<𝟑 nick ; he/they — welcome ! multifandom 21 bisexual aroace gemini infj & e-type 6 vehemently anti-ai ﹏ 𑣲𝄞 : under your spell by desire

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kara zor-el / supergirl

pairing: alcock!kara zor-el / supergirl x reader

summary: proud starter of workplace beef with your coworker clark kent, your frustration at never being able to beat him out for an interview with superman boils over, and you set your sights on a much easier target; supergirl. an unclaimed, underappreciated beat leads you to lands that challenge the deep ethical values you hold as a journalist. in short, you’ve fallen hard for kara zor-el, and have no idea what to do about it.

tags: strangers to friends to lovers, kara is bad with feelings, especially romance. slightly cringe lovergirl kara but only in her own dialogue. kara is nonchalant final boss. loose mentions of drunk kissing/sex. reader finds parallels in their experiences with kara, we’ll call it mutual understanding cuz idk the right term lol. casual identity exposure of both kara and clark, basically kara spills the beans about her cousin’s well-kept secret to you. some details in this are comic-based, but some things are also made up, so don’t think about it too much lol.

warning(s): themes of suicide / suicidal thoughts, drowning, depression, compartmentalization, and apathy. discussions of kara’s past (movie), death, funeral(s), alcoholism, grief. frequent mentions of pain, wounds, blood, sorta vomit warning? (character spits blood up). light to medium sexual innuendos / thoughts. implied sex but nothing crazy explicit.

word count: 10.4k

notes: gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, spoilers for supergirl (2026). really wanted to focus on kara’s depth as a character (as i understood it) so i hope i did her justice ! noticed a lack of supergirl fics and a high demand, and all i’ve done is think about this movie since watching it, so i aimed to provide. hope you enjoy :)) please especially pay attention to the warnings on this one, it takes some fairly serious turns so they are there for a reason !

“You’ve done it again!” You bark, kicking the edge of Clark’s desk chair, scowling at the back of his head with enough force to burn holes through his skull.

“Done what, exactly?”

You throw a newspaper at the side of his face with a smack, Clark’s name printed loud and proud in the byline of The Daily Planet’s edition from this morning. “Superman says Metropolis is safe from the latest unnamed threat.”

It was a good story. The quotes were perfect, the retelling of the scene better than anything you could think up, and you had literally witnessed it. Clark always had a way of working like that — of describing Superman’s encounters like he had physically fought them himself.

The punches landed with barely a quarter second between, Superman’s jaw cracking beneath the weight of the assailant’s fist. Its body contorted when the hero struck back, skin restructuring around every blow it faced. But not quick enough to avoid being taken down by America’s favorite Kryptonian. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Superman said. “I’m still not sure what to think of it. What to classify it as. It’s impressive and confusing all at once.”

“How did you get to him before I did? I was on the scene!”

Clark spun around in his chair like a menacing villain in a movie, except.. well, without the menacing part. And the villainy.

He smiled loosely, shrugging his shoulders. You were infuriated, your blood as hot as a live flame in your veins. It wasn’t even that you hated him. His writing was good, and he was so nice. So nice that it made you mad, because you wanted to hate him, but you couldn’t.

He was a good journalist, and that was why he got so many opportunities. Opportunities that you wanted.

“I dunno,” he said. “He just likes talking to me.”

“Mark my words, Kent. I will get an interview with him.”

“I don’t doubt that.” And you knew he meant it. God, did that piss you off more. No one should be that nice, that kindhearted. That genuine. He was so annoying.

You huffed audibly, mumbling under your breath as you stomped back across the bullpen. One day you’d be allowed to cover better stories. You wouldn’t have to spend every evening after your shift at boring government meetings, listening to pundits drone on about things you could barely stay awake through, let alone write about — budgeting funds, updating zoning laws, regulating city traffic. Someday, you’d get your name recognized, instead of having it sandwiched between sections of cleaning advice and baking tutorials.

Something occurred to you after a moment, the small light in your mind flickering on. Superman wasn’t the only Kryptonian that Metropolis housed. Just because he was the only one people talked about didn’t mean he was the only one that existed.

Supergirl had been in front of you the whole time. She lived in the same place, did the same things, but got a sliver of the recognition he did. She didn’t get the luxury of news stories, press releases, or quotes in a lede. She was an untapped, untouched market free for your taking.

If you could put her in a headline, or even on the front page, it would be a hell of an article. A way to get your foot in the door in an environment that was constantly shifting around you, forgetting you before you even had a chance to get remembered.

You could see it now; your name in the byline of something people wouldn’t flip or scroll past, mentioned on the streets instead of glazed over. “The mystery of Metropolis’ underrecognized second superhuman.”

You found yourself in Perry’s office at the end of the day, pitching your idea with a brightness in your eyes and a metaphorical bushiness to your tail. He sighed, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“Look kid, I know you want something big, but how is this story gonna be different from any other one written about Superman?”

You deflated, looking displeased at his comment. Kid. You were 23, you weren’t a child. His words were close enough to rejection to make you worried you’d be shot down without a second thought.

“Because they’re completely different people?” You question, gesturing wildly. Your bag smacked against your side, as if emphasizing your words. Your desperation.

“Sir, please. I can make it unique. She can bring a different kind of hope to the people around here. Make a difference to young girls. To me. My career.”

Perry went quiet, eyes level with yours. There wasn’t a crack in his expression that made you believe he felt one way or the other about it. He sighed, dragging his palm over his cheek.

“Show me you have a good start in a week, and I’ll think about it.”

You grinned, clapping your hands together. You tipped your chin in a half-bow, nodding vigorously.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

You almost trampled Clark on your way out the door, nearly spilling the cold remains of his coffee down the front of his suit. He pushed up the crooked edge of his glasses with a tilt of his head, wondering if the building was on fire. He hadn’t seen you get this excited about anything.

“What’s got you pepped up?” He questioned, brows pulling together, gaze fixated on the hyper twitching of your expression. You haphazardly shoved things into your tote — notebook, pens, phone, keys. You whirled around, pointing a smug finger in his direction.

“Superhero hunting,” you declared. “You’re going down, Kent.”

He blinked, eyes closing in on the tip of your finger. You were bounding out the door before he could ask what you meant by hunting, wondering if he should be looking over his shoulder on the way home.

You spent an hour in the city square before you spotted the sparkling red and blue you’d grown familiar with. The two tones of a suit that was typically splayed over someone else’s skin, usually flying by you in a blur, chasing something you could barely keep up with.

Supergirl didn’t fly. She walked. She carried a ceramic coffee mug in her hand instead of a paper cup, sauntering along the streets like she was unencumbered by the things that accompanied her more popular counterpart.

You darted up from the bench as you caught sight of her messy, blonde hair. It didn’t take long to catch up with her.

“Supergirl!” You called, maybe a bit too loud. Too excited.

She turned, pushing a pair of rounded sunglasses up onto her head. A dog trotted beside her, curling around her leg as she stopped, its ears flopping to one side as it stared you down.

“Yeah?”

“I, uh..” You fumbled. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead. You’d never actually talked to a superhero before. Let alone spring such a loaded question onto them. The people you talked to didn’t have crazy reputations — they were small government leaders, local business owners, or just plain old citizens. Normal people.

She tilted her head, watching you curiously.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Sorry, miss. I was just.. I’m with The Daily Planet. I was hoping to do a story on you. If you want.. to help..”

She thought about it, twisting the mug around in her hand. She pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes, shrugging noncommittally.

“Okay. Meet me at Crossroads tomorrow at.. whatever time it is right now.” She walked off, not bothering to wait for your response. You blinked, fingers flexing awkwardly at your sides. You looked down at your watch, head jerking back up as you watched her leave. Mission.. accomplished? Maybe?

You were surprised that Supergirl had agreed to this so quickly. So easily. You found yourself weirdly giddy, a twisting feeling settling in your stomach that wasn’t normally there when you were meeting with a source. She made you nervous.

You’d let her pick the place. It was a thing you did; giving sources control over when and where you met. Most people were wary of meeting like this, of being constantly watched and catalogued. The feeling of surveillance. So you made an effort to give them as much autonomy over the situation as you could.

She’d picked a bar a few blocks down from The Daily Planet, one with blue LED lights and a giant jukebox. There were fake leaves hanging on every inch of the right wall, and red leather booths tucked against every corner. Jazz settled in the space like something deeply physical — like the notes and tonal shifts had a mouth and they said “this is everything you’ve ever wanted, don’t screw it up.”

You followed her to one of the cola-red booths, and she slid into the left seat, facing the doorway. You took note of it, even if you weren’t sure it was important. She left an easy way out open, and she watched each person who entered and left.

She ordered three whiskey sours at once, draining them quicker than you’d seen anyone drink anything in your life. You fiddled with the edge of your notebook, wrinkling one of the pages’ edge between your thumb and forefinger. You were already scribbling things down — taking note of the bar’s atmosphere, her clothing choices, her habits, her drink order.

She wore a faded Def Leppard tee and a brown overcoat, her hair mussed, faint traces of mascara smudged at the edges of her eyes. The same sunglasses were tucked above her hairline despite the fact that the evening was fading in, like they existed as an accessory instead of serving a practical use.

She watched you thoughtfully, gaze following the movement of your hand over the rim of the glass.

“You drink fast.” You heard yourself say, cringing inwardly at the stupidity of the comment. Get it together, you thought.

“Yeah, well, I don’t usually drink on these planets.”

You blinked, head tilting. Supergirl lifts her glass, whiskey sloshing over her fingers. You’d just ordered a water, intent on being the responsible one if need be. Turns out, you could’ve drank if you wanted to.

“These.. planets?”

“Ones with yellow suns,” she said, like it was obvious. “I prefer red planets.”

“Why’s that?”

“‘Cause it makes me like you.” She points a sticky finger in your direction, resting her cheek on the edge of her empty glass.

“Like me?”

“Human. Able to destroy my liver. It makes the taste of this swill worth it.”

“Ah.” You chittered, giving an awkward nod. Can’t get drunk on planets with yellow suns, you scribbled, muttering in exasperation as your pen began to run out of ink. You pulled another from the inside pocket of your bag, scratching at the edge of your notebook to get the ink flowing.

“So, is this really all there is to it?”

“To what?”

“Being interviewed. You take note of my drinking habits and I pretend it doesn’t weird me out that you write down everything I say?”

You blanched, hand stilling mid sentence. Yeah, you guessed that was pretty strange. Normally you were more focused, more engaged in the conversation. Something about her made you want to bury your face in your notebook and never leave it.

“Sorry. You have a good point.”

“Always do.”

Silence briefly coated the space between the two of you, and she seemed to be cataloguing you as much as you were cataloguing her. You realized that, maybe, she was waiting on you to explain it. You kept up with all the local news, and you knew that she’d never been interviewed before. They were always focused on Superman.

You cleared your throat, pushing your notebook aside.

“It’s like, um, profiling, y’know? Like an FBI agent, or..”

Kara cocks her head, faint amusement sparking in her eyes at your feeble attempts to explain. Still, she seems entertained, which isn’t a bad thing. At least, you think it isn’t.

“I start out by getting to know you physically. How you choose to dress, where you choose to go, what you eat or drink. It’s all important to your personality. Then, we just have conversations with each other. It’s like.. having a friend, but professionally.”

“Professionally,” she repeats.

She pushes her empty glasses aside, tucking her arms on the table, one looped over the other.

“Okay, so ask me what you wanna know.”

You paused, caught off guard by her swift agreement. You were getting the feeling that she was a somewhat open book.

“Name?”

“Kara Zor-el.”

“Where are you from?”

“Originally, Krypton. But it’s an extinct planet now.”

You knew that. Of course you knew that. You’d read every article to exist about Superman, drafting questions he hadn’t yet been asked for the fateful day you finally beat Clark to the punch. It still hadn’t happened yet.

“So Superman’s your..?”

“Cousin.”

You nodded, scribbling a few things down, then returning your attention to her.

“You aren’t just gonna ask me about him the whole time, are you?”

Your senses twitched, something pulling at the edges of your mind. Her voice had been even in the time you’d begun talking to her, but there was a newfound tilt of disdain locked behind her sentence. She didn’t seem fond of the idea of being used as a source for her cousin.

“No, I’m not. People know enough about him, don’t they? Nobody knows anything about you.”

The answer seems to satisfy her, and the line of tension in her shoulders fades, her expression loosening.

You spend a few hours there, tucked in a too-warm booth with Metropolis’ second alien life form, learning things that no one else had bothered to ask her. It made you excited. You were the first person to start forming a story around her. If it was good, you’d finally start getting taken seriously.

Her name was Kara Zor-el. She was freshly 23, and she enjoyed partying on red planets because “they had better booze,” and “made it easier for her to get sloshed.” Apparently, yellow planets had shitty alcohol. Who knew.

She had been sent away from Krypton in the equivalent of a space hamsterball as a teenager, and then moved in with her cousin in his ice palace. Dubbed the “Fortress of Solitude,” it was located in the middle of the Arctic tundra, over a hundred miles away from the North Pole, and even further from civilization. She lived there long enough to learn English, and then she took her dog, Krypto, and a flying space camper away to other planets.

“Why’d you leave so soon?” You asked.

She shrugged, tracing a circular pattern into the sticky tabletop.

“To party.”

“And you came back because..?”

“Things changed. I got tired of all that.”

She’d moved back to Metropolis just a few months ago, for reasons she’d chosen to brush over. You didn’t pry. Didn’t ask what, exactly, had changed. Had made her want to come back to the place she’d avoided for so long. She’d hopefully share that with time. You went your separate ways when the bar started closing, a faint skip in your step as you hustled your way back into your apartment.

You were too pepped up to sleep, so you jotted your thoughts down in an empty doc, typing until your fingers started cramping, eventually passing out on your couch.

Kara sighed softly, tugging her jacket off and hanging it on the hook by the door. Krypto barked, then came trotting out her bedroom door, jumping up at her legs.

“Hey, buddy,” she murmured. She leaned down to his level, scratching behind his ears.

“I think I’ve found something good.”

You’d met up with Kara two or three times a week since then. Perry had given you a short leash with the story, just intrigued enough by the details you’d provided to give you a limited stamp of approval.

“I can pull you off it at any time. Don’t get too attached.”

You’d nodded, not letting the words phase you too much. It was as close to approval as you’d ever get from him.

Usually, Kara asked to go back to the bar. You ordered water the first few times like usual; then, slowly, it morphed into the two of you sharing drinks with one another. She always got whiskey sours, where yours changed often — sometimes it was a dirty shirley, sometimes a seltzer, sometimes you ordered the same thing she did.

“Why did you want to interview me and not my cousin?” She asked one day, her fingertips tracing along the edge of her empty glass. Your hand flexed around your own, knuckles flickering.

You guessed it was alright to be honest at this point. She’d given you a bit of a tether, and you couldn’t take without giving something of value in return. That was the push-and-pull of the job.

“I want to be taken seriously. To finally cover a worthwhile story. To get noticed.”

“And you think I’m worthwhile?”

You lift your head, something strange flaring in the pit of your stomach. She smiled, one side of her mouth hanging crookedly. There was an amused glint in her eyes, the air shifting with an uncharted feeling for your usual meetings. It was always contractual, albeit with a friendly undertone. This felt.. different. Playful.

You swallow.

“I do.”

You both ordered one more, finishing them off in silence. She stared at you, while you seemed particularly interested in the table’s wood grain.

She placed her hand on your shoulder before you could flee down the street, stilling you outside the bar door. The cool breeze curled her wild hair around the slim angle of her cheekbone, your eyes catching on it, filing away the visual stimuli like you did her words — slipping it into a cabinet somewhere deep in your mind.

She pressed a paper into your palm, and your mind fixated far too closely on the tingle her fingers brought to your skin. Your cheeks burned slightly, and you were thankful for the fact that the streetlights had yet to come on.

“Meet me here next week. Tuesday.”

She turned on her heel, and she was gone. You stood there for a good five minutes, brain still scrambling by the feeling her touch had surfaced beneath your flesh. You kept telling yourself it was the alcohol giving your brain its buzz and your heart that record-scratching skip the entire walk back to your apartment.

Kara was driving herself insane.

Clark’s apartment was too damn hot, and Krypto was lying a little too close for her to be able to sleep properly. Exhaustion curled in her veins, but every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was you.

The way the neon light carved out every inch of softness that made up your form — the rounded skin of your cheeks, the constellations of freckles that disappeared beneath your sleeves, how your blush always dipped beneath the collar of your shirt. The way your lips got pink after just one drink, how the edges of your words would slur and bend. You were such a lightweight. The sensitivity of it all made her mind scramble.

She was constantly reminded of your humanity at every step. When she saw squirrels while walking Krypto down the block, when she smelled tea leaves from the brewery across the street, when fruit vendors offered her peaches — she tried often not to think of how the juice would look across your mouth, and how it would feel to wipe the stickiness from your lips with her fingertips. She always failed.

You called it a professional relationship. She reminded herself of that, too. That you weren’t in this for romantic interest, and that your frequent meetups weren’t for dates or hookups, or anything nefarious like that. You wanted to talk to her to draw attention her way, and to, hopefully, draw the same kind of attention to yourself.

