, followed by the unbuttoning of the flannel clad on your body. He bucked up into your hand with a whine at the sigh, his hand going out to run the pads of his fingers down the soft skin of your shoulder and collarbones. 

“That’s it, Clark. Tell me how you like it,” you cooed. Nuzzled into his side, jerking him off. The smell of your perfume and the feeling of your hand blinding all of his senses. “Just like that… Please, don’t stop…” he begged, another whimper falling from his lips.

The sounds were so perfect, something you’d never heard before. Clark wasn’t scared to be vulnerable with you, and that made you adore him more. He looked up at your face, feeling your hand. His lips found your neck, collarbone, where ever he could reach from this angle.

He needed to show how much he appreciated this, how real this was for him. That all his feelings were out there now. “Thank you… Just a little faster, honey,” he pleaded, burying his face into you as you sped up. Pre-cum was leaking from the tip, rubbing on your hand. 

The sight of him, happy trail leading to his pretty cock, throbbing as he trusted into your hand helplessly. His abs were starting to gleam with sweat, and he squirmed under you. He threw his head back as you squeezed his cock, giving him pressure to buck into helplessly. “Cum for me?” you asked.

And your wish was his command, he was a mess under you. His load shooting and draining his balls. The sticky globs landing on his abs, running down your fingers, and getting stuck to his hairy trail. “That’s it… Oh, you’re such a good boy,” you reassure, his panting heavy.

“Thank you…” he repeats like a vice, kissing your shoulder and sitting up slowly. Pressing a kiss to your lips. Not too long or too deep, just right.

You helped clean him up, making small jokes, ones that caused sleepy laughs and tired grins. “I like you, Clark. A little more than a roommate…” you admit, his face nuzzling back into the soft, pillowly heaven into between the valley of your breasts.

“Me too…” his words are muffled by your chest, your hands stroking and tugging gently at his matted curls. A little neglected after a long days work. You had a feeling more nights were to come being spent like this.

But tonight would be spent like you guys were almost something, a quiet burden being lifted off both your shoulders. 

Dad!Clark who... builds the crib months early, babyproofs every corner of the house, and comes home with little onesies long before the baby is due. He shows off every step to you, beaming with pride. 

“I picked up this little onesie…” He holds it up, and it looked tiny in his big hands. It was light green with a little elephant on it. You smiled from your spot on the couch, putting your book aside as he showed off his other stuff. “Okay, and it was silly, but these little boots…” he held up fake cowgirl/boy boots, unbelievably tiny ones. Your heart hurt looking at them.

Or, “Honey! Look, I just painted baby’s room. And I found this rocking chair on the way home that matches the crib.” You look at the mossy sage colored room, the rocking chair swaying back and forth from the subtle breeze drafting through the window.

Dad!Clark who... holds your hair back when you're sick, rubs your swollen feet, makes you all the meals with the appropriate amount of protein, and shows up to every doctor's appointment. He is a nutrition police through and through.

“Have you been getting all your vitamins and protein?” the doctor asks, checking over her clipboard. You nod, and Clark hesitates. “Yes, with a side of 4 bowls of cereal.” You send an elbow into his side, making him wince. The doctor laughs, “The baby seems perfectly healthy, so have as many bowls as you want.” You give a triumphant smile and nod.

Dad!Clark who... tried so hard not to use his x-ray vision to reveal the gender, but his respect for you was far too high to even dare taking a peek.

Dad!Clark who... lets you squeeze his hand through labor, feeds you ice chips, and doesn’t sit down for even a second. “You got this… Just breathe with me, okay? Squeeze my hand as hard as you need!” He insists, the force of your squeeze doing nothing to affect him.

Clark only wants what's best for you, so when they suggest a C-section or an epidural shot, he encourages you to make the choice that you feel safest with.

Dad!Clark who... cries when he hears the first wails of your baby girl. He strokes your hair back, wipes the sweat from your forehead as the medical staff sets a bundle of blankets onto your chest. “You’re both so pretty… my perfect, perfect ladies.” He coos, patiently waiting beside you for a turn to hold her. She has a dark head of curly hair just like Clark’s, and you had never seen so much pride radiate off of him, not even after saving a city from complete demolition with his bare hands.

Dad!Clark who... is so nervous to hold the baby. “Are you sure?” he whispers as you pass the little bundle. You give him a reassuring nod. “Of course, Clark. She needs to meet her daddy…” Your voice is raspy and weak, but your heart is overfilled with warmth.

Dad!Clark who... helps with the nightly feedings so your body can heal. He warms the milk, sitting in the rocking chair as the room fills with the little grunts and the creak of the rocking chair. When she was sleeping again, Clark slipped into bed, rubbing your tense shoulders and cuddling you close.

Dad!Clark who... helps get the baby to sleep, then comes into the bedroom to pamper you. “She’s sleeping…” he said, sitting on your side of the bed, dipping down to press kisses to your face. “Thank you. What should we do with all this extra time?” you asked, eyebrows raised in question.

“How about a massage for such a hard-working mother?” Clark teased, opening the drawer and grabbing lotion. You prop a leg into his lap, and he rolls up your pant leg, slathering your skin in lotion before rubbing deep circles into your aching muscles. “You are too sweet, Clark.”

Dad!Clark who... helps practice walking after dinner. He lets her little hands wrap around his fingers as he lightly encourages her. “One foot in front of the other…” Clark reminded, watching the clumsy footing slowly get more confident and stronger. 

He noticed she had more of his Kryptonian DNA by the time she hit seven months old. When she was already showing signs of being able to walk, and her arms were stronger than a normal seven-month-old. 

Silence settles over as his hands go to the next leg, your back, your shoulders, ending it with a head scratch. “You know, I’m starting to think she’s getting my abilities,” he comments, wanting to hear you talk. “Me too. Whenever she kicks her legs while she's on my chest, she knocks the wind out of me. And she’s walking, crawling, and close to saying her first words at 8 months!”

You both shrug, ending the night with a deep kiss and holding each other close.

Dad!Clark who... cooks' dinner with the baby strapped to his chest. She kicks at his ribs hard while babbling. Clark can hardly feel it and laughs, talking back. “Yeah? This is chicken! Can you tell me what sound a chicken makes?” he asked, stirring it. She claps her hands together excitedly, another sharp kick to the ribs. “Can’t do that, sweetheart. My ribs can take it, but your mommy’s can’t…”

Dad!Clark who... brought you and your daughter out to the creek he dreamed of, spending hours by it. You taught him how to make flower crowns—he perfected it quickly, plopping a little one on your daughter's head of thick curly hair. Then he made one for you, grinning as he got on one knee. “Your highness, do I have the honor?” he joked, and when you nodded, he jumped to his feet. Carefully he put it on your head and smothered you with kisses. 