It was a relationship of mutualism. She helped you, you helped her. But you felt nothing for her. You probably wouldn’t even be her friend after this was over, even though she would settle for that. Being your friend at least meant she got to keep you around, could keep you in her orbit, but she knew that it was unlikely that would happen.

So why the hell did it keep her up night after night? Why did she think of you every second she was breathing?

So, she did the only thing she felt like she could do. Besides saying something stupid to you. She talked to Clark.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said across the kitchen island. Clark had his attention on the eggs in the pan, shaking copious amounts of salt and pepper atop them.

“Well, do they like you?”

“They’re writing a story about me, Clark! It’s not like that at all.”

“People fall in love with their sources all the time. And sources fall in love with reporters.”

Kara groaned, dropping her forehead against the granite, hoping its coolness would knock her unbalanced sense of judgment back into place. It didn’t work.

“Kara, I’m just saying. It’s not the end of the world if you like them.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“About what?”

She groaned, tossing a clump of napkins at his back. It hit his shoulder with a loose thump, scattering across the floor pathetically. She crossed the edge of the island toward him, mismatched striped socks hanging low on her ankles.

“Do you think they like me, Clark?”

He shrugged, looking awkward.

“They don’t really talk to me enough for me to know them that personally. I don’t think they like me,” he muttered.

“What, because you keep cheating and stealing Superman interviews from under their nose?” You’d given her a bit of information about it, why you had fought so hard to get permission to write a piece about her. She hadn’t ever imagined that her cousin was the villain in your story, but a part of her felt livid on your behalf. It was pretty unfair, what Clark was doing.

He gasps, the sound caught between real and faux hurt, flipping the yolk over in the pan. He slides it onto the nearby plate, one perfectly done sunny-side up egg waiting for Kara.

“It’s not cheating! I just.. have an advantage.”

She smacks his shoulder, scowling at him pointedly. “Because Superman is you! That’s cheating, Clark!”

He starts to snap back with something snarky, but he realizes he has nothing. He withers, pouting like a dog, a deflated noise sounding in his throat.

“..Yeah, okay, maybe it is. But I don’t have time for actual interviews. It’s easier to just think of what I’d say in response to questions.”

Kara digs into her egg, impatient. She speaks through a mouthful, which earns her a look of disdain.

“Stay on topic. Do they like me or am I just losing my mind?”

He sighs, raising one shoulder in another careful shrug.

“Look, it’s possible they like you. But it’s also possible they don’t. I can’t tell you that. That’s for you to figure out for yourself, Kar.”

Kara was jittery. A week passed quicker than she wanted it to, and suddenly it was Tuesday and she didn’t know what to do with herself.

Kara wasn’t a nervous person. It was rare that she felt scared, or felt that she didn’t have a plan. Kara always had a plan. But you unraveled her.

You, with the curious eyes and the even curiouser lips. You rarely smiled, always looking pensive. You were constantly thinking, and it made her more nervous than she wanted to admit. She always wanted to know what you were thinking about, she wanted to be able to pull back your skin and look inside of your head; to observe the inner workings of your mind, understand how your brain worked.

Your gaze tore her apart, peeling back the layers she thought she did a good job of hiding. She wanted to be a part of the constantly flowing waters of your thoughts.

How much of your mind did she take up? Was she a stream, or a bursting dam? Was she even worth thinking about to you?

Even worse, she felt herself wanting to tell you everything.

Her past, every detail of her life. How much she wanted to keep your considerate gaze on her every second of the day, how she wanted to make that expression crumble as she answered questions you didn’t know you had with a touch you’d never felt before.

As much as she loved seeing you under that bar light, she wanted to see you somewhere else. Under different atmospheres, with different hues waiting to melt the thoughtfulness of your eyes. She wanted you near her, under her, in her bed. She wanted to watch you fall apart beneath the weight of her palms.

She pushed the thought away with a flush, frazzled by her own wandering imagination. You looked as radiant as ever when she saw you — your bag hanging from your shoulder, your hand raised as you blocked the filtering light from between the distant skyscrapers. Your eyes crinkled with recognition, the faintest of smiles tugging at the edge of your lips, miniscule dimples creasing your cheeks.

She swallowed, forcing her hand still as she raised it in greeting.

She’d given you the address of a park on the north side of Metropolis, a stone’s throw from LutherCorp.

She led you to a secluded bench at its corner, beneath the shade of a dogwood. She tried not to look too hard at the way the leaves cast patterns on your skin beneath the sunset.

“What’s with the change in scenery?”

Kara tucked her foot atop her knee, pushing nonexistent sunglasses up into her hair. She’d purposefully left them behind on her nightstand, but her limbs still caught in the nervous habit. She’d tamed her hair a little better, had wiped the smeared remains of mascara off her eyelid. She wanted to look good. Put together. She wanted to impress you. She wasn’t even sure if you cared about that, but for some reason, she’d thought about it.

Because, god, you always looked wonderful. Like it was something that came so naturally to you.

“I, um.. I dunno, really. I just like it here.”

Kara paused, limply shrugging.

“You come often?”

She nodded, fiddling with a loose thread on her pants. She could feel you scrupulously noting her nervousness, filing away the minute shifts in her expressions and movements into your extensive mental catalogue.

“When I need to think, yeah.”

You paused for a moment, hands finding the strap of your tote as you slid it off your shoulder. You plopped it into the grass, body angling slightly towards her. Engaged in the way that you always were when she opened her mouth. She wondered if you did that with everyone, or if she was special.

“And.. what are you thinking about?”

“This.”

She halfway gestured between the two of you with both hands, fingertips drawing circles in the air.

“Our interviews?”

“Yeah.”

“What about them?”

She turned her head towards you, eyes finding the prying tilt of your gaze. There was an ever-present pressure behind your irises, a curiosity that fueled your passion. You couldn’t exist without it. She knew you wouldn’t make her say anything she didn’t want to, but it didn’t stop you from being curious about it.

She wanted to ask what you felt. How you felt. If her mind was turning her in circles, or if she wasn’t reading as much into it as she assumed she was. If you felt the same.

“Why me? Seriously. I don’t do anything crazy like my cousin does.”

The thoughtful expression on your face deepened, a crease forming between your brows. You hummed, something gentle and smooth, and Kara thought she might explode. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, ignoring the way her pulse pressed against her ribcage.

“My answer has changed since you first asked me. It’s still about you, and the story, and recognition. But it’s also that.. I find you interesting. I’ve never met anyone like you. That’s become more important to me than any of the rest of it.”

She swallowed, a pit splitting open in the depths of her abdomen. Was that a good thing?

“And what am I like?”

You went silent for an uncomfortably long time, and the cavern in her stomach pressed deeper. Her legs felt numb, her fingertips drumming against her knee.

“..You’re a good person, Kara, whether you think so or not.”

She struggled, her breath burning in her lungs. When she finally exhaled, it sounded more like a wheeze. You caught onto that, too. The sound of pure, unfiltered relief.

“Maybe people think you aren’t the nicest, or the most digestible, but you do what’s right in the end. I think that’s going to be an important thing for people to hear.”

She paused, eyes finding the skyline through the trees. The city was behind her here, less obstructing. The view of the bay reminded her of Krypton’s infinity pools. But she could still turn around and look at her home; to know that it was still waiting for her. That it hadn’t slipped from her fingers. Maybe she didn’t have Krypton anymore, but the feeling was the same here as it had been on her planet.

“My mom always said to be.. good. That I didn’t have to be nice, but always good.”

She trailed off, feeling the weight of your eyes on the side of her face.

“I guess I just don’t get it. You could write an uplifting story. A story about someone admirable — someone who could bring this city hope — if you just talked to my cousin instead.”

“..He’s a strange one, but he’s goodhearted. Wants to save everyone. I find it annoying sometimes, but I’d hate to see him get trampled on for that. That’s the kind of story people want to hear. About someone strong who can still remain nice. Someone who always sees the good in the world.”

“But that’s not the story I want to tell.”

She looked over at you, meeting your gaze full-on. Unyielding. Intense. She flicked her eyes down to your mouth for a moment, then back up to your own. She could. Couldn’t she? Would you?

“Kara. I wanted to talk to you for a reason. And maybe it was selfish at first, but that’s not my reasoning anymore. People need to hear that you can do good things and also not have to water yourself down for others. That you can be yourself and still do what’s right. That’s what’s important to me now.”

The only sound were the crickets, and water distantly lapping against the shore. The waves were soft and quiet, easing the pinpricks of tension in her chest. She looked away from you a final time, enjoying the blanket of silence your words brought to her mind.

“Okay.”

Meetings after that were less tense. Less precise, less professional. Kara stopped searching for the veiled poison behind your actions, stopped believing that her words weren’t of any use to you. But it didn’t keep her from thinking about other things. How she wanted to take note of every part of your body — the sloping hills of your waist, the crescent that existed in your lower back, the dimples by your hips. She wanted to commit it all to memory, to the point that she could paint a picture of it with her eyes closed.

All of it was driving her crazy. Being around you. Not being around you. Hearing you talk, your silence. Everything you did undid her and put her back together all at once.

Meanwhile, you’d stopped feeling like the two of you were lingering on the edge of understanding each other. You didn’t believe she was going to hold anything back from you anymore, but she needed a bit of a push to get into sharing it.

Your thoughts were different. She was in your mind, but it wasn’t anything close to the same way you were in hers. She was wearing way more clothes.

You’d been thinking about her more and more lately, about what she’d said about her mom. About her past. About her connection to Superman. It plagued your every waking thought, and even the sentences you weaved in your mind during sleep. You spent most nights restless, arising at least once each night to jot something down. A new question, a new line of thinking. A new detail for the story that you’d forgotten about until it resurfaced in your dreams.

You’d dreamt of her most nights, too. Replaying conversations, generating new ones. Reliving moments, forming them, then reforming them. Rearranging the same conversations with only certain sentences changed. You weren’t sure what that meant, or why you were doing it.

You kept meeting at the park by the bay. She’d never asked to go back to the bar, and you hadn’t asked why.

Eventually, you started going to the park by yourself. She was right about the fact that it was a good spot for thinking. Until you’d ended up there at the same time. Your legs were swung over the edge of the railing at the bay’s edge, hands tightly curled around the dark green metal, the paint chipping beneath your fingertips.

“Hey, you,” Kara called from behind you.

You turned, looking oddly embarrassed — like how Krypto did when he’d been caught tearing up Clark’s pillow that one time, Kara thought. It was a weird expression to see on your face. One she didn’t like in the slightest.

“Stealing my spot, are we?”

You managed a laugh, but it was weak. Thready. Uncharacteristic of you. She looked displeased, her face scrunching in a way you hadn’t seen it do before.

“Well, it is a nice place to come and think.”

She stepped closer, hopping up onto the railing beside you. Her hand rested close, the edge of her pinky sidled next to your own. Near enough to be comforting, but not too near. Distanced enough to be purposeful, without being too much.

“So,” she murmured. “What is it you’re thinking about?”

Her eyes traced your profile, cataloguing the way your features were outlined by the tipping edge of the sun. The moon had begun to rise behind you, stars pooling in the space where tangerine shifted into navy. Speckled clouds dotted the sky, high and stringy in parts of the atmosphere only she could reach.

You swallowed, and her gaze darted downward to follow the movement of your throat. She wondered how it would feel to unfurl her hand on it, to curl her hands around the skin and squeeze. To hear you gasp and feel you shudder. She needed to stop thinking about things like that.

“Are you interviewing me now?” You tried to joke, but it fell flat. Kara didn’t smile. You were silent for a long time, and she thought it was going to be permanent. That you were going to put up a border between the two of you, as if to say: “I’m not your friend, or a lover. I won’t tell you.”

What you ended up saying almost felt worse.

“It’s not right for me to tell you.”

She paused, head tilting as she considered what you could possibly mean by that.

“Why is that?”

“Because,” you mumbled. You continued to pick at the chipped paint, and she stared at the way it coated the underside of your fingernails.

“You’re a source. You tell me things, and I listen. I don’t.. I’m not meant to do the same with you.”

She halfway scoffed, the action involuntary. Rooted in disbelief. After all she’d shared with you, this was the route you were seriously going to take? To act like what you had wasn’t far more personal?

“That’s such bullshit.” She almost snapped, furiously shaking her head. You looked up at her, brows furrowing, your expression caught between equal parts hurt and surprise. You hadn’t expected her to say something like that, not to you. She was an honest person, and she told the truth, you knew that. But for some reason, it hit you in a place that made strife weave between your ribs.

“You know we’ve moved past all that. Our relationship hasn’t been contractual in a long time.”

You knew it was true. You’d both begun to think of it as far more than a connection born of obligation. She’d stopped feeling obligated to meet with you weeks ago, and you’d stopped feeling entitled and predatory over her attention. You weren’t meeting with her about the story anymore. It was still something you wanted to write, obviously, but it had moved further down on your priority list than you ever thought it would.

You both genuinely liked seeing each other, and that was why both of you kept showing up to these places. Why she gave you more and more tethers of her past, more access to the full range of her emotions. It was why you let yourself drink around her, became looser. More honest.

But she knew you were holding just as much back as she was. That you were both teetering on a slope that you knew you couldn’t come back from once you’d slid down it. Why you’d both danced around the obvious elephant in the room.

“I just.. I don’t really know what I’m doing with myself, I think,” you finally said. You looked away, eyes finding the white caps miles out in the bay. You pictured yourself swimming out to them, being swallowed by churning waters. You imagined the silence; how it would feel to be completely encompassed by it. To embrace peace and be washed away with it. To stop fighting it.

“..Okay,” she said quietly. There was a faint undertone of worry in her voice, like she could sense something was off, even in the tiniest shift of your tone. “How do you mean that?”

“I mean that, I have no people. No friends, no partner, no career prospects.”

Kara exhaled, feeling the worry double, coursing across her skin — wrapping around her heart, surging through her veins, making her head feel fuzzy and her body numb. She didn’t like the sound of that. She understood it, but she didn’t like hearing it from you.

“I just feel like I’m ghosting through life. Like things happen that I should feel happy or worried or scared of, and I don’t feel anything at all, y’know?”

She was quiet for a moment, sliding her hand closer to yours. Her pinky gently brushed against your own, her skin warming with the small touch. You looked down, then over at her, unblinking. She slid her palm atop yours, her touch curling over your clenched fist.

“I get it.”

She felt the tension ebb from you, noticing the slight release of stress from your shoulders, a weight sliding off your form like water through split fingers. Disappearing into her flesh, she took on the feeling and absolved it, bearing the strain with you.

“But what I also know is that it takes time,” she whispered, tone rasped as it escaped her throat. “Until a few months ago, I was convinced I’d be alone for the rest of my life. That I’d never find my people.”

“But I reconnected with my cousin, and made a friend on another planet, Ruthye. She was so convinced that revenge would fix her pain, but I knew that it would be something she’d bear for the rest of her life. The guilt of someone’s life on your hands, and how far that would push her. How unhappy it would make her.”

Kara’s voice caught slightly, inflection trembling around something invisible. A feeling that ran deep, down to the soul. She was talking about someone else, but also about herself, and simultaneously, about you, too.

“And I met you.”

You felt your eyes faintly water, emotions you’d buried and masked with anger, with persistence, finally rising to the surface. You’d shoved them aside by constantly working, by chasing goalposts that someone moved every time you reached them. You’d convinced yourself that if you just worked hard enough, you’d eventually feel satisfied. Be happy with your life. But that feeling hadn’t come yet, and you’d been trying for years.

She tightened her hand on yours, her thumb softly rubbing at your skin.

“I know some things feel like they’ll haunt you forever, but they won’t. You’ll never find that out if you give up.”

Tears pooled on your lower lash line, and her free hand reached up to cup your cheek, fingertips brushing them away. They ran down the mountaintops of her knuckles, salt sticking in the creases of her skin. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you let yourself lean into her. Just enough that your shoulder pressed to her own, her forehead brushing against yours.

She felt you nod, and knew it was enough.

Kara leaned back, fingers drying the wetness from your face. You looked up at her through damp lashes, a twist of desperation and neediness curling in your irises. For her. Or maybe something from her. She wasn’t sure which.

Your hands reached for her, curling into her baggy shirt and holding, like she’d somehow dissolve beneath you. Like she’d disappear if you didn’t clutch her tightly enough. She hadn’t seen you act like this ever — the trust made her feel good, but the depth of your feelings made her terrified. She wondered what you’d been thinking about doing before she’d come. She was glad that she had. That something had led her here to find you.

She cupped your jaw with both her hands, nudging her nose against yours before settling her mouth on you. Your lips tasted like salt, coated with the feeling of everything the two of you had been keeping from one another. You shivered. You gently split under her, fingers spreading against her sides, grasping at her skin beneath her shirt. She kissed you until you pulled away, burying your head against her collarbone.

“Tell me this is okay.”

“..It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

You let yourself believe it, even if it felt unbelievable. Even though it felt impossible to process, you’d hold onto it until it finally registered with you. Until it made sense that the feeling would eventually fade, and you’d be okay again. Even if it took forever.

She’d insisted on walking you home, her hand slid through yours in a way that spoke of devotion. A silent promise of her presence. She’d kissed your forehead at the bottom of the stairs, then again at the door, her lips pressing to each one of your fingertips before you’d slid your key in the door.