He took a picture of his two girls wearing flower crowns, and it was his wallpaper to this day.

Dad!Clark who... cried on her first day of school, and you had to deal with 240 pounds leaning on you all day. “She’s just so grown up…” he mumbled into your shoulder. You ran a hand up and down his back, relishing your newly found alone time. “I know, but she’s gonna love school, make a lot of friends.” This reassured him, and like Forrest Gump, he was waiting on the stump at the end of the driveway an hour before the bus came, listening to her talk about all the things she did.

Dad!Clark who... didn’t pass down his telescopic sight genes. Your daughter’s school teacher called saying she struggled to see the board. It concerned both you and Clark, but nothing an eye doctor couldn’t fix! So she picked out pretty pink glasses that made her the cutest ever.

When she came home, she wasn’t wearing her glasses. “Clark, her glasses are tucked into her backpack…” You commented, taking them out of the little side pocket. “I’ll go talk to her,” he offered, grabbing the little glasses that were dwarfed in his hand and padding off to her room. 

Toys in hand, she looked up at him and smiled. “Hi, daddy! Will you play with me?” she asked hopefully, a little sparkle in her eyes. Clark sat down, tugging her into his lap. She stood on his legs, clinging to his arm and grabbing a fistful of hair to play with. “We have to talk about why you won’t wear your glasses first, sweet pea.” She gave him a shrug. “They hurt my ears, and no kids in my class have glasses. They aren’t cool!” she complained, her fingers prodding at his face. “Well, Daddy wears glasses, and he’s pretty cool, right?” he asked, his thick black glasses still on his nose. They kept his powers under wraps around her, since little kids blabbed everything. “Yeah…” she said, suspicious. “Can you just try wearing them for me, princess? They’ll help you so much,” he convinced her. When she nodded, he began to dive into a game with her dolls.

She wore her glasses every day after. “Look, Daddy! I look like you!” she’d say with a toothy smile; her front teeth were finally starting to get wiggly.

Dad!Clark who... kept every picture she ever drew for him in a small keepsake box, right next to the one you and his keepsakes from when you were dating. Old anniversary cards, stuffed animal from your first date, a stack of printed photos from your childhood together.

Dad!Clark who... came home from work to her, you looking around for her. “What are you looking for?” he asked, setting down his briefcase. “Our daughter,” you mumbled flatly, opening the cabinet under the sink, and the one next to it with bowls inside. “I can hear her heartbeat,” Clark reassured. He ran a hand over his face, looking up at the ceiling in thought when he heard a giggle.

“Found her…” he mumbled. You came into the living room quickly, following his gaze up. On the ceiling, she wore her little tutu, and her back was pressed to the ceiling, giggles falling from her lips. 

She discovered her superpowers.

Dad!Clark who... would tug you into the kitchen while she played with toys. A long week of work for both of you; he kissed your neck gently, trying to talk as quietly as possible. “I miss you so much…” the sound muffled by your skin. You made a small noise, your arms around his neck as he eased you up onto the counter. “Me too…” You whined. He pulled away, looking into your eyes. “Just wait until she goes to sleep, then we’ll have some time.” 

“Time for what?” she asked, padding into the kitchen. Her super hearing both a blessing and a curse. 

Dad!Clark who... turns the living room into a spa for his ladies. He has out nail polish, lotion, face masks (even a little one for your daughter's little face), and a movie ready. Clark paints your daughter's nails, then he takes time to massage your feet and paint your nails too. He rubs your legs with lotion, and he adjusts the face masks on your faces to perfection before setting a timer. 

Then he cuddles under the blankets with you guys. You tucked into his arm, and your daughter sprawled out on his chest. The couch ended up being a slumber party as he fell asleep holding you both close. 

Dad!Clark who... carried her on his shoulders during the county fair, winning her prizes at the concessions while she munched on cotton candy or popcorn.

A strong frame bumped into you, knocking you off balance. Coffee sloshed from his cup as he did everything in his power to stop it from spilling all over you. Instead, it landed on both your shoes, sending him into a panic. 

He grabbed napkins and started to wipe at your shoes, then his own, while apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, Miss. I was in such a rush; let me buy you coffee to make up for it. Golly…” he trailed off at the end, looking up at you from his spot on the floor. 

Clark was nearly winded by your beauty: sharp eyes, perfectly manicured eyebrows, soft skin that had been perfectly moisturized. Your eyes flicked over him—calculating. He was cute, dressed in his suit and tie, big glasses that slipped down his nose. 

One of your eyebrows shot up, arms crossed, and you saw his Adam’s apple bob nervously as he rose to his feet. He was towering over you now, but he still seemed so small, like he was trying to take up less space. “Don’t worry about it…” You said, the line having dwindled to one person. 

“Please, I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t.” He gave a small smile, and you flashed him one back. You watched his smile fade, and nervousness take over again. He wasn’t very good with pretty girls, and you were the sort of beautiful that belonged on billboards. You made a good salary for modelling, you had gone global just months ago; you didn’t need his pity coffee. Hadn’t he seen your face before? 

You let him order you a coffee with oat milk and all the healthy stuff. You heard his name called out to claim your coffee, “Clark!” You smiled to yourself. How cute. “Thank you, Clark. Maybe I can have your number?” you asked, and he nodded quickly, fumbling out his notepad and writing his name and number in a neat scrawl.

He tore it out and held it out to you, looking like he had seen a ghost. As you turned to leave, he called out, “Wait! What’s your name?” You turned around, a smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t know?” You watched his head tilt with confusion.

“No, should I?” His voice cracked a little, causing his ears to go red.

It felt refreshing; someone was interested in something other than a name you had built for yourself. “No,” you said, calling your name to him. Soon the bell jingled, and the door was shut; you were gone.

That’s how it began: the first date had evolved into nights in your fancy apartment, nervous stutters had turned into flirtatious remarks, shaky hands turned into confident ones as you two got to know each other.

Clark saw what was behind all the make-up and campaigns.

Both of you were busy, and a quiet respect grew between you as you flew in and out of Metropolis to take photographs, walk runways, and film alluring advertisements that made sales skyrocket. Clark had to type out many articles, a demanding schedule as Superman (he had to tell you, he wasn’t good at keeping stuff like this from his girlfriend), and try to live a normal life in the cracks of that.