Something had settled in you since the night at the bay, like a part of you had acknowledged that you’d gained more than you’d felt like you’d given up — like you’d traded all your hurt out for someone who understood you; a shoulder to lean against, lips to kiss, hands to hold.

You looked at everything with a new sense of appreciation, your soul warm and brightened by the presence of someone new and exciting. Something that made you realize things were beautiful even in the presence of loss or hurt. It wasn’t always all good, but it was better than before.

Half-distracted and way under-caffeinated, your mind wandered on your walk to work. You’d taken the long way, passing by streets lined with trees and flowering bushes. Stray cats lounged by people’s doorsteps, a soft breeze brushing over your face, the faint scent of saline rolling in from the west. The sun had just begun to rise over the edge of Metropolis’ cityscape, barely warm rays of light greeting your skin. You rounded the corner just a few blocks from The Daily Planet when you skidded to a stop.

Something you’d read about in one of Clark’s editions was darting around the sky — the strange creature with the reforming skin and lengthening limbs. But newer. The skin restructured easier this time, quicker. It didn’t struggle against fists or the concrete of buildings. It was too strong. Too perfect.

It almost made you unsettled. But it was also beautiful in a strange way. An unnatural work of art, much like a surrealist painting of some furred teacup or a french smoking “pipe.” Sculpted to be an unbreakable, unbeatable thing. A warrior that was worth fighting. Something that shouldn’t exist, gorgeous in its impossibility.

You were yanked from your thoughts when a streak of red and blue slammed into a building’s front window mere feet from you, and your heart twisted around itself in your chest.

Kara?

You heard a distinctly masculine tone, followed by low mutters of words you couldn’t quite catch, and your shoulders visibly sagged with something between relief and disappointment. Definitely not Kara.

You contemplated walking by for a moment, feeling a sigh bubble in your throat, curling inward. You thought about Kara’s words from a few days ago.

“My cousin’s a strange one, but he’s goodhearted. Wants to save everyone. I’d hate to see him get trampled on for that.”

It was unlikely that Superman really needed your help, but you couldn’t just walk away. Not when you knew he meant so much to Kara. And you cared about what she cared about.

You found your purposeful stride tilting towards the shattered glass, loafers crunching against it as you made your way through the rubble. You coughed, the dust causing your lungs to burn from its weight.

“Superman?” You heard yourself call, voice strangely scratchy and weak to your own ears.

You heard a feeble groan from further in, the words muddled by the faint ringing in your ears.

“..away.”

Your head tilted, eyes narrowing as you tried to see through the billowing debris that seemed to stick to your sweat-slicked skin. It was a particularly hot day in Metropolis, but you hadn’t noticed until now.

Away?

The hair on your arms curled up, an odd feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Something wasn’t right about this.

“Get away!”

The figure you’d seen in the sky rose up from between the dirt and shattered concrete, its form shifting. Its skin slid like droplets of dew off a leaf, reshaping itself around a bone structure that didn’t make sense to you.

Its arms were too long, legs too short. Its body shuddered as it attempted to physically put itself back together. Okay, it was scary to you now. The beauty of it was only perceivable from far away. But this close? This close, you were able to understand it as a threat to more than just Superman. It didn’t care about trying to rip you apart, either, you suddenly realized.

You’d heard the words fight, flight, or fawn, but you hadn’t known which one you were until today. Not until this moment, when some irregularly-shaped creature welded its bones and skin back whole in front of your eyes, and you just.. stood there.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Your thoughts were a tangled mess of fear and half-formed sentences. All you managed to think was how stupid you were for blindly wandering into a destroyed building thinking you could somehow save a superhuman.

You hadn’t even seen it follow him in, you—

A blow landed to the side of your jaw, a too-large fist leaving an imprint in the plush skin of your cheek. Your head caught the edge of a cinderblock on the way down, blood blooming at your temple as your form slumped over.

No, you couldn’t die. You’d just — everything had finally clicked for you. Everything was just beginning to feel right, and now it was being taken away from you. This had to be a joke, a cruel turn of fate. Like the gods themselves were pointing and laughing at you.

You felt terrified as the figure loomed over you, your mind buzzing with fear that you couldn’t absolve. Your head felt too heavy, your limbs too weak to press up onto. You couldn’t run, couldn’t scream, even though you tried. It came out as a pathetic whimper, your voice scratched and raw from the dust in the air.

The next few moments were a blur. Superman slammed the assailant aside, throwing it back through the hole it had created in the wall. He went somewhere, and then there was an assortment of sounds — punches landing, groans, the animalistic wail of something in pain, and then silence.

He was back again a moment later, kneeling next to you. His palm found your shoulder, the other tilting your head back and forth, gaze flitting across your face. Blood caked your hairline, your eyes glazed over in a way that made a pit form in his stomach. You could tell something was wrong by the shift in his expression.

You tried to speak, and ended up coughing. Blood spilt from your lips, dribbling down your chin.

“Oh, no.” Superman squeaked, and then you were out.

When you managed to come to, you were in an apartment. Yours?

You blinked sluggishly, head barely raising off the black, leathery couch beneath you. Black? Leather? No, your couch was.. yellow? Mustard yellow, right?

This wasn’t your apartment at all.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, ready to call out when you caught the edge of a hushed conversation. Distant, off in another room like someone didn’t want you to hear it. Your ears were still ringing slightly, and the act of sitting up made nausea rise in your throat.

“..Kara.. bad news..”

“..not Krypto.”

“No, it’s — concussion…”

“..wasn’t supposed to be there.. followed me.”

Then, the response of a much more frantic, slightly dazed voice — tone pitched, edged with the weight of fear. Kara, you thought, equally dazed.

“..How?!”

“Bleeding?”

“Breathing?”

“..coming.”

The phone call seemed to abruptly end, and you settled your head back onto the cushiony arm of the couch beneath you, feeling the pinch of your breath in your lungs.

You could feel the dust practically coating your insides, drawing out a feeble cough from your lips. Boots quietly clicked against the floor, the quiet strength of Superman’s voice settling against your ears, just barely cutting through the soft ringing.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

You groaned a strained reply, one hand raising to rub at your dry eyes, hand catching on the edge of a haphazardly rolled bandage. Your fingers slid along the cloth, which wrapped the length of your forehead and around the back of your head. You could feel the warmth of blood at the side of your temple, even through the bandage.

You must not have been out for long.

You swallowed dryly, head lolling as you lifted your eyes to him. His features were carved in deep hues of cerulean and plum, his eyes riddled with a mixture of concern and anxiety.

“..Kara?”

He seemed to wince at the aching tone of your voice, his eyebrows curling together before he forcibly smoothed his expression. He nodded, pressing his thumb into his palm.

“Yeah, she’s coming.”

You tipped your chin in weak acknowledgment, rolling your head back over, letting your eyes close. Exhaustion pulled at your limbs, forcing you to settle even if you wanted to stay upright.

You were drawn awake by a sudden burning in your chest, coughs rattling their way out of your throat. You pressed a hand to your lips, feeling the slick of blood on your fingers.

You felt dizzy, perception still blurred, eyes fixated a little too closely on the sight of your own blood coating your skin. A soft palm met your shoulder, followed by faint murmurs that you’d grown distinctly familiar with, even with the cotton-y feeling in your ears.

“It’s okay, you’re okay — back. Sit back. Clark!”

Clark? As in Clark Kent? No, you were in Superman’s apartment.

“Superman,” you muttered feebly. Kara’s head tilted towards you, her hand sliding down, fingers wrapping around your forearm. Your skin was cold and hot all at once.

“What? ..Oh, right. Superman.”

He rounds the corner at the shift in Kara’s tone, concern curling across his features. You stare at him, thinking. Thinking about why she’d called him Clark until pain flared between your temples, and you audibly gasped.

She’d turned back towards you, hands sliding up to press against your cheeks, looking more afraid than you’d ever seen her. Something raw and scared that made your world tilt a little. Maybe you were just delirious, maybe the dull ache you felt throughout your entire body was shifting her features. Making you delusional.

Superman pressed a cold cloth to your forehead, and you hadn’t even realized you were hot until you felt it. You were suddenly hyper aware of the slick feeling on your skin, the chills that came with a fever you couldn’t shake.

And Kara’s worry quickly made sense to you, because damn did you feel horrible.

Your face must have paled, or shifted into deeper anguish, because that terrified expression on her face only got worse.

“Clark, they aren’t good. This isn’t good, you—”

You coughed, feeling the sting of blood in your throat and debris in your lungs. You wheezed, exhaled, then mumbled something distantly.

Kara’s head tilted towards the sound, her voice slowly lowering. Like her very being was still getting used to feeling this way again.

“Hey, hey. Don’t try to speak.”

You shook your head, raising a shaky finger in Superman’s (Clark’s?) direction.

“Why.. Clark? That’s not — him..”

He grimaced, shooting Kara a look that was all disapproval. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, fingers bracing against your cheeks like she could press some of her life into you.

“Yes, it is. They’re the same person.”

You blinked, head trying to wrap around it. You looked at him — the confident carve of his cheekbones, the silent compassion and capability that smoothed his expression out. No, Clark was like an.. like an anxious wreck.

He wasn’t like this at all. He was your nerdy, infuriatingly nice coworker who stole the good interviews from right under your nose. The one you started fights with but could never be mad at.

Superman was.. cool. Kind and strong in a way that encapsulated his entire personality, whereas Clark seemed shy about it. He wasn’t vocal about it.

“Look, I’ll explain it to you later, okay? But that’s my cousin. Superman is Clark Kent.”

Your head hurts dully, the familiar frustration bubbling beneath your skin. So the only reason he got all those interviews with Superman is because it was just.. himself?

You managed a weak scowl, the point of your finger turning accusatory.

“That’s such bad journalism.”

He laughed, and you could see it then. Could see Clark in the planes of his face — in the way his dimples creased his cheeks, the embarrassed lightness crawling over his expression. That was all Clark.

“Yeah, Lois has said that before.”

Kara, at least, seemed relaxed by your ability to shoot your mouth off, but she still wasn’t feeling good about the hallowed state of your.. well, everything.

“You need to rest, okay? You have to get better.”

You swallowed, feeling the burn of iron and ash in your throat. You managed a nod, one hand lifting to curl around her own, flattening her palm against your cheek.

“Can I at least know what the hell that thing was?”

She shoots Clark a glance, uncertain. You can see that in the slight wrinkle in the bridge of her nose, her brows crumpling together.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. My only guess is that it has something to do with Lex.”

He paused, his face shifting as he stared at your gaunt face. Guilt spread through his stomach again, the kind that had made him pace for half an hour until Kara had practically busted his door down.

“I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to be there.”

You coughed again, waving a dismissive hand.

“We’ll call a truce for now. It wasn’t your fault I got my shit rocked. But you owe me an interview later, ‘kay?”

He smiled, the edges of his eyes gentling.

“Alright, hotshot, sounds good. But you gotta get better.” If not for yourself, then for Kara. Because there wasn’t a lot Clark hated, but seeing that look on his cousin’s face made him want to tear the world apart.

When you woke again, it was darker. The sun had tipped below Metropolis’ cityscape, coating Clark’s apartment in midnight. Kara was the only one there. You weren’t sure where Clark was, and you weren’t sure if you should ask.

At the change in your breathing, Kara was at your side. She’d been slumped over in the chair across from the couch, unable to catch a wink of sleep. She’d settled for fiddling with her hands, fingers flexing around something invisible — reaching for an object, or maybe a person, just out of her grip.

She kneeled next to you, one shaking hand pressing to your cheek.

“Hey,” she murmured.

You rolled your head to the side, ignoring the pain that flared in the base of your neck. You hoped it was just from laying at an awkward angle, and not something else. You hadn’t remembered hurting your spine, but you also didn’t remember much of anything right now.

You coughed, and it burned slightly less than before, but with no less blood. She grabbed a rag from the coffee table, staunching it from your lips.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” Kara whispered as you winced, voice purposefully soothing.

Mortality had always scared Kara. The delicacy of a person, especially ones who had no capacity to heal themselves. Ones that held such fragility beneath their skin that every action posed a threat to them.

You couldn’t just magically get better with a little bit of sunlight and sleep. What if you never got better? What if this was what the rest of your life would look like?

It made her sick to imagine.

“How are you feeling?” She managed, tracing triangular patterns in the warmth of your skin, hoping she could somehow cool you down.

You stirred, shifting onto your side to face her, forcing your way through a nod.

“I’m okay.”

She bit down on the inside of her cheek, unconvinced.

“When Clark called me, I — I thought you—”

“Kara. I’m okay.”

“Just let me talk!”

You fell into silence, swallowing the aching feeling in your throat. Your tongue was leaden, a sickly, iron taste overpowering your senses.

Kara lowered her voice after, her eyes finding a distant point in the dark over your head to fixate on, a strange blankness taking over her features.

“My mom.. she got really sick when I was younger. Radiation poisoning.”

She swallowed, blinking steadily. You could see her measuring her breaths, forcing her mouth to release inhales and exhales cleanly. Like it was a struggle just to get through the idea of speaking, let alone doing it.

“Krypton’s infrastructure was.. weak. The core was unstable, and when it collapsed, the buildings practically folded in on themselves. When my dad separated the city from the rest of the planet, the force field left a chunk of Kryptonite behind.”

You stayed quiet, eyes searching the distant glaze in her expression. You thought about it. A long, slow death, trapped on the remains of a planet that was dying even more sluggishly than you were.

It sounded like a lonely existence, and an even lonelier passing. You couldn’t imagine facing something like that and holding the strength to keep going. You’d probably just give up.

“It was deep beneath the soil. Slowly working its way into the water supply, the food, poisoning everyone. Leaving no option but to accept it, succumb to it, or die of dehydration or starvation.”

“People started dropping like flies, but it wasn’t all at once. It was a rolling, inconsistent process.”

Her breath caught, and you weren’t sure what you’d do if she started crying now. Your head felt fuzzy, thoughts reeling as you attempted to keep up with the turns of her story.

“My mother looked the same way you did. Had the same symptoms. I watched her get buried. So I just..”

You understood it now. How scary it must be, watching someone close to you experience the same thing as someone else, as someone who didn’t make it out.

“Kara..”

“I’m not dying.”

She swallowed, her eyes finally finding yours, searching for an ounce of deception. She found nothing.

“..Do you promise?”

“What?”

“Promise me. Swear it.”

You paused for a moment, your hand moving to splay over hers. Your fingers pressed along the ridges of her knuckles, feeling the sharp cut of every bone.

You raised her hand to your lips, mouth following the trail of fire your fingertips had created moments before. She shuddered, pupils widening before her eyelids fluttered closed, expression crumpling beneath your touch.

“I swear.”

She frayed at the edges, forcing her hand away from your mouth. She slid it along your jaw instead, pushing her palm against the skin of your neck as her lips pressed to yours. You startled, unsure if it was the persistent throbbing beneath your skin making you imagine things, or if she was really this close. You parted gently beneath her, head tilting to make room for the slight of her mouth, her teeth catching on your lower lip.

She followed the rolling valleys of your form, her hands disappearing down your front to catalogue every curve, fingers memorizing the soft edges that held your kindness so deeply. Every part of you was malleable beneath her fingertips, drawing a soft noise of approval from her.

“Kara,” you mumble, and she pauses.

“Yeah?” She settled her palms against your sides, thumbs divoting into the fabric of your shirt. She looked up at you through the curtain of her lashes, her chin tilting. Watching. Waiting.

“Sorry, I’m just—”

She stilled, as if she’d just realized something. Your probable sensitivity. The ache she could sense within you at every labored inhale. She could feel the tightness in her own chest, like your struggle was something she felt just as strongly.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Um, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

You leaned forward, capturing her lips again, thoughtlessly slipping your hands into her hair. Your fingers caught at the strands, flattened and tangled from slumping back against a cheap armchair. She mumbled something against your skin, nose clumsily bumping against your own as she chased after you.

It went on for a few minutes too long, her hands finding their way beneath your shirt, sinking into the plush slope of your stomach. Her fingers slid along the line of your dress pants, the way your pelvis disappeared beneath the fabric hitched at your hips. She slid back, her fingers curling around your wrists, tugging your hands free from her.

“You should get some more rest,” she said softly.

You mumbled something akin to a protest, and Kara smiled. You grinned back at her drunkenly, high off pain and the buzz of her lips on yours. She felt her heart stutter, satisfaction burning in her veins at being the one to make you look like that.

“I’ll take you out properly after this, yeah? We can go to a red planet, and we’ll get wasted together.”

“I have to finish my article,” you mumble, dazed. You lean back against the couch, already drawing into yourself, sleep grabbing at your heavy limbs.

“Yeah, yeah.” She murmured, pressing a small kiss to your temple through the bandage.

“You can do that, too.”

Kara made good on her promises.

Recovery was agonizingly slow, but you eventually returned to good health. You could take full breaths without struggling, and you could think clearly without having pain flare between your temples. The sun no longer hurt your eyes, and you could return to work.

She took you out to a red planet bar, and you shared about seven drinks each. You spent the night tangled in her sheets, her hair haloed over your face, lips on your neck like she’d been waiting for this. She made you fall apart, then sewed you back together so she could unravel your seams again.