Your keys jingled as you stuck them into the lock of your door, toeing off your shoes as you stepped in. Your condo smelled strongly of dinner, the pan sizzling in the other room. “I’m home!” you called.

You changed first, putting on a flannel, ditching your pants in your laundry basket. Clark had gotten used to this fact: that pants were never an option at home. The doors to your balcony were open, the white curtains swaying in the wind. 

Clark was there when you rounded the corner, beaming at you in his work pants and white button-up. “Silly, why do you never get cozy?” you tease, returning his grin.

If you ever believed that Clark was sharp and tough from how tall he stood, you’d be wrong. He was mush in your arms, and had the soft look in his eyes when you came around. 

He was the guy who came home with matted curls from tugging at them while thinking too hard. The man who always lined his shoes up at the door and always talked highly of everybody, his heart on his sleeve. 

Clark saved all your magazines with your face in them, and he held you through the nights when make-up couldn’t hide the scars underneath. He was your mush, and you loved him a lot. 

“I was trying to get dinner made before you got home, but that plan failed…” He scooped you up under your thighs, his thumbs rubbing the bare skin under his hands. Clark set you on the counter and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your lips.

When he pulled away, he tilted his head. “How was work?” he asked, his hand busying itself with the garlic bread right next to you, slipping it into the toaster. “Long. My feet hurt,” you said, pressing your forehead to his.

You were more obsessed with him than you let on. Clark was such a sweetheart; how could you not love him? 

“I’ll rub them later while we watch a show?” He offered, watching your hands on his tie. The small grin on your face made his cheeks heat. “Okay, baby…” 

You wait on the balcony, lounging back in one of the chairs, letting the breeze come in. No fancy clothes, your hair brushed out and unstyled, your make-up gone. The pressure was no longer on your shoulders.

Clark came out with two plates, setting one in your lap and then plopping down in the lounge chair next to yours. His eyes were pinned on you as you sat up, starting to cut up a bite. “What?” you asked, your eyes meeting his, and an uncontrollable smile spread across your face. 

“You look beautiful!” He said, starting to cut himself a bite of his own. “Oh, stop it, Clark.” You brushed it off; you were used to being admired under heavy make-up and thick perfume.

Clark took his phone out and snapped a picture, small smirk on your lips, fork in hand and the sun setting behind you. “Hey!” You set your plate aside and dash to his side. “What are you doing?”

He beams at you, showing you a picture. “Taking a picture of my pretty girlfriend.” You shook your head, resting a head on his shoulder. “Why? There’s plenty of pictures of me out there. Good ones too.”

He set his plate down, sinking to his knees on the floor, his hands on your hips and leaving a tail of gentle kisses up your legs. “That one was a good one… because it shows the real you.” You giggle at his lips tickling your legs, a hand tangling in his hair, a small whine leaving his lips. 

Your hand goes to his tie again, tugging him up. His arms wrap around you and he presses kisses all over your face, making you both laugh. “I love you, Clark.”

His smile softened. “I know…” Then he kissed your forehead. “I love you, too.”

So why would you say no when he got down on one knee? He brought you basic flowers, gave a little speech, and flashed a charming grin. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you nodded. It was a moment every girl waited for, along with getting to pull out the wedding binder from under their beds or on the high shelf of their closet in safekeeping. 

The wedding was beautiful, held in Smallville on your parents' farm, wind blowing through your veil as you said ‘I do’ and pulled your forever into a long-lasting kiss. That’s when things were simple. No one warned those poor brides and grooms about the honeymoon phase. How after a year or so rolls around, things start to change. That you’d start to feel self-doubt in those marriages you had been so sure of, and everything is in shambles. Big conversations about kids and buying a house, moving and paying bills, were all scary, and you wondered how you’d juggle it all.

It brought out the bad side in people—especially your husband, Daniel. 

When everything got too hard, he shut you out. Sometimes he yelled or took you for granted. There were countless nights when you or he were sleeping on the couch. It was usually you, curled up into a ball and crying your eyes out, wondering when this phase would come to an end. He wasn’t quite how he used to be; when he was your boyfriend, he was doting and gave you flowers or compliments, flowers that weren’t your favorite but thoughtful nonetheless. In marriage, he dropped that. Sly, degrading comments that were masked as love that you were too blind to see. “Maybe don’t eat too much of that,” he’d comment about your body. You’d stop buying desserts altogether. 

“You just don’t understand what it’s like to work hard! Everything's being handed to you by me, so will you get off my ass and just let me be a provider? I don’t care that you want to go home and see your family; I’m your family now!” his voice boomed through your little apartment. You had abandoned Smallville for him so he could pursue a bigger career in Metropolis while you hunted for jobs. “I’m sorry, honey… I just miss them too; can’t I have both?” you ask, voice quiet as your husband towered over you, steam practically coming from his ears. You sat on the couch, your dog nuzzled under the blanket on your lap. The old lab only did this when he was scared, which occurred more and more these days. 

Your husband shook his head, brows furrowed angrily. “Fine! Go, waste all my hard-earned money; I don’t care. You know I can’t get time off work.” You were surprised, not knowing he was feeling that way. “I know,” You said quietly, your eyes going to Molly, who was nudging your hand. “Then why are we still having this conversation?” Your shoulders tensed as you shrugged, eyes flicking back up to his. “I just miss them…” you croaked out, and he shook his head, jaw stiff. “I’m your husband. You should be supporting me.”

That was another night spent on the couch, crying into your dog's fur. It gave sighs of disappointment, like it was tired of doing this too. 

Spring was slowly starting to ebb away, and the summer sun was bursting through the clouds as the days grew longer and longer. Your return to Smallville had been dropped as you searched for jobs; it was a silly idea anyway. It could wait until summer. You had a degree in education; being a teacher was a lifelong passion that hadn’t aged with time. Your husband found it silly, but if it was bringing in money, who was he to complain? 

Today you walked your old dog, Molly, as you went from school to school for teacher gigs. They said they’d email or call soon, leaving you hopeful. You got a coffee drink and walked Molly through the park, a longer route than usual. “Such a good girl…” You cooed, the pup cup you bought her plastered to her nose making you laugh. Quickly, you snapped a picture and sent it to your husband. He left it on read. 

You and Molly raced up the apartment staircase, faster than taking the elevator, all the way up to the 6th floor. Out of breath and laughing, you swung the apartment door open. “I’m home!” You called, slipping Molly’s collar off and hanging it up. “Where have you been?” your husband asked, rounding the corner; his tone was flat, angry. “I was handing in applications, remember?” you said, hands going to his chest and moving in for a kiss. He turned his face away. “You weren’t with someone, were you?” he prodded, Molly rolling onto her back for a belly rub. “No! Just me and Molly.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Your face faltered as he gently pushed you away, hands crossing over his chest. “Let's face it, you’ve been different. I got you tickets to Kansas; you can spend the summer there, but you better fix this new attitude while you're there.” You nodded, initially feeling hurt before happiness took over. He was right; you guys needed a break. Maybe you had been too nagging lately… “Thank you.” The whisper died in your throat as you shut yourself away in the bathroom. 

So you were off to Smallville. You hadn’t been there since the wedding; you missed your mom, your dad, friends—all that. Clark Kent, your childhood best friend, had been trying to keep in contact, but it was difficult when your husband insisted you didn’t. ‘You have me now; you don’t need a best friend. Plus he only wants one thing from you.’ You felt terrible giving him half-thought-out replies, but your husband was right; you needed to be there for him.

It wasn’t long before your dad was helping pull your bag from the truck bed and you were stepping out into the fresh Kansas sun. It was already beating down on you, despite being 8 in the morning. Molly started to bark excitedly as she jumped out of the car—yes, Molly came. You were the only one who really took care of her. She relieved herself quickly before greeting your parents' Border Collie. “Good to have you back; your mom's been over-cooking for this for weeks. And that Kent boy has been asking about you for weeks now!” Your dad's voice was raspy and deep with age. You felt your heart flutter with excitement; there really was no place like home. 

“You're here!” your mom hollered from the porch, the screen door slamming shut behind her. She wrapped you into a hug that smelled like baked bread and her perfume that she’d been using since you were a kid. “I am, hi, mama.” You kissed her cheek before being whisked inside. Breakfast was on the table—anything you could ever dream of: eggs, pancakes, bacon, and sausage. “Jeez, really outdid yourself,” you teased, your mom smiling at you. “I told you,” your dad said, bringing your bags to your room. You excused yourself to the bathroom, taking a moment to wash your hands and splash cold water on your face. 

Breakfast was filled with chatter about Metropolis, your husband, and how jobs were going. “I got an email on the plane, might have to do a virtual interview while I’m here,” shoveling the home-cooked meal into your mouth. You cooked at home, and while you weren’t terrible at it, it just never compared to mom’s homemade meals. “I’m happy to help prepare you; you know I was a teacher once,” your mom said with a proud smirk. You knew. She had been your teacher at that little high school for 3 years in a row! “You’re too kind. I’ll help clean up, then I’m gonna head over to the Kents’.” Your parents just nodded, used to this usual routine.

Clark was studying at a nearby university, majoring in journalism, just as he hoped since you were kids. As you approached the farm, you saw his tall figure, not having changed much since your wedding. He had overalls and a T-shirt on, covered in dirt and very sweaty; he was lifting a tractor from its spot where it’d sputtered in the mud like it was easy. “Hi, bad time?” you asked, his head perking up like he hadn’t heard the crunch of gravel beneath your boots. “No! Gosh, hi!” Clark set the tractor down and quickly wrapped you in a hug in 3 long strides.

“Yuck, Clark!” you teased, his sweaty body swallowing you whole, holding you like it’d been decades rather than a year. “Hi to you too.” Clark pulled away, beaming down at you. “How was the flight? You bring Molly? You really staying all summer?” He started rattling off quickly, his blue eyes taking in your face. Despite the distance you set, it was like you’d never left. That was the kind of friendship you and Clark had; a million years could pass, and he’d treat it like it was only a day. That was just who Clark was.

“Slow down! It was good, though I can’t say the same for Molly,” you joked. Clark started to walk you inside to see Martha, another mother figure in your life. Clark’s house was like a home away from home. “You could’ve left her with your husband; she hates flights,” he said, opening the door for you with a gentleman’s smile plastered on. “3 months is too long without her, plus she loves the farm.” 

Martha was boiling water in the kitchen, and her eyes lit up when she heard Clark’s laugh. “Hi, sweetheart, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!” Another hug was shared, except hers was much less sweaty than Clark’s. “I missed you and your knitting,” you tease, sitting at the table. Martha set out tea stuff as you began to ramble. “So why a summer out here? Where’s Daniel?” Martha asked first, though you could tell it was on the tip of Clark’s tongue. “Well, he has to work, and I missed home. Just a little break.” The whole plane ride, you had avoided thinking too deeply into it. What did it mean if the break healed nothing? Clark’s eyebrow knitted in confusion. “A break? From what?” Ma kicked him under the table. “Don’t be impolite; that’s her and her husband’s business; she doesn’t owe that to you,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. You looked down at your lap, ears reddening. 

You were happy that the topic was excused, though you could tell it was still mildly upsetting to Clark. You didn’t blame Daniel, not even a little bit. He had his days, and he was just providing for the family, right? 

It wasn’t long before you got into the usual summer routine: rising out of bed at 9:30, feeding the animals in your pajamas, sitting on the porch until someone dragged you to do something. Usually it was your mom dragging you to help her sell at the market in town; sometimes it was Clark bringing you to little lakes nearby. 

Tea in one hand, muffin in the other, you heard the back porch door swing open, then heavy footsteps followed them. “What are you doing today?” Clark asked, looking at your pajama attired and crossing his arms. He wore a T-shirt and old jeans, simple stuff. “Eating this muffin… and not much else,” he shook his head, grinning. “Come on, I have a swimming hole you haven’t seen yet!” Clark holds out a hand to help you up; instead, you set your teacup in his broad hand. “I just washed my hair,” you complained, walking into the kitchen.

All the windows were open; your mom and dad had gone out for breakfast, their usual Sunday morning routine after church. “You can’t wash it again? Or put it up? I promise this one will be cool,” Clark insists, setting your cup in the sink and grabbing your wrist as you tried to walk away. “Fine, I’ll get my suit, but I can’t promise I’m getting in.” He grinned, letting you get changed; in the meantime, he changed at home, it taking half the amount of time it took you because of his super abilities. 

He patiently waited at the bottom of the stairs. You came down the stairs, hair braided, shirt and shorts, the swimsuit straps showing from under it—it felt like you were kids again. You tossed a towel at him, and he caught it with a laugh. Molly whined by the door, tugging on the leash hanging on the wall with her mouth. “Can she come?” you asked, watching Clark get down on his knees and scratch between Molly’s ears. “Sure, just might have to carry her for a few parts.” 