She moved into your apartment, and you suddenly had something to look forward to every day — walks with Krypto in the evening, shared breakfasts and dinners, rooftop dates and parties on human-safe planets, kisses on your couch that shifted into bed nearly every night. 

You finished your article, made the front page, and got promoted to cover more high-end stories; articles on overseas conflicts, profiles on higher-up government officials, got to attend meetings about new federal laws. And you got your interview with Superman (with the promise that you’d keep Clark’s secret, which you were fine to oblige with).

“Kara’s a compassionate soul,” Superman said. “She always does what’s right, even when it isn’t the easy thing. She’s the strongest person I know.”

pairing: corenswet!clark kent/superman x reader

summary: part 2 to this. after you (reluctantly) quit your job, clark sets out on a mission to make you understand the simplicities of life. turns out, it’s a lot harder than he expected. (not sure what else to say haha i think it’ll make sense when it’s read).

tags: yearner!clark, equally whipped reader. established relationship, fluff, hurt / comfort. reader meets clark’s parents. domestic living. use of petnames. y’all already know the spiel about comic accuracy so i’ll save you the repeats. clark kent as loser bf final boss.

warning(s): brief mentions of parental emotional abuse / toxic familial relationships, mentions of depression, anxiety, feelings of apathy. general emotional / physical displacement. reader struggles with finding a purpose. mildly suggestive moments (?)

word count: ~8.1k

notes: gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, spoilers for superman (2025). this is for two people who requested a part two on my last post, i started writing this not long after your comments LOL <33 ! thank u guys for all the likes, reblogs, and comments :)) i appreciate it a lot !

“So?” He murmurs, finally pulling away long enough to intake a soft breath.

“Will you quit your job?”

You laugh, and the sound makes something airy bubble in his chest. He feels so enamored by you, he can’t imagine his hands or lips ever being on someone other than you. You adjust the collar of his suit, touch sliding down to his tactical belt as you pull him off the stool and back towards the couch.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

You hadn’t remembered the last time your apartment felt so warm. Probably never.

Clark was next to you. Soft. Solid. Real.

His chest rose and fell deeply, his eyes closed. His features were sculpted by the faint, early morning light that pooled in through the gaps in your curtains, casting pale orange hues across his cheekbones.

You’d sandwiched your hand beneath the pillow on the right side of your bed every night, falling asleep pretending that someone lay there next to you. Not necessarily romantically – sometimes you pretended it was a lover, sometimes it was a pretend sibling, or a friend you didn’t have. Someone generated by your mind to ease the dull ache that had slowly taken root behind your ribcage, just enough to sleep at night.

Now, there really was someone there. Someone that made the cold feeling disappear from the sheets, filling the room with something light and unrestricted.

His breathing shifted, instinctively following the pitch of your own, his head tucking against the pillow as it turned towards you. He smiled softly, hand reaching for your forearm beneath the sheet, fingertips strikingly warm.

“You’re freezing,” he mumbled. He pulled you closer, forcing your head into the angle between his collarbone and shoulder.

“Good morning to you, too.”

He grinned, and you could feel the curve of his smile against your forehead. His lips met the skin there, fingertips tracing soft patterns into your back through your shirt — his shirt, he realized. The fabric was old and faded from his teenage years, the Red Hot Chili Peppers distinct logo half-washed away.

“Are you gonna keep your promise?”

“Mm?”

“Of quitting your job.”

Oh. Right. You did say you were gonna do that, didn’t you?

Yesterday it was a funny joke. But today it left a pit in your stomach, ice curling in your veins. Was that really something you should do? Was it even smart?

Clark frowned, thumb sliding upward to rest against your pulse, his head pulling back from yours as he looked down at you. He felt the slight uptick of your heart rate with concern, chin tipping downward as he worked to catch your gaze.

“Hey. It’s fine.”

“Is it, though? Sometimes I’m unhappy there, but is it just smart to up and quit?”

He thought about it for a moment, taking in your words with the careful consideration he always showed towards you. Like every sentence you spoke was something he hadn’t heard before, even when you talked yourself in circles. It felt good to be so listened to all the time.

“I think you’re underestimating how unhappy you really are, angel.”

You blinked, and he felt you go still. How you stiffened a bit too much. He bit the inside of his cheek as you sat up, wondering if he’d said too much. He could feel the way you were closing yourself off.

“Hey, I just meant—”

“I know what you mean.” The sharpness of your voice made you wince, and you forcibly dulled its edge. Clark wasn’t sure if he liked that.

“It’s just not that easy.”

He went quiet, sitting up to follow you. He rested his chin on the edge of your shoulder, body pressing to your back like a needy dog circling its owner’s heel.

“It’s like.. everything comes easy to you, you know? You do what’s best for yourself, for others, and you don’t feel guilt about it, because you know it’s best. But is what’s best always the smart thing?”

He clicked his tongue silently, almost a chide. He moved to sit beside you, hand sliding up to curl across your jawline.

“I don’t think that the best thing is always smart, no. In my case, most of the time it’s stupid. It involves getting myself bodyslammed by otherworldly beings.”

He paused, thumb pressing small indents into your skin. His features, caught in a mix between himself and his more confident facade. The one who spoke like he knew more than the average person. Mainly because he did.

“But for you?”

Your head lifted, eyes finding him instinctively. Naturally. Like his form was sculpted for things to rest on — gazes, shoulders, heads, hands.

“For you, it’s smart. You’re smart. Let yourself do what’s best for you, just once.”

So, you quit your job. It’s been a week now, and it feels strange to have so much free time.

You’ve restricted yourself from beginning the search for a new one, per Clark’s request.

“You need a break,” he said. Every time you felt yourself feeling squirrely, you thought about what he’d said. You let yourself sleep until noon, watch TV half the day, read books that had been collecting dust on your shelves. You ate ice cream straight out of the tub, spent an hour and a half in the shower, enjoying having unlimited hot water. And to be honest, it felt weirdly good to be unemployed.

You just hoped you wouldn’t get addicted to the feeling.

A week turned into two, and then into a month, and you still felt nearly exhausted every day. It turns out that 12-hour days, 4 hours of sleep, and constant stress for months on end made you feel more tired than you thought was humanly possible.

Clark could tell it was still wearing on you — the constant restlessness, knowing you still felt like there was more you should be doing. He’d been scheming for quite some time now, and he was eager to get you away from all this.

The conversation came to a head following another lazy Tuesday. Well, for you, at least.

Clark had been yawning before he’d even stepped in the door of his apartment, finding you sprawled out on his couch in the same way he had every day for the last 30 days. Hair mussed, eyes bleary with several half-naps. Jonesy, much to his partial disdain, had joined you when you moved in. He rested on the back of the leftmost couch cushion, narrowed eyes lingering on Clark with the promise of a feline intent on digging their claws into his calf while he slept tonight. As if to say, they were my person first, you hick.

He shuddered at the thought, dropping his briefcase by the door, kicking his shoes off. His tie was askew, halfway yanked off on his trip home. He found them suffocating, you knew, but he continued to wear them anyhow.

He dropped onto the couch near you with a groan, and you sat up fairly immediately, hands sliding into his hair as you pulled his head down against your thighs.

It was your usual routine. He’d lay here for about an hour, softly ask how your day was, express his envy at your relaxation, then get up to order Chinese takeout. It was a nice push-and-pull, what the two of you had grown to have.

But it felt different this time. You could feel it in the tension of his shoulders, the way he restlessly played with his fingers. Clark wasn’t really a fidgeter, not when he was with you. So you knew something had to be off.

After a good fifteen minutes of prying — where you practically had to twist him by the ear like a scolding grandparent — he reluctantly relented to you.

“Just tell me what’s going on, Clark—”

“..I want you to meet my parents,” he blurts suddenly, words rocking the space between you.

Stiffening, your hands still in his hair before ultimately relaxing. You push the stray curl in the middle of his forehead aside, cupping his chin as you tilted his head back.

He looks up at you like a lovesick dog, his eyes wide beneath the frame of his lashes.

You swallow, suddenly nervous.

“Are you sure?”

He smiles, the corners of his mouth softening in the way they always did when he was trying to soothe you.

“Yes, angel, I’m sure. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You look unconvinced. He can see it in the slight furrow of your brow and the way your teeth catch on the inside of your cheek. Not to mention that he can literally feel your pulse rapidly ticking upward.

“Hey,” he says gently.

“My parents are nice people. They already love you.”

You pause, tilting your head in the way you do when you’ve heard something of interest, the same way Jonesy does when he discovers a loose twist tie beneath your kitchen cabinet. Something that gets the resonant buzz beneath your skin humming louder.

“Already?”

He blanches, eyes flicking away. A small flush crawls across his cheekbones and up to his ears. He knows he’s been pinned down.

Clearing his throat, he slightly tips his head in confirmation.

“Um, yeah. I talk about you. A lot.”

“Define a lot.”

He hesitates, his hands gravitating from his sides to his stomach, fingers drumming against it.

“Every phone call.”

You blink, then burst into laughter. He looks confused, brows pricking together, a faint wrinkle forming in his forehead and beside the edges of his mouth.

“What’s so funny about that? I love talking about you.”

You wipe the edge of your eye with your thumb, waving a forgiving hand as you try to steel yourself. You don’t see it, but he pouts at the loss of your hands in his hair.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not funny at all.”

“Dang right it isn’t.”

You bite back another smile, palms settling on his broadened shoulders.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go.”

He perks up, hands reaching up to splay over yours, a sunny grin on his face.

“But.”

He deflates just as quickly, wondering ‘what could possibly be holding you back?’ and ‘how can I fix it?’

“Only if I can bring Jonesy.”

He lolls his head back against your thigh, groaning.

“But he hates me. Loathes me, even.”

You laugh, shaking your head, fingers squeezing his right shoulder.

“He does not loathe you. You just aren’t used to how cats show affection.”

He gestures an accusing hand in the general direction of where he’d stalked off earlier, looking displeased.

“He stalks me every time I turn around!”

“That’s love.”

“He runs at me in the dark and bites my leg. God forbid a man wants water in his own apartment past the hours of 9 p.m.!”

“He’s being playful, Clark! He thinks it’s funny because you get scared.”

He shakes his head, pointing his accusatory finger at you instead.

“Hey, nuh uh. I do not get scared. I am a strong, capable superhero.”

“Yeah huh. You yelp like a little girl.”

“I do not!”

He starts to further protest to make his point, but pauses.

“Well, if you bring the cat, I can’t fly. He’d hate that.”

You pause for a moment, considering his words. That was true. You could get Jonesy to do a lot, but there was no way in hell he’d sit still for a cross-state flight, even if it was a few minutes. He’d just end up a furry orange stain somewhere on the hills of Illinois.

You shrugged.

“So make it a road trip.”

He looks skeptical, tongue pressing to his bottom lip in thought.

“From Metropolis to Smallville?”

“What, you don’t have a car, Wonder Boy?”

“No, I do—I just meant that—”

“So what’s the issue? Road trips are fun. Unless.. you don’t wanna spend time with me?” You fill your tone with mock-accusation, watching his expression crumble. Hook, line, and sinker.

“No, no! Sweetheart, that’s not what I meant at all—”

He sighs, hands dropping to press into his eye sockets.

“Okay. Road trip it is.”

If Clark was honest with himself, he’d been banking on you saying yes long in advance before actually asking you to meet his parents. He’d taken this Friday off nearly two months ago, practically in a fit in Perry’s office, sweat beading on his forehead and his tie off-kilter.

Perry felt so bad for him that he couldn’t imagine denying it, and Clark had never been more thankful in his life that appearing disheveled came easy to him.

With that in mind, he’d already made a promise to himself that he’d do just about anything to get you to agree to come. Even if that meant spending almost an entire day driving with your devil cat in the backseat.

You were standing at the entrance to your high rise apartment when he pulled up in a 2008 Volvo, as blue in color as the hue of his Superman suit. A forest green duffel bag was dangling off your shoulder, Jonesy’s carrier clutched in your palm, sweatpants loosely hanging from your form.

You waved, halfway skipping up to him, more peppy than he’d seen you in the last few weeks. He smiled inwardly, softness squeezing at his heart.

“Jeez, I didn’t know you drove such a grandpa car,” you laughed, nudging him with your shoulder.

“Hey! Ouch,” he murmured. “Watch it, this grandpa car is gonna get you all the way to Kansas.”

“So you agree it’s a grandpa car?”

He attempted to bark out an insult, but realized he had nothing. He settled for taking your duffel from you with a playfully hurt scowl, tucking it in the trunk. You slid the cat carrier into the backseat, murmuring quiet sentences through the cloth door to Jonesy. Clark had already opened the passenger side for you, beaming when you pressed a kiss to his cheek in thanks.

One haphazard drive-thru breakfast burrito later, your feet were propped up on the dash, head lolled back against the headrest. Jonesy shifted in his carrier in the backseat, yawning as he curled into a ball.

It had been about an hour, and you had all but fallen asleep like he thought you would. He was still accustomed to being an early riser, but you’d gotten used to sleeping away half the day, lounging around waiting for him to come back. You felt stressed about having not found a job, but he was just glad to finally see you taking it easy for once.

You’d initiated a game of punch buggy, I-Spy, changed the radio channel about 10 times, played with Jonesy, and eventually settled for fiddling with Clark’s free hand. You played with his fingers idly, eyes following the movement of his hand as he slid a Mighty Crabjoys CD into the slot above the radio. You yawned, tilting the air vent towards you, cool air coating your skin.

“I’m bored.” You drawled out with a groan, shaking his hand around, his palm sandwiched between two of yours.

“Angel, it’s only been an hour. We have a long way to go, you know.”

You pressed your face against the back of his hand with another groan of protest, forehead resting along the planes of his knuckles. He was warm despite how frigid you’d made it in the car, like heat lived and breathed beneath his skin.

“I know. But I’m bored.”

His expression shifted thoughtfully, sliding his fingers through yours, tucking your intertwined hands against his thigh.

“Well,” he began. “There was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

You rolled your head to the side, curiously raising an eyebrow. “Okay.”

He looked slightly nervous, free hand flexing against the steering wheel. He swallowed, a wrinkle forming in the space between his brows.

“Um..”

He set the cruise, foot lifting off the pedal to rest in the concave between the gas and brake, repeatedly drumming his fingers along the curve of the wheel.

“Look, my parents might be.. different than what you’re expecting.”

You lowered your legs, tucking your knees beneath your chin, settling back into the seat. You toyed with his hand, head tilted towards him. He took your silence as encouragement.

“I know that.. you moved away from your family for a reason. And you don’t have to tell me why, but I just want you to know that it’s okay.”

“But I also want you to know that my parents aren’t gonna be like that. And it may be overwhelming for you. They may feel overbearing, so if you ever need a break, just—”

“Clark,” you said softly. You waited for him to look at you, giving him a small nod. Still, he could tell that you felt defensive by the set of your shoulders, by the pinch of discomfort in your eyes. He’d tried to talk to you about your family many times before, but he always stopped pushing when he saw you get uncomfortable.

“I know. It’s okay.”

He sighed, tipping his chin in confirmation.

“Okay.”

Silence settled between the two of you in the cab, weighted and thick. Words lingered on the tip of your tongue, an explanation you often longed to voice out loud. Feelings you hadn’t even admitted to yourself.

“Look, it’s..”

Your head turns, eyes focusing on the view out of the passenger side window. It felt easier for you to explain your feelings when you weren’t looking his way. It was something he’d come to accept and expect, knowing your lack of eye contact wasn’t malicious.

“My parents weren’t that nice to me. It wasn’t anything crazy, but it was like this.. constant need to tell me what to feel. How to feel. Like, if they were angry, I had to be angry, too.”

Clark listened quietly, his hand twisting the knob of the radio down a few notches, fingers tightening between your own. His thumb gently rubbed circles along the back of your hand, just light enough to keep you from feeling trapped while being encouraging.

“But I wasn’t angry. I was just sad. All the time.”

You sighed, feeling the familiar heat settle in your chest, in your lungs. Your breathing felt tighter, and Clark could feel the tightness in his own chest. The slight erraticism of your breath worried him, but he tried not to overreact.

“And I didn’t have a reason for it. No explanation, even when they wanted it. And it just made them more angry with me. And eventually, I went from feeling sad to feeling nothing at all. I haven’t cared about much of anything in a long time.”

He pinched his brows, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. He didn’t like that at all. It made him feel sick to think about you — young, sad, hurting. Wanting someone to understand, just to be met with unkind words. To feel forced to put a name to every single feeling and offer reasoning behind it.

“Not until I met you.”

His thoughts tapered off, head shifting towards you. His cowlick slid out from his hair, splaying over his forehead, covering the wrinkle that had formed between his eyebrows. Then, it disappeared. He smiled softly, raising your hand to place a kiss between two of your knuckles.

“I care about you a lot, too.”

At some point, you had dozed off. Clark had strategically raised the heat in the car a few degrees every hour, noting the frequency of your yawns increasing. He talked to you in that soft, sweetly lined tone he knew put you to sleep, and the next time he’d looked over, you were out like a light.

Clark was surprised actually at how fast the trip had passed by. You’d have snippets of conversation in between your naps, laughing while struggling to get Jonesy into his harness and leash, letting him prance around in the grass at the side of the interstate or in the parking lot of a gas station.