You frowned. “Clark, it better not be a hike like last time! I think you forget I don’t have superhuman abilities!” He shook his head, giving an easy smile that made his dimples pop. “I’ll carry both of you?” he offered, and you finally relented. Molly ran ahead of you as you walked, finding sticks and whipping them around dangerously fast. 

The sun beat down on you both, your skin pricking with sweat; meanwhile, Clark remained unfazed. “So, when are you transferring to Metropolis?” you asked, breaking the silence that had settled over you both. Sticks cracked beneath your feet as you followed Clark into a drive of trees that only kept getting deeper and deeper. “Soon, I hope. I don’t think I’ll make it out there, to be frank with you.” You could hear the insecurity in his tone, and you looked up confused—he was an incredible writer and had many trophies in debate.

“What? Why do you think that?” you asked quickly, stumbling on a rock. He laughed, thinking before he spoke again. “It’s so busy, and there are so many great people out there, truly. I’m not one in a thousand like those journalists. Plus, if I’m doing my big debut with my powers, how am I supposed to hide under all the scrutiny of the press?” Clark spoke with so much negativity, unusual for him. You shook your head. “With that attitude, you want. I think you forget, Clark, you are one of a kind. You have powers that do good; who cares if you're a ‘mediocre’ journalist? It just keeps your hero side of yourself more concealed. And you are a very talented writer!”

You watched his cheeks heat, and he rubbed the back of his neck. Molly whined behind you both, tongue hanging out of her mouth from the heat. Clark quickly swooped her up, holding her like a baby. “Thank you, I appreciate it. Feels nice to have someone other than my ma and pa believe in me.” You gave a small nod; sometimes you forgot that Clark was a bit of a loner, having spent his teenage years trying to control this power that surged through him. “Anytime.”

The rest of the walk was filled with mindless chatter and strenuous hills, finally reaching a deep water hole, a large waterfall gushing over the rocks above, splattering into the water beneath it. Peaks of the sun reflected onto the rocks and water. “Whoa, how did you find this place?” you ask, setting your towel down, slipping off your shoes to slip a foot into the water. Clark set Molly down and grinned. “I have the whole Earth memorized; this one stood out to me most. At least this one was most walkable.” You look up at him in awe. His eyes were already on you, soft and filled with admiration. 

You slid your phone from your back pocket, taking a picture for Daniel. “Want me to get a picture of you in front of it for him?” Clark offered quickly, reaching out for your phone. He saw your hesitation. “I don’t want to make him jealous or anything; I’m out here while he’s working…” you explain. He tilts his head in confusion, shooing you off to pose. “Fine, don’t send it. Just have it for yourself.” That settled you more as you posed with a smile in front of the landscape. Clark had always been so… supportive.

You ended up getting your hair more than wet; the calm spots in the hole were cold and refreshing. You and Clark took turns throwing the ball in for Molly, watching her splash before following. Of course, you guys had a trick battle. “Front flip?” you challenged, jumping from a high point with a flawless flip before crashing into the water. To your dismay, he was even better. Damn his superpowers.

“Wish it wasn’t so risky to fly, could get you home faster. And it’s so beautiful up there,” Clark comments, drying off his body. You watched as he smoothed the towel over his body, carved of muscles. Back when you were young, you had a small crush on Clark; you could admit beauty when you saw it. That was until you started dating Daniel in sophomore year, and your attraction cut off there. “What?” he asked, catching you staring. “Nothing, just thinking about when we were kids. When I had a little crush on you before I went out with Daniel.” Clark’s eyebrows shot up; he didn’t know about this. “Golly, news to me.” You laughed, starting to walk back, t-shirt hanging off your frame, slowly starting to dampen from contact with your swimsuit. Your shorts were slung over Clark’s shoulder. 

If he was honest, he had harbored a crush for you long before high school, and he nursed it throughout school. When you moved off to live on the university campus, it faded when he saw you less. It had been for the best, since you were 21 and engaged to the love of your life. Who was he to ruin that? But sometimes he felt those feelings linger in his gut; it drove him crazy sometimes. If only you had given him one chance, and now it was too late. 

You split ways for the night, cleaning up and spending time with your family. After many card games, you settled into bed. You pressed the FaceTime button on your husband's contact, listening to it ring multiple times before he answered. In the background was the familiar sight of the picture above your bed, Daniel staring back. “Hi, honey! How’s it going?” you chirped out first, lying on your stomach. You wore your cotton shorts and tank top tonight, since the heat wasn’t relenting and your little bedroom fan could only do so much. “Good,” he said gruffly, a small pause, and he spoke again. “What have you been up to?” Daniel asked. He seemed distracted, but that wasn’t unusual for him.

“Mama’s been taking me to the market, getting to sleep in, feeding the animals. Clark’s been taking me to all these swimming holes, want to see the pictures?” You asked, being ignored. “Clark Kent? The big nerd you always hung out with?” Daniel said, and the tone made you hurt a little. He knew how much Clark meant to you, and he could barely care to remember him. “He’s not a nerd… he’s very nice,” your defense is weak to his anger. Why did he hate Clark so much?

Your husband shook his head. The conversation passed quickly; he started to talk about work, and you tried to listen as best you could. “I love you, goodnight…” You say into the phone once he was done talking. “Goodnight.” The line went dead, and you set your phone to the side. You felt a wave of sadness overcome you. Back in high school, he didn’t care about Clark. You ended up sending the photo anyway, the one of you in front of the waterfall—cheeks and eyes shining with delight. Just to show him you were happy. A short reply lit up your phone: “Remember who you’re married to.”

Clark noticed the next day how dimmed you seemed; of course, you had changed a lot in the past year. You went from loud to reserved; you passed up the opportunity to make smores or go bathe in the sun like you used to. It sat like a rock in his stomach. Why were you passing up dessert? What had changed? Where had that rich laughter gone, or all those storytelling skills? You used to have a new story every day, just over-the-top enough to resonate.

“Want to go walk Molly?” he asked, and you shook your head. “Pick peaches from Mr. Mayfield's tree?” he tried again, and still another firm shake of your head. What Daniel had said really struck a chord deep inside you somewhere. “Okay, what is wrong with you? Do you want to do anything?” You shrugged at the idea; wallowing all day sounded like a pleasant idea. “Talk to me!” Clark insisted, tugging your book away, then your phone and holding it to his chest. “I just think my husband's a little mad at me, don’t know how to fix it,” you said glumly. 