You and Clark shared Skittles, Swedish Fish, Sour Patch, and dozens of oddly hued candies he’d never tried before in his life, and he expressed his disdain for the weird colors and artificial tastes of each one you made him try.

“They taste like candles,” he complained after the third Swedish Fish, nose wrinkled in a disgusted expression you’d never seen on his face.

“Yeah, kinda, but that’s the fun of them.”

“I don’t see how that’s fun at all.”

“Lighten up, babe. It’s an American staple.”

“They’re Swedish.”

“So?”

“So, that’s not the right country!”

You threw one of the red fish at his face, and he gasped when it smacked against his cheek. He threw it back at you, playfully scowling.

“Hey! That was mean,” he pouted.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

You tucked them away into the door pocket, kicking your shoes off. You leaned the seat back, crisscrossing your legs in front of you.

“..They do kinda taste like candles, though.”

He laughed, leaning over to press a kiss to your forehead, amusement flickering behind his gaze. Then, he flicked your forehead, eliciting an equal, sarcastic pout from you.

“And it was.. kind of fun. You make things fun.”

You smile easily at him, hand reaching for his as you tug it towards you, tucking it against your hip.

After an agonizing day and a half of being in the car, you just wanted to collapse into a real bed and not wake up. But, there was still the manner of meeting Clark’s parents, which kept any exhaustion from fully settling in your bones.

The last hour of the trip had made you shift between bouncing your leg, cracking your knuckles, and pressing your fingertips to your chest. Clark noticed it, noting the faint shortness of your breathing.

“Hey, it’s gonna be fine. They’re gonna be so excited to see you.”

You chewed on your lower lip, drawing circles into your shirt with your fingers.

“What if they aren’t, though? What if they think I’m dressed weird, or that my hair looks funny? What if I say something stupid?”

He sighed, halfway exasperated. The trip had been wearing on him, but he would keel over before being anything but patient with you.

“You look great, honey. Take a breath. They already think so highly of you, it’s gonna be alright.”

You weren’t convinced, but you let yourself settle into silence, partially satisfied. You fiddled with the edge of your shorts for the rest of the trip, the pit in your stomach swallowing you whole as he pulled into the driveway.

His Ma was out on the porch a second later, slowly making her way down the stairs towards him. An apron was curled across her chest, worn out rose-colored flipflops on her feet, flour smeared along her cheek.

Clark smiled softly, his hand raising to wipe the powder off her cheekbone, smearing it onto his shirt. You were busy fishing Jonesy out of the backseat, mumbling to yourself and pretending the comfort was for him.

“Ah, and you must be the one Clark talks about all the time,” she said. She was pulling you in for a hug before you could blink, and you briefly stiffened. He gave you an encouraging smile over her shoulder, hands raising in a thumbs up. You wrapped your free hand around her back, awkwardly nodding.

“Um, yes Ma’am. That’d be me.”

“Oh, lord, Ma’am isn’t necessary. Just Ma is fine, dear.”

You swallowed as she pulled back, giving her a shaky smile.

“I hope it’s okay, I brought my cat.”

She tilted her head, halfway leaning down as you raised the carrier. Jonesy peered out through the cloth door, his bright eyes searching every inch of land he could see.

“Of course, dear. He’ll be good company.”

She turned towards Clark, gesturing towards the porch.

“You two must be beat, driving all this way. Please, come in. I was making pie.”

Clark dealt with your shared suitcases, tugging them up the porch steps, wood creaking beneath his feet. You followed behind him like a shadow, hesitantly making yourself small as he led you towards his room. It looked like a time capsule — pictures of him from when he was young in school hanging on the walls, sports trophies on shelves, posters of his favorite teenage bands coating every inch of available space.

You ran your hand along his bookshelf, feeling out of place. You knew a lot of things about Clark, had seen every inch of him that he kept tucked away. But even this felt more intimate than you were expecting. It was like looking into his soul, a part of his past that he’d only spoken about. Something you’d never been able to see before.

You wondered what it’d be like for him to see your childhood room. The teddy bears you’d kept in a hammock dangling from your ceiling, the beanbag in the corner, the books forced into every open space on your three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. (You’d never had any friends, so they became your company). The fluffy, white carpet that greeted you at the door, twinkling lights around the top beam of your oaken walls.

Then you remembered. He’d never meet your parents, never see any of your childhood accomplishments. You were lucky if all of your past belongings were tucked away in a box in your parents’ attic, if they even still lived in that house in Ohio. More than likely, they were left to rot at some Goodwill in one of the towns off Route 56.

The thought made you sick, so you pushed it away.

“..like it?”

You blinked, head tilting towards him as you realized he’d been speaking. Your grip on Jonesy’s carrier handle was tight, your knuckles blanching.

Clark’s voice softened as he stepped towards you, noticing the off look in your expression. His hand met your wrist, fingertips pressing to your pulse out of habit.

“Hey. You okay?”

You nodded, unsure if you could speak steadily for a moment. You found your voice somewhere deep, words lost in the sudden sinkhole that had split open in your chest cavity.

“Yeah, sorry. I’m just tired, I think.”

He didn’t look like he believed you, but he tipped his chin in acknowledgment anyway, letting you be for now.

“Right, yeah. You should lay down for a while.” He murmured, taking Jonesy’s carrier from your palm. He gently pushed you back towards his bed — old, littered with a smell that used to be his. It still was, in a sort of familiar way, but reeked of an innocence you knew he’d lost since the last time he’d curled beneath these sheets. The idea made you feel worse than before.

The sheets were off white, the comforter plaid and soft as he tucked you beneath it, his pillows pinstriped like a barber shop sign. You felt exhaustion pull at your eyelids almost immediately, your hands falling short of reaching for him as he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, and then you were gone.

He tucked your arms back beneath the covers once your breathing tapered off, listening to its tone for a moment, lingering in the doorway. It was free of that labored tension he could always pick up beneath the facade you put on. Sleeping was the only time you were at peace, and even that was fleeting. Interrupted by nightmares, or thoughts strong enough to rouse you from sleep, making you pace the floor restlessly.

You always felt guilty when he stayed up with you, but he’d do it a million times more if it meant he could soothe your mind. He could only hope you’d finally relax here.

You awoke to the smell of biscuits, bacon, eggs and pretty much everything else that went along with breakfast. It was dark in Clark’s room now, the fading drips of sunlight that had poured through the curtains long gone.

You rolled over, blinking sluggishly. You turned his alarm clock toward yourself, eyes struggling to zero in on the small analog numbers. 6:34? God you’d been out.. eight hours? Nine? Too long?

You groaned, digging the heels of your palms into your eye sockets, yawning. Your voice squeaked in your throat, pulse overturning in your veins. And then, Clark was in the doorway.

“You’re up.”

You flipped onto your back, head tipping backwards, the full length of your throat etched out by the faint moonlight pooling through his veiled window. He smiled softly, crossing the room towards you. He leaned over your form, hands braced by either side of your head, and tipped his chin down to place a kiss on the line of your cheekbone.

“Dinner’s ready,” he murmurs. “You feeling okay?”

You nodded, still trying to find your voice in your throat. One of his hands slid down to curl around your wrist, fingertips heavy and warm against your cooled skin.

“Better.”

“Good.”

He nudged his face into your neck, the frame of his bed protesting beneath his weight as he settled on it. His knees dug into the sheets, his free hand wriggling beneath you to follow the rolling valley of your back. “Have I ever told you how much I like this?” He spoke against you, the rumble of his voice sending small shockwaves across your flesh.

“Like what?”

“This,” he murmurs, punctuating his words with the repeated movement — his warm fingertip, right down the center of your spine. You shuddered, laughing.

“No, I don’t think so.”

He hummed in displeasure, and you could feel a frown crease his cheeks, his nose drawing back and forth along your neck. “I should have.” He shifted off his knees, flattening his chest to yours, arms wrapping around you. You shifted, hearing him groan, his hands pointedly digging into your skin beneath your shirt.

“Clark—”

“Just five minutes.”

You smacked the back of his head, eliciting a yelp from him. He propped his head up on your chest, looking up at you through his eyelashes with that puppy-eyed cadence you loved so much.

“Five minutes leads to you falling asleep, and you are not leaving me alone out there.”

He frowned, drumming a pattern on you with his fingers, attempting to loosen you up.

“Please?”

You wrinkled your nose up, eyes finding him, a singular brow raising. He gazed at you expectantly, hope flaring in his irises.

“No.”

It took about fifteen more minutes of convincing for you to make Clark get off you, and by then, the food was lukewarm. You were arguing with him beneath your breath as you finally wriggled your way out the door — your hair mussed, clothes tangled around your body, polka-dotted socks hanging low on your ankles.

“Get good sleep, dear?”

You stilled, mid-scold as your head turned. Clark’s mom — Ma — stood in the hall, serving spoon still in her hand. Her eyes crinkled at the edges the same way Clark’s did, gentler dimples creasing her cheeks. You swallowed. Clark’s hand found your lower back, thumb pressing into the skin to soothe you.

“Dinner’s waiting, whenever y’all get hungry.”

Clark went out before you, and you spent another ten minutes taming your hair in the bathroom, attempting to wrangle the sleepiness from your form. You’d changed clothes about three times, brushed your teeth, washed your face. Tried not to look like a complete mess.

You trotted down the hallway, following the scent of breakfast into the kitchen. His mom had left a plate for you on the placemat beside Clark, a fork tucked in the center. You got eggs, sausage, and a particularly fluffy biscuit before settling in your chair.

You were midway through a bite when she spoke.

“So, Clark tells me you’re a lawyer?”

You blanched, swallowing. You set your fork beside your plate, hands curling in your lap.

“Um, yes, Ma’am. I was. Am.”

“Was?”

You awkwardly shifted, chair creaking in the quiet. You cursed the country for being so quiet. The city could cover up the pounding in your ears, could smother the sound of your irregular breathing. That wasn’t possible here. Crickets weren’t capable of that.

“I quit my job last month.”

“Ah.”

She nodded, curious eyes lingering on you for a moment. You suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. Clark’s hand found yours beneath the table, his fingers sloping along the hills of your knuckles.

“The job search is hard nowadays,” his Ma said. “I can’t imagine it’s been easy finding somethin’ after havin’ to quit.”

Your tongue felt like lead in your mouth, an awkward tension settling in the middle of your shoulderblades. Suddenly, you felt kind of embarrassed to be unemployed. Like it was a failure on your part for being unhappy, for lying around when you should’ve been looking for somewhere new. Because it was true, the job search was hard, and it seemed like you were busy dicking around and squandering your chances at getting a new job.

You swallowed, the small bit of eggs you’d managed to eat resurfacing, feeling like ash in the back of your throat. Clark jumped in, trying to ease the situation.

“They haven’t really been looking, Ma,” he said quietly. “It’s um.. they were doing the job of three people when they left. It was just kinda tiring.”

“Oh,” she murmured. “So that’s what brought you out to the country?”

You raised your head, chin tilting, like the question didn’t really make sense. You hadn’t come out here for one reason or another, it was only because Clark had asked you to. But it didn’t feel right to say that to her face. Why had you come? Were you looking for something?

“I’m not sure I understand.”

She smiled knowingly.

“Everyone comes out here for a reason, dear. They’re all lookin’ for something. You need to find out what that is for yourself.”

His Ma’s words haunted every edge of your mind in the days that followed. You’d insisted on helping out around the house first — fixing leaky sinks, changing air filters, repairing the issue with their ice maker. When that didn’t feel right, you’d started taking care of the animals. Milking cows, feeding goats, gathering eggs from the chickens. You’d even overcome your fear of roosters. Turns out hitting it with a metal bucket one time was enough to keep it from ever charging at you again.

You’d gather tomatoes, basil, corn, and anything else you could get your hands on in their gardens. You’d cook dinner, make soup, help his Ma out with making jelly. You’d play with the cats in the barn — Jonesy had become good friends with them (under supervision, of course). You’d lay out under the stars by yourself, talk to nothing about nothing. You’d talk to Clark about nothing, too, but you couldn’t ever put it into words enough for him to understand.

None of it felt right. Nothing eased the ache in your chest, nothing made the silence bearable.

Clark could tell. You were doing the thing you always did. Searching for something to keep you occupied, looking for a purpose because you’d lost what you’d thought had been yours. No amount of baking, jelly-making, or rooster escapades could fix that. What you needed to do was relax, but you weren’t doing it. You didn’t know how.

Clark did a lot of things, was changing all the time, but he’d never lost the skill of taking it easy. He knew he could escape here. Could come home to his Ma and Pa and forget about whatever it was that was making him feel troubled. Kansas had taught him how to appreciate life. How to appreciate easy, simple living. How to love, how to breathe. It ran through his veins, and it was the first place he thought about when he needed a break.

You hadn’t had somewhere to learn that. Had no one who’d been willing to teach you that. You’d been living in fight-or-flight for your entire life — searching for solutions, rethinking every situation, always walking on eggshells. Only existing to find the reason for everything because someone had forced you to. You couldn’t live any other way now.

It’d been two weeks, and you still felt like you were lost between the plains of uncertainty and purposelessness. You laid awake at night, you slept late in the afternoon. Thoughts danced around in your mind, boundless — you needed a job, you needed a reason, you needed something to do. You couldn’t just do nothing, people didn’t survive by doing nothing.

Eventually, everyone around you would get tired of you doing nothing. They’d become angry, and then you’d have to appease them. Make good on your word so you wouldn’t get accused of making empty promises. You had to make everyone happy. You had to make Clark happy. You had to impress him. Impress his parents.

It was around 3 a.m. when you accepted that you weren’t going to get any sleep. His Ma and Pa had let you stay in their guest room, and it was typically nice, but it felt unsettling to you right now. Too dark, too quiet. Too wrong. You didn’t like the quiet, you’d discovered.

You tiptoed past Clark’s room, silently rummaging around in their kitchen for a mug and a tea bag. Heating up the water in the microwave, you felt like a sinner — for more reasons than your lack of a kettle. You stared at your hands, pondering the lazy shape of them. You flexed your fingers, feeling the ache that was once so prevalent in them faded. Less intense. The ache reminded you that you were a hard worker, that you were smart and capable. Now that it was gone, you weren’t sure what you were at all.

You stopped the microwave before it could beep, turning their sugar bowl over into the dark liquid. The screen porch door squeaked as you pushed it open, cold air settling on your skin. Goosebumps trailed across your arms and legs, disappearing beneath the folds of some of Clark’s old clothes.

You stared out at the sky. It folded out before you, limitless and barren and large enough to swallow you whole. Stars twinkled in the midnight’s form, wisping clouds curling far above the atmosphere. Crickets chirped far off in the underbrush, a light breeze ruffling the trees and causing them to occasionally go quiet. Listening for something, like they expected a predator to swallow them whole.

You realized you were living the same way; constantly waiting for something horrible to come by and sweep you away. So you existed in silence, hoping it would be enough to ward off what was after you. But you weren’t even sure what was chasing you. Or what you were running from.

“You’re up late.”

You jumped out of your skin, head whirling. You’d expected Clark, but the voice was too deep. His Pa stood in the doorway, one of his old flannels pulled across his shoulders.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shook his head, a hand raising dismissively.

“It’s alright, was just wonderin’ who was creepin’ around.”

You let out a soft laugh, taking a small sip of tea. The smoke curled around your lips like a fogged hand, invisible fingers brushing along your cheek. It did little to comfort you.

“What’s got you up thinkin’?”

You swallowed, blinking slowly. Your chin tilted upward, gaze finding the stipples of stars over your head. You had a hard time finding the constellations in them, of seeing the patterns that came so clearly to others. You hadn’t had time to spend looking at stars. There was always something to do, something that needed to be done that wouldn’t always be there. The sky and the stars would always wait around for you to finally have the time.

“Just wondering what I really should be doing right now.”

“Sleeping, probably.” He said, the simplicity of it enough to make you laugh. The sound was weak and thready, like you didn’t have the strength to form the sound anymore. It felt strange against your own ears.

“I guess I’m just struggling to find what’s meant for me. My purpose.”

He moved to stand beside you, gaze following yours up to the inky sky. There was a long stretch of silence between the two of you, about as encompassing as you found everything else to be right now. All overwhelming, all impossible to understand.

“You know,” he finally said. “Life throws a lot more things at certain people than others.”

“Nobody on this Earth has got it easy, but some people got it real hard.”

You sit your mug on the railing, arms crossing as you propped them against the old wood. You crossed your ankles, spine contracting as you leaned over.

“Like Clark. He’s a good boy, but he had a mighty hard time when he first got here.”

You looked over at him, eyes finding the side of his face. Life had worn on him, had etched wrinkles into his forehead, the skin by his eyes. But he had also smiled a lot, judging by the creases in his cheeks.

“Kids didn’t treat him the same. He had trouble makin’ friends for the longest time, of finding his place with his peers. In the world. He didn’t leave the house for a while, hang out with anyone. He always played by himself, made up all his friends.”

He turned to look at you a moment later, gaze searching your expression. Clark’s Ma had that knowing look in her eyes, too, but his Pa’s was different. Coated with a different kind of life experience, his mind and mouth were able to think and speak things that not many people could say. Advice that not many people knew how to give. An intelligence you needed, a father you didn’t have to talk sense into you.

“But look at him now. He’s got a good job in a city he loves, friends, people to protect,” he murmurs.

“And he’s got you. I didn’t think Clark would ever find someone so perfect for ‘im, but he did.”

You find yourself shaking your head, flush pinkening the tips of your ears, the apples of your cheeks. You looked away, restlessly fiddling with your fingers.

“I’m not perfect.”

“I didn’t say you were perfect, kiddo. I said you were perfect for Clark.”

You stilled, head jerking back up towards him. You tilt your head, confused. Kiddo?

“What’s the difference?”

He takes in your question thoughtfully, and you realize where Clark got all of his mannerisms from. His Ma’s dimpled smile and intuitive gaze, the way she was in-tune with the emotions behind someone’s vague words without having to ask further questions. His Pa’s quiet consideration of other people’s words, his ability to read their feelings in the set of their shoulders or the pinch of their eyebrows. He was a product of their love, an inseparable piece of everything that made up the two of them.

You wondered what you were an inseparable piece of. You weren’t attached to anything like that. You were just you, and you had no one to connect yourself that strongly with. No one but Clark.

“Nobody can be perfect,” he eventually said. “Not in the eyes of everyone. You can try all you want, but that ain’t realistic. But you can be perfect to somebody. And you’re that somebody for Clark.”

He shrugged his flannel off, tucking it over your shoulders. He let his hand linger on your shoulder, a softness in his eyes that was as close as you knew you’d get to a smile from him.

“Quit tryin’ to be perfect. Tryin’ to please everyone. Once you stop doin’ that, you’ll find what it is you’ve been lookin’ for all this time.”

He paused, straightening his jacket on your shoulder before letting his hand drop.

“And don’t stay out ‘ere too long. You’ll catch a bug.”

You’d looked at the world in a different light the next morning you’d woken up. You’d taken an hour alone after talking with his Pa, thinking about his words. Thinking about how you could embrace your imperfections. It would be a long process, but it would be well worth it, you thought.

That was what you’d been looking for, you realized.

All of this. Kansas. Clark. Hearing someone to tell you that you only had to be truly worth it to one person, and that was yourself.

Being satisfactory to others was just a plus. Clark was a deeper part of you, too. An extension of your existence you’d never get by without. He’d taught you more than you could ever express your appreciation for, had taught you the value of your self-worth, had taught you peace.

Sleep had come easy to you for the rest of the night. The song of the mourning doves hadn’t left you with a pit in your stomach when you awoke at sunrise. The muffled sounds of clinking silverware and TV commercials made you feel warm instead of empty. Everything felt nicer. Softer. Easier.

Clark wasn’t sure what had happened to you, but he could see the shift in you. A real, tangible thing. Like you had completely changed overnight. He could spot the change in your eyes, in the way you finally looked like something in you had settled down. The way you seemed satisfied with the slowness of this kind of life. The kind of life that encourages breaks and enjoying being present with those around you, with the world around you.

You could hear his Ma fussing something over the noise of the television through the screen door, your bare feet flat against the wood porch. The sun peeked from just beneath the horizon line, casting peachy shades across the plains of your form.

Clark circled his arms around your waist, resting his head atop your own. You leaned back into him, nose brushing along the curve of his jawline, drawing a soft laugh from him. You could feel it bubble in his chest, the action warming you from the inside out.

“You get it now?”

You smiled, turning around in his grip. He craned his neck down to your level, palms sliding up to rest over your sides. He pressed a flurry of kisses from your temple down to your cheekbone, then over to your mouth. Across the edge of your lips, finally settling on yours when you’d mumbled a protest.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good.”

You kissed him back as gently as he did you, hands wrapping around his neck to curl in his hair. You played with the dark, messy strands, pulling back. Your eyes remained closed, nose brushing against his own as you tipped your face away from his.

“I think it’s you,” you hummed.

“What’s me?”

“What I’ve been looking for. It’s always been you.”

You slid your hands down his neck, palms flattening to either side, your thumbs running back and forth along the harsh slope of his jawline. He shudders, then melts beneath you, something like a purr rumbling in his throat.

“You were what I was always looking for, too. Ever since I crashed into your apartment, you uprooted my life. I can’t dream of being with anyone else.”

You laughed, and the sound made something sharp and heated prickle in Clark’s chest. It unraveled him from the inside out, drawing feelings from deep within him that he’d never thought he’d get to experience. You were his everything — his reason for life, for love, for swearing an oath of safety. You were his light, his purpose, his Achilles heel, his Eurydice. His reason to turn around in a crowd, the one who would always make sure you were behind him.

“You make me feel complete. I am complete, because of you.”

You shift beneath him, arms wrapping squarely around his chest. He pulls you close, palm flattening against the back of your head. Something in you settles. The waves of someone else’s hurricane had left you bereft, but Clark had come through and tethered you to his shore, had connected you to something that finally brought you peace.

“Will you stay with me?” He said, his other hand pressing into the space between your shoulderblades, ecstatic at the lack of tension that had seemed to exist there since the first day he’d met you.

You nod, hands raising to curl around his shoulders.

“Of course I will,” you murmured.

“You complete me, too.”

clark kent / superman

𑣲 when did you get hot? | 5.4k ﹏ you and clark have always had your differences. clark’s a newswriter, strictly fond of factual reporting, free of his own interjections. you, however, are one of the most opinionated people he’s ever met. he’s never minded it before, but he’s found himself caught between a rock and a hard place when you two disagree about superman.

pairing: corenswet!clark kent/superman x reader

summary: ever since superman crashed through the window of your apartment whilst fighting one of lex luthor’s latest creations, injured and bleeding, he’d become taken with you. maybe it was the partial concussion and broken ribs, but he believed you were the most pretty thing he’d ever seen, and he’s done nothing but think about you since.

tags: yearner!superman, friends to lovers, eventual identity exposure. steady love progression and an awkward confession, but there’s kinda sorta a bit of miscommunication/misunderstanding. once again idk what’s like comic accurate bc i’ve never read them so don’t flame me for anything that’s incorrect lol

warning(s): injuries, blood, mentions of drinking, ref to stalking but in a more joking way, slight sexual implications (?) etc.

word count: ~6.6k

notes: gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, spoilers for superman (2025). i hope y’all enjoy this as much as the last one :) this has been a long time in the making, school was killing me augh;;;; but i hope to write more this summer!

You considered yourself to be an average person.

Rentee of a standard size apartment on the upper west side of Metropolis, owner of an orange cat with a feisty personality, and a steady job as an office worker at a law firm downtown. A smart, easy life. Something simple.

You hadn’t expected all of that to be uprooted at 8:33 p.m. on a random Tuesday.

Your dinner plate rested on the coffee table, your brown and white striped sock-footed feet resting beside it on the smooth glass surface. Your cat, Jonesy, lounged in your lap, purring softly as your fingers found the curve of his jaw.

Your phone was tucked in your free hand, brightness echoing through the darkness of your apartment. The only other light emanated from over the oven in the kitchen behind you.

Your fingers tapped at the screen, mindlessly scrolling through whatever was latest on your Instagram feed — news articles about Lex Luthor’s latest inventions, conflicts overseas, film reviews.

You sighed, dropping your phone into your lap. Rubbing your cat’s head with a soft murmur, you flicked your gaze over to the remote tucked at the edge of the couch, lazily turning the TV on.

You raised a hand to scrub the exhaustion from your eyes, blinking at the sudden emergency news report that filled your vision.

Blue and red streaks flit across the screen, broken up by sounds of screaming and the babble of a news reporter, scrambling to describe the chaotic scene. Superman, again, toe-to-toe with another one of Lex Luthor’s random test subjects. A new, faux human sent to, for lack of a better term, beat Superman’s ass.

You leaned forward, disturbing your cat’s restful slumber as he made a grumble noise in the back of his throat, the little bell on his collar jingling as he stalked away into another room.

You tilted your head, wondering if your eyes were playing tricks on you as Superman was thrown into the front window of your favorite bagel place down the street. He couldn’t be that close, could he?

You were still trying to figure it out when a similar splintering of glass came from your left, followed by the sound of your own distant yell, your thigh bumping against the table leg as you scrambled off the couch.

When the ringing in your ears settled, you peeked around the edge of the couch cushion.

Superman himself, the famed hero of Metropolis — even broader, all of the world — and a frequent subject in The Daily Planet’s prose, had just crashed through your apartment window.

His breathing appeared slow, chest rising and falling unevenly on his right side. You steeled yourself, crawling across the floor towards him, avoiding the broken glass scattered across the pale hardwood of your living room.

Someone you’d only seen in news reports and on your timeline in the form of 30 second video clips, someone you kept tabs on like he was your close, personal friend, was now laying in the center of your apartment.

Your hands met his cheek, shaking him slightly, and his bright eyes flicked open. He groaned, trying to sit up, wincing at the pain in his chest.

“No, no,” you heard yourself murmur. “I’m not sure if you should sit up right now. You might be concussed.”

He let out a noncommittal hum, something soft and pinched, his expression screwing into something much too close to pain for someone you thought was invincible.

“You a doctor?” He managed, raising an eyebrow despite his closed eyes.

“Um, no. Just a.. I’m just an assistant. At the law firm a few blocks from here.”

He hummed, as if the thought was somehow amusing to him. He seemed less.. Superman-ly. More human. It clung to the tightness around his eyes, to the tension in his frame as he let out a loose breath. He sat up slowly, heavy hand resting on your shoulder.

“Just is a lousy word. It’s something people only say when they’re trying to diminish themselves.”

He blinked, the action seemingly taking a large amount of effort as his eyes peeled open.

Your face filled his vision, bathed in half-light. He studied the way your hair smoothed over your jaw, the dip of your nose, the sparkle in your eyes. Concern bit at your expression, the faintest of pricks between your furrowed brows. He wanted to smooth out the crease with the calloused pad of his finger.

He swallowed. Golly.

Maybe it was the ringing in his ears or the throbbing ache between his temples, but he suddenly found it hard to breathe in a way that had nothing to do with getting slammed through a 24-inch window.

You tilted your head, gaze traveling along him with a small twist of curiosity.

“You okay?” You asked.

He raised a hand to his head, still-warm blood pressing to his fingers. He forced himself to nod.

“Yes, yeah — I’m alright. Just..” He trailed off, wiping his fingers off on a torn edge of his suit. His hand was shaking a little, you noticed.

He stood, possibly a little too quickly judging by the way he teetered on his feet, making his way to the gaping hole in your apartment windows. The wind ruffled the blood-slicked planes of his curls, glass crunching beneath his boots.

“I’ll pay to replace.. this,” he said, vaguely gesturing — as if words couldn’t capture the damage. Then, he was gone. A flash of blue and red disappearing into the dark expanse of the sky.

Going back to work for the rest of the week wasn’t exactly easy. Especially not since everyone had seen your apartment practically be decimated by a superhuman on live television.

You weren’t sure what was worse, the pounding headache from lack of sleep — the whistling of wind and cold breezes basically kept you up every night, even with your bedroom door shut — or everyone bombarding you with questions.

By Friday evening, you were positive your head was going to explode. All you wanted to do was kick your shoes off, eat some shitty chinese takeout, lay with Jonesy on the couch, and get wine drunk to forget the massive crater in the side of your living room. Maybe you’d watch some TV, if you really felt like it.

Superman found you halfway through your first glass.

You felt him before you saw him — the steady way the world seemed to go quiet around his form, the sharp edges of your nerves blurring as he stepped into your kitchen.

You had your back turned, hip cocked against the quartz edge of the island, the glass’ spine tucked between your pointer and middle finger like you were holding a cigarette.

“Hiya,” he murmured.

You sighed softly, head leaning back over your shoulder. You couldn’t tell he’d had his shit rocked at all.

His suit looked freshly pressed, his skin free of any blood, cuts, or bruises that had been so prevalent just nights before. It was as if he’d completely healed in the span of a few days. You supposed that was normal for superhumans, not like you’d ever been one to know.

You turned the full way around, leaning back against the counter. Green socks hung low around your ankles, the distinct patterns of hedgehogs with red speckled flowers decorating your feet. Like you were still holding on to some semblance of individuality in a draining corporate world.

“You do that often?” He said, head tilting towards the way the wine glass sat in your palm — completely natural, your hand sculpted for it. His head felt fuzzy thinking about the soft etchings of your skin.

“Old habits die screaming,” you replied.

He frowns just slightly, taking on the air of a dog that had just been denied a treat after its nightly walk.

“Rough day?”

You laughed — the sound was coarse, cut and dry like the sour edge of a lemon. A feeling that made your nose scrunch as you thought about the mind-numbing cubicle you practically lived in. Not only were you running on fumes, but the amount of fruit baskets you’d been given in the last couple of days was painfully laughable.

You’d’ve preferred a raise. Or at least a nicer bottle of wine than what you were drinking right now.

“You have no idea.”

His frown only deepened, the sharp cuts of his dimples sinking into his face like craters on the moon’s face, which was high and bright in the sky right now.

“I’m sorry about your window,” he said quietly. “You know how Lex is, I’m sure. With his..”

You smiled wryly, taking a small sip from your glass. You shook your head, sitting it down with a clink as you regarded him. Your expression was almost curious, like you were wondering what the point was in him even coming back here.

“Yeah, I do.”

Something about nanites, a new form of technology that had never been seen before, you recalled from one of Luthor’s interviews with a local news station a few weeks ago. You’d been half-asleep during the broadcast, but you managed to remember that much.

Technology no one had been able to create up until now, something no one had even come close to mirroring until Lex Luthor dipped his hand into every company and product out on the market.

Now, it was everywhere. Small things, mostly.

Nanite-based coffee machines, household appliances, basic tools. He was working on cars now — claimed that they’d be the safest, most effective form of transportation on the market when they were done. You weren’t sure if you bought it. Something just seemed.. off about it.

If every other nanite-based creation could cause this much damage, even to a superhuman, what would it do to a regular person?

You cleared the thought from your mind. The idea unsettled you.

“Don’t see how what he’s doing is legal,” you remark dryly.

“It probably isn’t.”

Silence settles between you both; the only noise comes from the quiet brushing of wind and the sound of distant planes in the clouds miles above the top of your apartment. You finish off the glass, sliding the wine back into the bottom compartment of your fridge.

“I have an idea,” he says suddenly.

You pause, let out a huff of air through your noise. Almost a laugh, but falling just short enough to sound pathetic. You tug at the edge of your sleeping shorts, red plaid with white accents, shifting to prop one leg against the side of your knee.

“Okay, Supes. Hit me.”

His eyes seem to sparkle in the dim lighting of your small kitchen, an oddly mischievous expression crossing his face for someone routinely seen expressing high levels of empathy and kindness. Saving squirrels from being hit by cars, kids from dropping their ice cream. You guessed he’d alter his path if he saw a worm on the sidewalk, where most people wouldn’t even bother to look down.

“Do you trust me?” He said, almost wiggling his eyebrows.

“I just met you,” you remark.

“Maybe you just met me, but you know a lot about me, don’t you?”

You halfway flushed, eyes narrowing at the implication behind it. That he knew just as much about you as you knew about him. It felt strange to be on the receiving end of constant recognition. Of being perceived in the same way was someone so reputable. You swallowed.

“I do.”

He smiled, dimples creasing his cheeks.

“So you do trust me, then.”

You laughed for real this time, shaking your head. You turned your back to him, sliding your empty glass into the dishwasher, considering the implications of placing your trust upon his shoulders.

“Yes, I guess I do.”

Right as you turned around, he playfully wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close by the waist. Then, he took off through the gaping hole in your apartment wall. You yelped, then closed your eyes, forehead pressed to his chest. You tried not to think about any of this too much.

“Are you crazy?!” You practically half-yelled, voice muffled by the wind whistling past your ears. You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, hands curling sharply around his shoulders, fingers digging into the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Maybe a little.”

You refused to open your eyes the entire time, even after you felt your feet settle on the ground. He tapped your side with two fingers, head tipped by your ear as he softly spoke.

“Hey, it’s alright now. You can open up.”

You ignored the weird flutter in your chest, your hands flexing by your side as you steeled yourself.

You slowly peeled your eyes open, nose scrunching as the wind whipped at your face, hair sticking to the apples of your cheeks. You were atop the roof of your apartment when you managed to look.

He stood beside you at the edge, his eyes fixed on the darkened horizon when you looked over at him. He looked almost wistful. Like he was standing next to you, but his mind was somewhere else.

“You know,” he murmured. “I miss my parents. Back home. In Kansas.”

You seemed to pause, gaze lingering on the side of his face instead of on the starry skyline. The moon carved out the sharpness of his cheekbones, the deep set of his eyelids, and the smile lines that creased his cheeks, even when his face was still.

“Do you have someone like that? Someone you miss?”

Silence settled between the two of you, your hand raising as you rubbed the back of your neck.

“At one time, maybe,” you answered.

“But not anymore.”

His prying gaze met yours, brows furrowed and eyes softening as he looked over at you. He opened his mouth, intent on replying when you suddenly spoke again, cutting him off.

“It’s my turn to ask you a question now.”

He closed his mouth, expression settling into something equally contemplative and saddened all at once.

“Okay.”

You stepped close, chin tipping upward as you met his eyes more directly, head tilted to one side. He swallowed, the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing expressively.