Clark softened immediately as he plopped down roughly on the porch swing next to you. “Easy on my porch swing, Kent!” your mother yelled from inside, making you both laugh. “Why do you think he’s mad?” You looked up at Clark; his face was filled with concern. He was ready to listen, nothing else on his mind, and it felt warm. Nobody had really listened to you in a while, not even Daniel. He figured that protecting you was all you needed. “That he’s working while I’m here, I don’t have a job yet, and I’m spending his hard-earned money to be here.”

Clark frowned. “He’s keeping tabs on you for seeing your family?” he asked, his eyes flashing with emotion, shock being one of them. “No… he just works hard, and I don’t do much,” you said, insecurity bubbling out of your chest. It had been nestled under your skin for a while now; to see how affected you are by it made Clark hurt. “So? You still deserve nice things.” 

He said it so simply, like that’s how it would be if he were married, and deep down, you knew it was how he’d be. 

“I know, I just… I can’t explain it,” defeat flooded your tone as you sank further back into the chair. “I know what will fix this…” Clark said, a proud smile. “Ice cream!” You cocked an eyebrow, eyes going down to your attire. “I can’t go out like this,” you insisted. He swooped you up like you weighed nothing, marching you up the stairs as you laughed. “Stop making silly excuses, come on!” Clark insisted. It felt like weight was being lifted from your shoulders, his head thrown back in laughter as he carried you like you were nothing. Daniel hadn’t done that since your wedding day, and the conditions had been a lot less friendly and much more heated. 

He set you on your bed gently, rifling through your drawer. He tossed you shorts and a tank top with a cool design; he left you to get socks and stuff, none of his business to rifle through that drawer. “Change. And don’t mope.” You smiled to yourself, changing into the clothes he picked, and sliding socks on. Clark waited outside, a boyish grin spreading on his face as you stepped out. 

At the ice cream shop, the line was short, just short of being empty. You got the smallest size in one of the kids' sugar cones, your favorite flavour. Clark got a big cup, chocolate and brownie. “Why’d you get such a little one? When we were younger, you would get the biggest one to give me a run for my money!” he teased, taking a lick from yours, and he offered you a thick spoonful. You took it with a hum and shrugged. “Not that hungry,” you lied. Daniel’s words rang through your head sometimes, especially now. ‘Cut back just a bit on the sweets, ’ 8 words that had cut deeper than anything else before.

Clark noticed the hesitation but ignored it, shrugging. “Whatever you say. You know, tonight we should watch a movie! Like one of those old ones we watched when we were kids,” he suggested with a smile. Chocolate ice cream smeared on his cheek, and you laughed; without thinking, you brushed it away. He straightened, and you wondered briefly if you had crossed a line. 

Of course you hadn’t; Clark quickly recovered with a smile. Spending the summer with you had dug up old feelings, leaving him conflicted. What was wrong with a harmless crush? Was it harmful when the crush was married? 

After going separate ways, soaking in a few hours with your parents on their porch, your dad made a mean dinner on the grill. You knocked on Clark’s door with a plate of meat and potatoes. He opened it, and his face was smeared with flour, wearing one of his mother's aprons and a grin. “Hi, sorry you caught me mid-baking. Come in,” he said, stepping aside, wiping sweat from his brow. “Since when does Clark Kent bake?” you asked, taking in the modest little living room. 

In front of the TV was a blanket fort, built from blankets and random chairs around the house. “Brought food from my dad…” You said, and Clark gave a quiet thanks. The house was warm, the warmth swallowing you as you followed him deeper into the kitchen. “Since now. I know your favorite is brookies. The chocolate chip with brownies on top? Is that still your favorite? Either way, it's not movie night without them,” he said. It was easy, stirring the batter in a rush to get it into the oven. 

Your heart felt like it’d melt.

He’d remembered the littlest details, and it made you think of Daniel. How Valentine's Day came aroun,d and he said, “I bought your favorite.” and on the counter was a frosted sugar cookie that had no thought put into it. Like maybe it was on discount, and he was feeling nice. Like it was a regular day rather than the most romantic holiday in the world. Your silence made Clark frown.

“What? If you don’t like them, I can scrap them and make popcorn instead…”You heard the stress flood his tone, his eyes big and desperate. You’d seen that look a million times, puppy dog eyes filled to the brim with worry and fear of disappointing someone. “No!” you snapped quickly, making him freeze. 

“Sorry. It’s really nice. I haven’t had brookies in… I don’t know how long,” you gave a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. How could something so small be so significant? Marriage was supposed to be built on protection and respect. So why did something as simple as homemade brookies feel more meaningful than all the grand gestures Daniel had ever made?

He settled after that, getting them in the oven and setting out a big box of DVD’s for you to pick from. They were all from when you were younger, when you got to go into the big city and check out the big Blockbuster. 

“Clark! We should get this movie!” You held up a new copy of ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’. You’d both been 12 or 13 at the time.” He read the back and the rating and shrugged. “Okay, if you want.” And that was when your first celebrity crush formed; poor Clark had to hear all about it for weeks. 

You giggled to yourself, and he perked up. “When we first watched this movie, I didn’t stop talking about Matthew McConaughey for weeks!” Clark didn’t even have to look at the movie cover to know, shaking his head. “You owe me for the weeks of torture I endured. I didn’t hear the end of it. ‘He’s so charming! I want a boyfriend just like him one day…’” Clark mocked, taking a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. More laughter bubbled from your chest. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have a thing for Emma Watson in Harry Potter when you were 12.”

“Fine, fine. You win,” Clark said through a mouthful. You started the movie after 30 minutes, the timer on the oven beeping loudly to mark the brookies officially finished. You ended up picking Boy in the Striped Pajamas. In the coziness of the little fort Clark had put together for you guys, you shared brookies; they weren’t bad for his first time. Other than the fact you had to pry them from the bottom of the pan. “Knew I was forgetting something…” he mumbles, digging in despite it. Tonight you didn’t hold back; you indulged in the treat Clark had made for you.

As the movie came to its end, you looked over to see a little tear rolling down Clark’s cheek. The blue of his eyes was so soft, and holding onto the tears by the rims of his eyes for dear life. You reached a hand out to his, and he took it gratefully, giving a small squeeze. 

When the credits rolled, he sat up from the pillows supporting his back, pulled the blanket off his lap, and gave you a sad look. “Why’d you pick that movie again?” he asked, sniffling. You let out a small laugh, wiping away a tear or two yourself. “Sorry, now I remember why I haven’t watched it since it was released.”

Clark let a small laugh bubble out too. Quietly, you both start to clean up the first; you fold up blankets, he puts away the chairs and pillows, before eventually tucking the blankets into the hallway closet. “Thank you… for watching a movie with me and being a good friend,” he whispered, like maybe it should be a secret. Like something else was hiding behind it. 