“Why are you really here? Beyond what you say in the news reports.”

He seems to stiffen. Your question was more forward than he was expecting. Sharp, cutting — what he expected from someone with your expertise. Always aiming right for the heart of the matter in the way he’d learned you do.

It only took him a week to have his interest piqued by you, using his personal resources and connections through the newspaper to pull everything he could on you.

You mostly did typical assistant work — communicating with clients, organizing legal files, assisting attorneys with case preparation through research and evidence procuration. It was something that he thought would make his eyes glaze over, or maybe resort to drinking himself.

But, he found more interesting things about you while digging through your work.

You ran your own blog, and you were very, very outspoken about Lex Luthor’s creations and his unsavory legal and ethical practices. You seemed popular for it, too. He hadn’t pinned you as someone who was so.. striking. You appeared and sounded softspoken, but he’d misjudged you.

Still, it almost made him more interested in you.

“What I say in the news reports is all I know. I’m not a secretive guy.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced by his words.

“So, your parents sent you to Earth, and the only information you have about and from them is a 15 second video clip in a language no one else can understand but you?” You questioned, and he smiled.

You were a firecracker. He liked it. A lot.

“How do we know you aren’t lying?”

He shrugged, as if to say, ‘you really don’t.’

“Guess you just have to keep on trusting me.”

Silence blanketed the space between the two of you again, thick and sharp. Edged with something deeper. You have to keep trusting him. Not Earth, not anyone else, but you. You opened your mouth to ask something deeper when he raised one finger, digging around in his suit pockets.

“I almost forgot,” he murmured. He pulled a credit card from the inner folds of his suit, from where, exactly, you couldn’t tell. It was black, and sleek. Professional. You wondered how Superman — crime-fighter and Earth’s self-proclaimed protector — managed to have enough money for a card like that.

It wasn’t like justice and kindheartedness paid good in this world. You’d figured that out a long time ago.

He pressed it into your palm, his eyes crinkling at the edges in a mix of melancholic amusement.

“For your window repairs.”

And again, he was gone in a flash of patriotic shades, leaving you standing by the edge of the roof to clamber your way down the fire escape and into the gaping hole in the side of your apartment. You went to sleep with a smile and a curious thought you couldn’t manage to shake.

Weeks passed between the fleeting moment you had on the roof and the dreadful Monday morning you found yourself in. Surrounded by stacks of folders and papers stacked as high as your head, your desk was coated in mind-numbing shades of white, gray, and beige.

You’d been thinking about Superman any time your brain was granted a break, which was almost never. But still, he managed to keep you up at night.

You thought of the gentle way he smiled at every thing you said, the softness in his eyes on that roof when he opened up to you. His words were a shoulder to your struggle, like light shining through the broken cracks of an old home, warming its insides like nothing had done in a long time.

You’d become even more enveloped in him than you had before, digging through every news article, press release, or video of him that had ever touched the internet’s widespread edges, and him you.

Clark sighed. Ordinarily, his mind was laser-focused on whatever article pitch landed in front of him, but he found himself unable to even type a word. His thoughts always wandered somewhere else every time he placed his fingers on the keyboard.

Instead, he found his mind on you. On that slightly drunken, dejected smile he’d seen on your lips. He was focused on your words, on how much your devotion and fire spoke beyond the work that you did.

He found himself drawn to your blog once more, and was surprised to see his name in your tagline instead of Lex’s.

Well, not him, but Superman. So kind of him.

It had been posted in the middle of the night, and read a little more lax than things you had written before. An unfiltered thought. About him. At two in the morning.

A warmth crawled down his neck and below his tie, his mind scrambling worse than before.

“‘Superman is more empathetic than 90% of America,’” the title read. He felt something in his chest awkwardly swell. You thought of him more positively than he assumed you did. You were always anti-Lex, but that didn’t necessarily make you pro-Superman.

You spoke to his heart, referencing times he’d helped everyday citizens — street vendors, business owners, older women who needed help crossing the street. He’d saved animals, both big and small, and even creatures created or sent by Lex to destroy him.

You recognized his emotional depth, how he refused to let a finger be laid on anyone or anything that had crossed his path, or the path of something much more sinister.

He had to click off the post before he finished reading, a flush making his brain swim in thoughts he really didn’t need to be having on the clock. He forced himself back to the other tab, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

He found that the words came easier when he thought about your compliments.

He found you in the evening, happy to see that your windows had been fixed since he’d seen you last.

He tapped his fist lightly on it, eyes fixed on your form through the freshly polished glass. He swallowed, feeling the same flush from earlier curl at his ears and down his neck, disappearing beneath the line of his suit. He inhaled the cold air, attempting to fan the flames that stirred behind his ribcage.

You pulled the window open a moment later, and his gaze couldn’t help but linger on the careful tilt of your fingers on the latch. He swallowed thickly.

“Hi,” he said.

You pulled the window shut behind him, smiling and tilting your head.

“Hi.”

You turned back around to face the kitchen counter. There was a cup of tea atop it, your hand wrapping around the handle of a spoon as you began stirring sugar into it, the silence between the two of you somehow awkward and comfortable all at once.

“I, um,” he stuttered.

You turned around after a moment, taking a small sip of the warm liquid, smoke curling around the curve of your jaw. He wished it was his hand brushing there instead. The thought seemed to startle him, and his eyes flitted along your face quickly, almost like they weren’t sure where to rest.

You hadn’t seen him so.. unmoored before.

“You wrote about me.” He finally blurted. You felt yourself still, suddenly disinterested in the mug cupped in your palm. You blinked — once, twice, trying to reconcile his words with yourself.

“What?”

His throat bobbed as he exhaled, hand meeting the singular curl that rested over his forehead as he tugged at it, seemingly nervous.

“I read your blog, sometimes. Well, all the time, really. You.. you, um. You’re really good.”

You stayed silent, eyebrows raising at him. Him, Superman, had time to read blog posts? He read blog posts about himself, no less? Was he self-centered or insecure?

“And you wrote about me. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I came here.”

He shifted on his feet, unsettled by your silence. You placed the cup down on the counter, arms crossing as you met his gaze. You smiled, nose crinkling up, looking smug in the way that made him feel like he could do something dangerous.

“So, you liked it?”

He nodded furiously. His hand dragged down the side of his face, fingers unsteady.

“It was... I’ve been thinking about it all day. I didn’t think you thought so well of me.”

“Well, it’s hard to think badly of someone who paid to fix my windows. Even if you were the one that broke them.”

He laughed softly, the tension draining out of his shoulders. He smiled at you, and it made an eased, airy feeling prickle in the hollow of your ribcage. He always made you feel lighter, just by being there.

“Speaking of.” You murmured, digging around in the pockets of your bag on the counter. After a moment, you pulled out the card he lent you, and he found himself staring again at the litheness of your fingers.

You slid the black card back across the kitchen island toward him, tipping your head in acknowledgment. You lifted the cup again to take another sip from it, the light taste of green tea lingering on your tongue.

“Thank you.” You said softly, and he swore he’d explode right there. Just spontaneously combust in the center of your kitchen, as impossible as that may be.

“Sure.”

A charged sort of quiet settled between the two of you. You felt your heart press to the inside of your throat, the tension making your pulse go haywire.

After the moment lasted a bit too long, he took a step towards you, maroon boots squeaking against the linoleum. You paused, hand curled around the mug. It was warm beneath your fingers, but not warmer than the heat you could feel permeating from his form as it lingered in your space.

His hand raised, palm pressing into your cheek with a deliberate softness. His thumb carefully brushed along the underside of your eye, his fingertips the temperature of a furnace. You bit into the inside of your cheek, just barely tilting your jaw into his touch.

He took another slow step forward, backing you up against the counter. His eyes briefly dropped to your mouth, words caught in his throat that he wished he could force himself to say. He hadn’t ever been speechless about anything.

When he finally thought he had enough courage to speak, he felt you tug away. You slid away from him, turning around to face the sink, head tipped towards the floor like you were ashamed.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly.

“I can’t.”

The words felt like they had grown fingers and slapped him across the face, his hand still lingering in the space where you had been just moments before. He missed the feeling of your skin already.

He couldn’t bring himself to form a sentence, his lukewarm confidence running cold. Not a comfort, not even an apology himself.

He took a few slow steps backward, cape fluttering as he turned on his heel and pulled your window latch open, disappearing into the cool night without as so much as a second glance.

You’d spent the whole weekend thinking about your disastrous rejection of Superman’s advances, the guilt rattling through your chest, curling around your heart like a vice. It worsened with every hour that passed, almost enough to make you feel sick to your stomach.

It was another dreadful Monday. It was dreary; a depressing fog had settled over Metropolis’ horizon, one that seemed to mirror the distaste you felt for yourself.

You were amid a stack of particularly boring files, eyes just barely focusing on sentences about a trial happening later that week — you found yourself zoning out as you read about the man’s criminal history, family information, job records, your mind centered on the way Superman had silently left.

You’d downed half a bottle of wine after and passed out on your couch, waking up in your work clothes from the day before. You would’ve been late if it weren’t for Jonesy screaming in your ear about 6:30, complaining about his empty food bowl.

There was a dull aching between your temples by the time you’d managed to take lunch, phone tucked in the palm of your hand. But it didn’t bring you any respite, even though you sought to distract yourself.

When scrolling mindlessly, a news notification flashed at the top of your screen. A name you really didn’t want to see, and certainly not in this context.

Superman had been under fire for his involvement in the overseas war between Jarhanpur and Boravia, and for the torture of Boravian representative Vasil Ghurkos for the last few months. You hadn’t cared about any of that before, because you believed, too, that what he was doing accomplished the greatest good for the most people.

But now he was facing widespread backlash for.. some kind of mass harem mission? What in God’s name did that even mean?

According to Lex Luthor and his team of translators, Superman’s message from his parents had been about colonizing and ruling over Earth all along. Your stomach dropped. You felt your face pale, the air around you chilling like the news itself was able to be felt. Like a tangible thing that shifted the core of the atmosphere itself, forcing your center of gravity completely off balance.

You weren’t sure if you bought it, but you also weren’t sure if you could deny it. It’s not like you spoke Kryptonian to know.

Your lunch suddenly seemed unappetizing. You couldn’t reconcile the thought of the pensive man you’d met on the roof with this version of the superhero America had come to cherish. You couldn’t believe the goldhearted Kansas boy was possibly here for something far more nefarious.

Had he made a move on you in pursuit of something like that? Were you just the first person in a string of future pawns in his mission to overrule the entire world?

Maybe it was right to reject him. That’s what you tried to tell yourself, anyway, but it still didn’t sit right.

Superman sought you out that night, like the news had plastered a beacon above your apartment, pulling him close to you. You were met with a knock while you lounged on the couch, limbs stretched out like a starfish, face engulfed in a pillow.

You raised your head, wary as you saw the outline of his form in the window pane. You hesitated before you stood up, fingers finding the latch of your living room window before your sluggish mind could form a thought. It was only after that you realized it maybe wasn’t the best idea to freely let him into your apartment.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Your eyes found the torn fabric of his suit before you found his eyes, blood still fresh on his paled flesh. You forgot all the hesitancy you were feeling the moment you saw him like that. You were flitting away as quick as you’d come, returning a moment later with a first aid kit. He didn’t bother to tell you that it wouldn’t really help him, because he could see the panic you tried to veil.

“Sit.” You mumbled, pushing him towards the kitchen island, forcing him to sit on one of the rattan stools. His hand found a stray reed that peeked out from its delicate weaving, fingers occupied with it to avoid brushing his hand along your cheek to calm you.

He felt lightheaded in a way that felt unrelated to the blood loss.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.” Your tone was equally as soft as his own when you finally managed to form words, the sentence thick as it escaped your throat. You sounded so hurt, he wanted desperately to soothe it out of you.

“I know.”

You pressed alcohol-soaked gauze to a particular gnarly looking cut, and he bit back a wince. His jaw clenched, eyes hardening as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“You were in the news.”

“I know.”

“They say you’re here to..”

“I know.”

He paused, his hand meeting the curve of your wrist as he stopped you, thumb pressing to your pulse point. He didn’t need to feel it to know your heart was racing, he could hear it.

“Is that why you tried to..”

You trailed off, eyes downcast. You weren’t sure you could look at him right now. Whether it was because of the news, or because the words felt like molasses in your mouth as you tried to discuss what you so badly wanted to avoid. But how could you?

“What? No! That’s not—” He stuttered, eyes widening.

“You have to know that I didn’t know that’s how the message ended,” he pleaded. He sounded desperate, like he needed you to believe him. Like you were the only one he needed to believe in him.

“The rest of it was lost in transit. I’d only ever heard the first part. I really thought..”

He trailed off, his voice cracking in a way that made guilt weigh heavy in the pit of your stomach. You can’t believe you’d been doubting him just a few hours ago.

“I really thought they sent me here to protect Earth. It turns out I was wrong.”

“Parents are wrong sometimes, you know.” You finally said, gaze downcast, teeth occasionally worrying your lower lip as you plastered bandages over the cuts on his chest.

He pressed his thumb tighter to your skin, purposefully silent.

You swallowed, feeling your throat constrict around feelings that made discomfort settle in the cage of your ribs. It hurt like sharpened glass, pressing against your lungs with an aggressiveness you hadn’t felt in years.

He nodded encouragingly, the pad of his finger softly stroking your wrist. Your eyes closed, and he took it as an invitation to slide his hand further up your arm.

“My parents didn’t want me to work in law. Or move away. But I knew if I didn’t get out when I did, I’d never leave.”

You paused, eyes opening after a moment. You gently spread the last bandage over his skin, fingertips soft and smooth in a way that made his mind wander a little too far. He tethered it back to you when you spoke again, gently drawing patterns into your speckled forearm.

“They don’t talk to me anymore. But it ended up being what was best for me, even if I lost something that used to mean so much to me.”

He tilted his head, watching you closely.

“My point is that.. what you’ve done is more important than what they had meant for you to do. What you did for Earth was all you. That’s who you really are.”

Your hands lingered over the bare skin of his chest hesitantly. The stretchy fabric of his suit was torn and partially tattered, sunken inward in the form of an incredibly large fist. After a moment, he smiled, a bit of tension lingering at the edges of his eyes. You didn’t think someone so strong felt pain the same way everyone else did.

“I knew you’d say something like that.”

You lifted your chin, and he felt his chest constrict at the look on your face. His eyes briefly flicked to your mouth, then down to your hands, and then back up, tracing a triangle with his weighted gaze.

“Still.. part of me was worried you’d agree with everyone else.”

You shook your head. Your hands finally settled on his chest, not to soothe his wounds or spread another bandage on his skin, but just to rest.

“At first I was scared it was true,” you admitted.

“But.. the more I thought about it, the more I realized it didn’t sound like you at all.”

He tried to ignore the way your fingertips felt against him, the way his thoughts went haywire at the sight of you; at the soft, eased sound of your voice. Trying to draw something out from him while also respecting his silence.

“I’ve been keeping more from you. Intentionally.”

You raise an eyebrow, thumbs pressing to the space between his collarbones. He thinks he might faint.

“I’m more than just Superman. I work at the Daily Planet as a reporter.”

You pause, blinking, suddenly recalling a name from the bylines you’d seen so many times. Like the piece immediately clicked in your mind the moment he’d spoken it aloud.

Superman stops foreign creature from destroying downtown. Superman aids Jarhanpur in the wake of Boravian attacks. Superman works with the Justice Gang to take down unknown monster.

All featuring exclusive interviews with Superman. All by Clark Kent.

“You’re Clark Kent,” you finally say. “You interview.. yourself?”

He smiles sheepishly, his hand wrapping fully around your arm.

“It’s not exactly ethical reporting. But, yeah. I do.”

You gesture with your free hand at his face, brows furrowing. You’d seen Clark Kent. At least, in the banners following his stories, and he didn’t look like this at all.

Not like some statue formed from the loving hand of an artist; someone with a perfectly chiseled jaw, the kindest eyes you’ve ever seen, beautiful hair

You stop your train of thought, looking even more confused, tilting your head back and forth, somehow trying to place it. Your thumb presses into your chin thoughtfully. Every moment you thought you got it, his facial features seemed to shift again, sliding out of your hands like running water.

“Hypno-glasses,” he murmurs. “They just.. kinda, alter my face? Enough to keep people from figuring it out. A defense mechanism sort of thing.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, pretending that the foreign technology made complete and total sense, forcing a nod.

“Right.”

Silence settles for a moment, soft as dust on an old bookshelf. He stares at you with something odd in his irises, a feeling you weren’t sure how to put a name to. You weren’t sure if you could, or if you wanted to.

“Also, I think you should quit your job.”

You blink again, caught off guard by his sudden confession. And the odd change in subject.

When did this conversation become about you?

“It’s true I’ve read your blog posts. But, I pulled a lot more cyber strings to find out things about you.”

“So.. you’ve been stalking me, Wonder Boy?”

He looked defensive, a flush creeping across his cheeks and up his ears. He furiously shook his head, his free hand wrapping around your other arm, pulling you to stand between his legs.

“No! Well, I mean, kind of? But in a totally normal and casual way.”

“..‘Totally normal’ and ‘casual’ aren’t typically used in the same sentence as stalking.”