You stood on his porch, the light dim, the air around you loud with the background noises of Kansas. You nodded, feeling a flash of guilt. This friendship had been everything, and Daniel wanted you to give it up, said you didn’t need Clark. But who would make you brookies and a pillow fort if Clark didn’t? Who would make you eat ice cream even if you ‘didn’t need it’? 

Because it wouldn’t be Daniel. 

“I’m sorry.” It left your mouth before you could stop it, and you watched confusion wipe over Clark’s face. What were you sorry for? You had made this his best summer in years. “For being distant, not answering your calls or your emails with links to cool stuff. I promise, I read all the articles, your work, your messages.” Words were spilling from your lips now, and you knew the truth would fall out soon, rapidly before you could do anything about it. 

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” The small tilt of his head, eyes a little hurt but understanding, hands deep in his pockets. Despite standing at 6’4”, he looked so small, like a puppy being rejected. It had weighed down more on him than he had expected.

“I…” a small pause. You could tell Clark anything, and he wouldn’t judge you. “Daniel says I don’t need a best friend. That you only want one thing from me. That it’s best I just ignore it for the most part and move on, because I live in Metropolis now, not Smallville! But the truth is, Clark, I don’t want to forget Smallville, move on from what’s here. It doesn’t make me happy…”

Those feelings had been bottled up for a while now. Like you’d been too scared to admit them, this was the first time they’d really hit you. Daniel was making you into the shadow of someone you once were. 

Clark was unreadable, his shoulders tense. Insecurity struck as he said nothing; you wondered if you sounded crazy, or like you were lying. Tears stung your eyes; suddenly it wasn’t about movies and brookies, it was about feeling ignored—lost. 

“Then why don’t you stand up to him?” Clark asks, like it was simple. You weren’t scared of Daniel, but there were lines you couldn’t cross. You couldn’t talk back to him, defy his wishes. “Because… he’s my husband and I love him. I have to support him,” you whisper in return, your heart beating out of your chest at saying this. Like Daniel was listening in now. 

Clark’s expression softens to a more familiar one, something bordering pity. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I chose him. I said I would when I married him.”

“That doesn’t sound like true love.” Clark runs a hand down the back of his neck, awkward but so sure at the same time. Like he had this speech ready. In some aspects he did. He had overheard the phone conversation, his super hearing betraying him. Clark had assumed that your new-and-improved polite laugh had been drilled into you from somewhere, that you hadn’t stopped cutting back on sugar on your own accord, because deep down he knew you better than anyone. He saw every phase of you. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life unhappy,” he adds.

The ring on your finger suddenly felt heavy. You remembered when Daniel proposed. When he had spoiled the surprise by asking whether you wanted a gold band or a silver one. As if you hadn’t been wearing the same color of jewelry since you were 10. 

A small sob escaped and made your shoulders jerk; it wasn’t long before Clark had his arms open for you, holding you close. “He keeps a roof over my head, and he kisses me. He gets me flowers on Valentine's Day. Daniel is a husband any girl could ask for.” It was like you were trying to convince yourself, and the thought made Clark’s shoulders sag. 

Clark held you close, one hand rubbing slow circles against your back as your tears soaked into his shirt. He knew the scent of your shampoo. He knew your favorite flower, the exact amount of sugar you put into your coffee, and that you always brushed your teeth for exactly two minutes every morning and every night. 

He wondered whether Daniel knew any of that. 

Did he know that you hated thunderstorms but loved standing outside afterward to smell the rain? Did he know how you liked your pancakes, or how you needed a warm arm around you to sleep the best? Did Daniel make you feel desired, or did he just roll over with a sigh and go to bed as nothing had happened?

Clark’s arms tightened around you. “Love isn’t transactional.” You tensed in his arms, pulling away from his chest, relishing his warmth. His feelings for you were set aside for this emotional turmoil while you made the hardest decisions of your life. Do you stay or go? 

“What do you mean?” you asked quietly, searching his eyes for all the answers, like maybe Clark could use his superpowers to get you out of this. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. “I mean that if you love someone and they love you, it shouldn’t be keeping tabs. Daniel should simply get you your favourite flowers because he knows it makes you happy, not because he has to.” You nod along, the cool chill of the night air on your arms causing goosebumps to ripple up your skin. 

He wipes a tear away with his thumb; you sigh and press your forehead to his chest. Clark hesitates before stroking your hair. “You want to stay here tonight? Ma won’t mind.” Slowly, you nod. Your gloomy body forces one foot in front of the other as you go inside. You check your phone, messages from Daniel that you hesitate to answer before ignoring them. You needed space.

Clark ends up picking you up, carrying you carefully under the stairs. Already in your pajamas, he slips off your shoes and tugs you into bed with him. It was like you were 14 again, when your first-ever boyfriend broke up with you. Clark had snuck into your place and held you much the same. 

“Always a boy, huh?” He whispers into the quiet of the room. You're thankful for it; the silence left your thoughts swirling out of control as your eyes locked into the wall. His hands were gentle as they traced lines up and down your back. “What?” You asked, poking your head up. Clark guided your head back to his chest. The thumping of his heart grounded you. 

He pauses, his eyes on the rickety ceiling fan that spun along slowly. “There’s always a boy ruining the perfect life you deserve,” he rephrased. You felt him tense under you, his mind racing. Why would he say that? Too romantic for this setting. In his childhood bedroom, with a ring on your finger. This is where he always had imagined you two. 

You lying on his chest like this while you talked until your speech slowed and you eventually dropped off into sleep. He imagined you kissing him to one of the new CDs you bought at the store, how you’d take charge as always. His dreams were just dreams now.

Your silence made it worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to fill it.

The ceiling fan creaked overhead as the summer wind slipped through the open window, carrying the scent of earth and fresh-cut grass into the room. Somewhere outside, crickets chirped. 

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmured, the sound muffled into his chest. His fingers still on your back. “Why?” His hands started new motions, tracing the alphabet into your shirt. 

“Because they make me think.” A quiet laugh slipped past his lips without warning. You lifted your head just enough to look at him. Moonlight poured across the room, turning the sharp line of his jaw silver. His curls were floppy on his forehead after being neglected for the day. His cheeks were sunkissed, and he looked 17 again. 

“I think that’s what we should be doing,” he suggests lightly, eyes flicking to the ceiling. You shook your head, a humorless laugh bubbling up. “No, we shouldn’t.” A smile jumped to his face; he shrugged; the choice was forever yours. 

You settled back against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat—slightly faster than a human's, something you could only know after spending years with him. You’d spent half your life listening to it. During thunderstorms or after nightmares. During long drives home from the big Friday night football games. Through every heartbreak, celebration, every step of adolescence. 

The only time it changed was at night, when he was tired, and his body wasn’t busy photosynthesizing—or whatever he does. It was getting close to its slowest now. “Daniel… he doesn’t like to listen to me talk in bed.” The silence was broken again; you felt his body tense under you. “Serious? Why?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. He just doesn’t want to pillow talk; the bed is for sleeping and… well, you know the rest.” 

Clark’s cheeks flush, always squirmish when you even vaguely mention such lewd topics. “Oh,” he paused, wishing he had swallowed his stupidity and asked you out in high school, pre-Daniel. “I like listening to you talk.”

“You do?” You weren’t shocked necessarily, but Clark sounded so honest, like your chatter was the most valuable in the world. He nods slowly, no explanation needed. He always listened with the same expression, and he soaked it up for later. Clark’d bring it up later at random, and your heart would flutter at him remembering something as stupid as what you had for breakfast on Monday. 

Clark’s ears were burning, and he was happy was dark enough to go unnoticed. His honesty settled heavily in your chest. You needed a clear mind, and Clark Kent had always made thinking much more difficult than it should have been. “You should get some sleep,” he whispered into your silky hair. 

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

“Always.”

This was one of the rare mornings that 8:30 rolled around and you had woken up before Clark, still perched on his chest. Even in his sleep, he had a tight grip on you, but this wasn’t new. His inhumane strength was hard to maintain in his sleep. 

You propped your head up to take in his features, softer with sleep. His jaw was still strong, but his stubble was growing in, and the soft sunlight made him glow. His lashes rested on his cheeks; you could already imagine the soft blue of the irises hidden behind his eyelids. 

His eyes fluttered open within 15 minutes or so, and you had stopped checking the time. His eyes met yours, and a soft smile spread across his lips, his dimples working overtime as they dipped into his cheeks. “Good morning,” he rasped out first. 

For just a moment, he let himself think about how this could be reality; you on his chest with messy hair and eyes hooded from a long night of rest. 

“Good morning,” you reply, your voice soft. The sun made him look too good; before you could stop, you were leaning forward. Forgetting about the ring on your finger that didn’t belong to Clark, and that anything outside the room existed. 

Your lips found his. It was soft, barely there, the sort of kiss that might have been if not for the warmth of his mouth against yours.

Clark froze.

For a single, terrible second, he kissed you back.

Then he pulled away.

“Sweetheart…” His voice was rough as he shook his head. “No.”

“You don’t want me like this, not like this. Not when you’re hurting,” he whispered, his breathing heavy. Clark liked it. Really liked it. But he couldn’t do this, not to a married woman who was battling some of the hardest decisions of her life. “I thought we were feeling the same thing…” You sounded hurt, and it made his stomach clench. 

He nods thoughtfully. “I… no. Well, yeah! Golly, I do feel the same way, but you're married. You need to make a decision and talk to Daniel before I pursue anything with you.” Clark watches your face fall, rejection seering through you. He felt it too in some ways—like he was setting himself up for failure. But it was the right thing to do, and he could live with that, 

“This is huge, and I want you to make sure that you're happy with the outcome,” Clark said, tilting your chin to look at him when your eyes drifted. He loved you, more than best friends should. But he could set it aside to be a pillar to lean on and use as a guide. 

Imagine... Clark Kent just won the Pulitzer Prize, being nominated for photoshoots across the city. Despite being shy, he agreed. He could put on the Superman confidence under one condition: as long as his glasses stayed on. 

The camera clicked relentlessly as Clark sat with his legs stretched comfortably apart, tie loosened, and suit jacket unbuttoned. He offered the photographer a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Less tense, Mr. Kent." The photographer corrected, her eyes focused in on the camera, another flash lighting up the area. You stood on the sidelines as he tried his best to pose, not all that good with getting his photos done. A small giggle broke from your lips ,and he shook his head, a natural smile finally breaking free. 

The camera snapped again and Clark's head tunred back toward the lens. Under the bright studio lights, his eyes looked impossibly blue. The neatly trimmed beard he’d grown for the shoot softened his jaw just enough to make him look older—more rugged than the shy reporter who left socks on the bedroom floor and forgot where he’d set his phone multiple times a day. His hands rested on his beefy thighs, falling open politely, making him delicious. People wouldn’t see Superman, they’d see Clark Kent. The quiet reporter with messy curls, crooked smiles, and ink-stained fingers.

You couldn’t believe he was all yours.

A serious expression, and the camera snapped again. "Perfect. I think we have some good ones. Let me go get my boss first, then you'll be free to go." The woman gave a smile, stepping out of the room. He got up, fixing his suit jacket and giving you a giddy smile. "Did I do okay? I wasn’t too awkward, was I?  I've never had my picture taken like that... well, not as Clark." You knew what he meant. People only photographed Superman, not Clark Kent. But today, that changed. You cut him off by pressing a kiss to his lips, leaving a lip gloss stain on his lips.

"You did more than okay; half the city is going to fall in love with those pictures." Your hand went up to run over his chin, your eyes full of admiration. "Well… I guess I can shave this now." His voice was low and quiet, hand running over his facial hair. "Already? I like it." Clark laughed, shaking his head. "Do you? Well, wouldn't it be suspicious if Superman and I started growing a very similar beard at the same time?" Your shoulders sagged, and you made a faux display of disappointment, a small groan leaving your lips. “Just for a few more hours?” You make an effort to mumble something dirty into his ear, making his ears burn. His thumb runs over your cheek, eyes gazing into yours. “Sure, sweetheart.” 

The article was released within the week. You both walked hand in hand into work that morning; co-workers gave him applause and pats on the back for getting the magazine. Once plopping down at his desk, Cat made an effort to raise her eyebrows at Clark. “Didn’t know you cleaned up this well, Kansas.” He hadn’t even seen the pictures yet, looking up at her with a furrowed brow. “What?” She smirked, tossing the magazine on his desk.  “Look for yourself.” Walking away to chat someone else up, leaving his face staring back at him from the front cover. “Told you you did good…” You mumbled into his curls before walking back to your desk. 

He stared at his photo for a minute, Pulitzer Prize in bold above his head. He hadn’t really looked at himself in a long time, spending so much time hiding under that suit jacket and slouched posture. Clark hardly recognized himself; pride fluttered in his chest as he tucked it away into his desk drawer, making a mental note to mail it to Ma.