He sighed, fingertips sliding upward to grasp at your elbows, stilling you. His eyes lingered on your face, following every twitch of your expression like it was the most important thing he’d ever seen.

“Look, I just think that you’re capable of pursuing way more than organizing files for eight hours a day. You’re so smart, and so talented. Your way with words makes for the most compelling sentences I’ve ever read. And I’m not just saying that because you hate Lex and love me.”

You scoff, but soften it with a smile, eyes sparkling in a way that makes him feel completely unraveled.

“It’s love, is it?” You teased, shifting just enough to lean into his grip. He felt something in his chest split, giddiness curling in his stomach. He wants to kiss you so darn bad.

“And, I could say the same thing about your writing too, Kent. Even if you routinely partake in unethical journalistic practices.”

“Oh, come on, now.”

The faintly devilish tone leaving your mouth makes him feel maddened, and his eyes trail back down to your mouth again. He wants to smother the acid off your lips, to soothe that biting little fire he loves so much. Never to douse it, but to ease for a long enough moment to do what he wants to you.

Gentlemanly, of course.

He slowly dances his fingertips up your arm — over your elbows, up to your shoulders, across your neck. He can feel and hear the way your pulse jumps in your throat, and he smiles.

His mouth presses to the skin there first, trailing a line of heat up behind your ear and across your jaw before they meet your lips, smothering your small noise of protest by firmly sliding his own across yours.

He cradles both sides of your jaw with warm hands. It felt like the sun, you thought deliriously. Soft and smooth, like you were laying on a beach. His touch is light for someone with hands the size of dinner plates, and you find yourself loosening every moment it stays on you.

“So?” He murmurs, finally pulling away long enough to intake a soft breath.

“Will you quit your job?”

You laugh, and the sound makes something airy bubble in his chest. He feels so enamored by you, he can’t imagine his hands or lips ever being on someone other than you. You adjust the collar of his suit, touch sliding down to his tactical belt as you pull him off the stool and back towards the couch.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

pairing: corenswet!clark kent/superman x reader

summary: you and clark have always had your differences. clark’s a newswriter, strictly fond of factual reporting, free of his own interjections. you, however, are one of the most opinionated people he’s ever met. he’s never minded it before, but he’s found himself caught between a rock and a hard place when you two disagree about superman.

tags: yearner!clark, office romance, a bit of friendly rivalry. reader suddenly becomes aware of their feelings for clark, disagreements about the ethicality of superman’s actions. argument leads into a big love confession. i’m a wingwoman lois truther btw.

warning(s): maybe a few suggestive sounding comments/moments, nothing outwardly sexual or anything but yk. a little bit of arguing? idk they disagree at some points, but it’s not rlly that heated so, brief mention of war (?)

word count: 5.4k

notes: gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, spoilers for superman (2025). reader is an opinion writer ! also this had been in the woodworks for a while, i’ve never posted anything like this before so i’m a little nervous lol;; if you recognize any references i put in here ily !

also i’m largely unfamiliar with dcu beyond this so if something’s off pls lmk ! and i hope the flow is good i rlly struggle with making things progress naturally

Clark stumbled into the bullpen, eyes fixated on his watch, haphazardly balancing his coffee and briefcase in his other hand.

He was late again, and if he was counting right, it was—

“1 hour and 37 minutes, Kent.” Your voice called, making his head jerk up from where he was leaning over his desk.

He’d barely even had time to sit his cup down, which was swirling with long-cold coffee.

He took you in — your hands on your hips, a wry little smile on your face, brows slightly raised. You looked down at your watch, shining golden against the slope of your wrist, before your eyes fixed on him again.

You, the star opinion writer at The Daily Planet. Hard-hitting, always willing to get down to the gritty stuff that motivated every action you disagreed with.

You made your platform on questioning the career of Lex Luthor, with your very first article calling out the manipulation lying beneath his business practices — his payoffs, his connections with nearly every big business head. You were certain he was planning something larger in the darkness, just out of the eye of the public.

You were opinionated, but always good spirited. Playful and kind — yet, your brazen nature wasn’t lost on him. You stood ten-toes down on everything you believed, going as far as framing hate mail above your desk like they were some of your greatest accomplishments, and he really admired that.

“And 53 seconds,” you added, pulling him from his thoughts.

He looked at you almost sheepishly, his hair mussed across his forehead, speckled tie slightly askew.

“Yeah, I had to take a different route,” he said. “Y’know, considering—”

He raised his hand then, gesturing to the TV, which was already playing a recap of Superman’s latest otherworldly encounter — resulting in the destruction of a slew of buildings in the western business district, just a stone’s throw from LutherCorp.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” you answered. You’d taken a few steps closer by this point, hand finding the edge of his desk as you leaned against it, eyeing him pointedly.

“Score another interview with Superman, too?” Your voice tipped an octave, like you were sharing a secret, but he knew it was meant to be a taunt.

“Yes, actually.” Clark quipped back, a bit of amusement settling into his expression, dimples creasing in his cheeks.

“And what did he say?”

Clark let out an amused huff through his nostrils, his own tone lowering to match yours.

“I can’t tell you that, you’ll just have to read it.”

“Mm,” you hummed in reply, the sound sending a weird spike of energy through Clark’s chest.

“Alright, keep your secrets.” You acquiesced, trotting back to your own desk.

“Another front pager, Kent.” You tapped the edge of his desk with your pen, garnering his attention.

The newsroom was always alight with chatter surrounding who’d ended up on the front page of the latest print — congratulations were always shared when the lucky person’s desk was passed by. Clark often scored the front page, but he was also one of the most supportive when it came to someone else’s name landing there.

Coffee from the nearby cafe, compliments, pats on the shoulder; that was Clark Kent in a nutshell.

He tipped his head up, eyes flicking to the newspaper clutched in your hand, your index finger lingering over his byline.

“It was a great article. I liked that you provided the costs of damage repair.”

He blinked, then gave a nod. His gaze slid along you, as if he was unsure where his eyes should rest.

“Thank you.” He said quietly, earnestly. “I figured you’d say that.”

There was a pause then, something unspoken lingering in the silence, almost suggesting that he’d done his research into it because he knew you’d value it.

You cleared your throat eventually, the charged energy smoothening out. Lois eyed you both from over the edge of her desk, then shifting her gaze to share her raised brow with Jimmy.

“Superman must really like you to give out all those interviews,” you added. “You’re the only one he’ll talk to.”

“What can I say? He finds my journalism admirable.” His voice was light, humor twinging his tone, a loose shrug rounding through his shoulders.

“I’m sure he does,” you replied. The way your words landed seemed to imply that you did, too.

“You think Big Blue would let me interview him one day?”

Clark faltered then, an oddly placed flush creeping up his neck, spreading all the way to his ears. He swallowed with a great effort, like something was stuck in his throat.

“Uh, yeah, maybe,” He managed. “He’s a nice guy.”

You tossed the paper onto his desk with a little smile, letting it land atop his laptop’s keyboard, a bit of playfulness sparking in your eyes.

Clark’s chest felt tight.

“Good to know.”

Everyone stood huddled close together, eyes fixated on the wall-mounted TV, watching Superman’s recent involvement in Jarhanpur, along with a split second showing of Superman with Vasil Ghurkos.

His cape was a flash of red as he took off, his arms wrapped around the foreign leader as he disappeared into the horizon.

Superman had made his stance on the safety of people abundantly clear, but being publicly against Boravia — one of the U.S.’s most influential allies — seemed possibly problematic, maybe even nefarious in nature, especially to you.

It wasn’t even that you disagreed with Superman’s actions, or found them abhorrent in the way some of the general public did, but you’d be lying if you said the safety compromises that may come from this didn’t concern you.

What concerned you more was the fact that you hadn’t seen Clark yet. You couldn’t help but wonder what he thought about all this as you stared at your blinking cursor, a half-baked draft regarding Superman’s involvement in Jarhanpur seemingly taunting you.

As if on cue, he came stumbling in, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes immediately found him. He looked more unkempt than you’d ever seen him — tired, eyes glassy, half of his suit buttons undone. He wasn’t even wearing a tie today.

You eyed him curiously, partial concern scrawled over your face. His gaze met yours, his lips curling in a poor attempt at a reassuring smile.

You immediately began planning how to make your way over there without being obvious. Lois stared you down, raising a knowing brow that you met with a look that pleaded for silence.

The nerve to approach him finally sparked when you managed to get a minute away to snag coffee from the café across the street. Two bagels and small black coffees were somehow balanced in your hands, forcing yourself through the crowd with muttered ‘thank-you’s’ to those who bothered to hold the door.

You skirted around Jimmy as he hustled his way to the printer, beelining for Clark’s desk with a purposeful stride.

Sitting the bagel and coffee down at the edge of his desk, you slipped a napkin beneath the cup, his eyes sluggishly dragging over to your form. When he realized it was you, he perked up, brushing the single ringlet drooped between his brows away from his forehead, looking surprised.

“For me?” He murmured, raising a hand to halfway gesture towards your offering, eyes sparkling like it was the most precious thing he’d ever seen. Or maybe he was looking at you that way.

You nodded, voice smooth despite your sudden nerves.

“Yeah,” you affirmed. “You seemed.. off. I figured this would help, at least a little.”

He smiled gently, the tension curled around his eyes lessening, shoulders slipping into a more relaxed position.

“Thank you.” He said softly, hand reaching for yours with a faint brush of his fingertips. You felt your heart wedge itself in your throat, pulse suddenly rushing.

“Uh, huh.” You managed to speak past the flush of emotion sizzling beneath your skin, awkwardly nodding. “It’s no problem.”

A twinge of silence settled between the two of you, teetering on the edge of something deeper, something you both tried to ignore. A moment later, Clark cleared his throat, breaking the tension.

“So, um, what do you think?”

You tilted your head up, eyes meeting his. You knew what he was asking.

“What he’s doing is risky. Maybe even stupid,” you hear yourself reply.

“He’s become an American symbol, but he’s going toe-to-toe with one of our most influential allies. It’s not the kind of thing people are going to take lightly.”

Clark’s expression shifted, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that. Like he was expecting you to understand Superman’s actions better than anyone else. Like he wanted you to.

You noted the faint hardening of his eyes, the tired pull of crows feet at their corners. Like the stress had returned tenfold. His mouth set into a thin line, and he nodded. He looked almost hurt.

“Right.”

You got the sense that you were being brushed off, the conversation fizzling out, his lips almost curled in a frown.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he added, returning his gaze to his laptop.

“Yeah,” you said halfheartedly. “Sure.”

Metropolis had been quiet the last few weeks. An odd silence.

The streets themselves seemed to hum with an uncertain tension, like something was brewing beneath each slab of cracked pavement along every sidewalk.

Superman hadn’t shown his face. He’d had no reason to, because there was nothing worth defending the city over taking place.

You’d noticed the sudden quiet more than anyone else, but not for the same reasons as Lois or Jimmy, or even Perry, but because Clark had been weird.

Weirder than usual.

He was always an awkward guy, that wasn’t exactly lost on you — he was constantly adjusting his tie, or fiddling with the clip of his pen, or tapping his fingers loosely against the edge of his desk when he was lost in thought.

No, it was different. He was stressed. Visibly.

You knew everyone else in Metropolis was feeling it, even you were. You felt the urge to constantly look over your shoulder the whole way back to your apartment every night.

But it seemed deeper for him. Like he was waiting for something to happen for reasons larger than a lack of headlines or front page articles.

You slid your way over to Lois’s desk, the wheels on your chair squeaking slightly in the blanketed quiet of the bullpen. You kept your voice low, eyes briefly fixating on Clark’s tense expression before meeting Lois’s eyes.

“Does Kent seem weird to you?”

She paused mid-type, tilting her head towards you, cerulean gaze piercing your own, raising a curious brow. Her expression carried a weight that implied she knew something you didn’t, but if she really did, she didn’t voice it.

“Maybe,” she replied smoothly. “Why?”

“He’s just… shifty.” You supply, almost a bit unnerved yourself, Lois seemed to notice.

“More than usual. It’s different.”

You paused, the toe end of your loafer dragging across the floor with a quiet squeak, fiddling anxiously with the clip of your pen.

“Plus, he’s been avoiding me the last few days.”

Your conversation with Clark had given you enough of a thread to write something — a critique of Superman and his recent involvement in international politics, aggressively denouncing his actions with the same fervor you’d shared a few days prior. The words were charged, maybe even harsh, but they were ones you thought you felt proud of, but that feeling quickly changed.

You’d made the front page, but it was a rarity you didn’t feel like celebrating, only because Clark didn’t do it with you. He hadn’t looked at you the whole day, even going out of his way to disappear from his desk every time you’d stood up.

Even Perry complimented you, but not Clark.

Lois turned her chair, hands finding each other atop her lap, leveling her eyes fully with yours. Something tugged at her lips — a bit of playful maliciousness, maybe — before she spoke. She whirled her chair around before you had a chance to speak again.

“Hey, Clark,” she called. You nearly flinched, eyes widening as you helplessly smacked her shoulder, nose wrinkled in a cringe in preparation for what you knew was coming next.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lois questioned before gesturing to you. “Someone’s interested in knowing.”

His eyes find you, the bright blue of his irises somehow more sharp than Lois’s, making something in your stomach flip with its weight. You didn’t miss the slight way his expression seemed to soften, like he was trying to placate nervousness you didn’t even know you were feeling.

You suddenly became aware of the faint uptick of your pulse, rough beneath your skin, heart practically hammering against your ribcage.

“Yeah, uh—” He trailed off as Lois pushed your chair towards his desk with a quick slip of her palm, looking a bit smug.

Clark blinked as your face came into a clearer view, nervously pushing up the edge of his glasses with two fingers, swallowing thickly. There was still a hesitance in his eyes, like the ache in his heart hadn’t dissipated in the face of your criticisms.

“I’m okay.” His voice was dry, forced into neutrality in a way that made something pained flare behind your ribcage. Your tongue felt heavy in your mouth as you forced a nod, tugging your chair back to your desk wordlessly.

You could still feel the burn of his gaze on your back long after the conversation ended.

It wasn’t long before the playful back and forth between you and Clark grew even more strained. Silences had shifted to something tenser — you stopped chatting at the printer, he stopped holding the elevator door. Neither of you brought coffees for the other on lunch breaks.

You told yourself it wasn’t related to you — that the tension between the two of you was due to pressing deadlines, or something else that he wasn’t saying. But he’d been odd around you ever since he’d asked you about Superman a few days ago. Since you’d given an answer that made bitterness curl in the pit of his stomach.

He disliked your disapproval more than he thought, it seemed. Like disappointing you was a greater loss than letting down the entire American public.

It didn’t take Perry long to grow tired of the odd silence in the bullpen, especially considering the sudden lull in content with the lack of happenings on Metropolis’ streets.

He’d sent you and Clark down to the depths of the filing room with the intention of reorganizing them, like there wasn’t decades worth to go through. You guessed that was Perry’s intention, though; to keep you both busy for at least a good few days.

You both stood quietly as the elevator creaked, shuttling downward to the lowest level of The Daily Planet’s floors, your eyes fixated on the chipped tile beneath your feet.

“Thanks for asking about me the other day,” Clark said, voice awkwardly gentle — soft in the way it normally was, but strained like he was unsure he should be saying anything at all.

You startled, lost in swirling thoughts about all the work you could be doing, instead of spending your day surrounded by dust-coated shelves.

You pushed away the pit in your stomach, a slight flush creeping to your cheeks. Just the heat, you told yourself.

“Oh,” you murmured. “Yeah, of course.”

You paused, then added: “You just seemed off. Wanted to check in.”

He looked down at you, a soft smile on his lips — one that made your chest twist oddly, heart beating with a vengeance against your ribcage. He raised a brow, like he somehow heard the steady rising of your pulse, expression intrigued.

“Yeah, well, everyone’s kind of weird lately. Everybody’s nervous.”

You nodded, fingers finding the edge of your sleeve as you tugged at a loose thread, eyebrows briefly drawing together with an unspoken weight. You felt it, too.

Fear simmered at every corner of the concrete jungle. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath — like they knew something bad was coming, but not who or what, or from what direction. No one knew what to expect.

You opened your mouth to speak when the elevator suddenly clattered to a stop, doors slowly dragging open with a sharp squeaking, making you cringe. You’d wanted to say more — to apologize for hurting his feelings, or say something, just to avoid the continuance of awkward shuffling around each other.

Not getting to talk to him was worse than you thought.

Clark cleared his throat, a small bit of concern in his eyes when you didn’t move. He tipped his head towards you encouragingly.

You took the opening, loafers clicking against the old tile as you made your way to the start of the long rows of shelves, organized alphabetically with each year.

“I can start at the beginning, we can meet in the middle,” you said quietly.

“Yeah, okay,” he nodded.

You and Clark had made your way through nearly every shelf after an agonizing few days. Your hands missed the feeling of your keyboard, your mind overflowing with the itch to write.

You grew more anxious by the day, knowing that whatever was building up would at least fill your days with the familiar prattle of source-finding and endless news to watch, as opposed to agitating your allergies with dust-covered filing cabinets.

What was worse, though, was the anxiety of not knowing what Clark was thinking. He was usually open about it with you, or at least open enough to read it on his face. He’d hardly said a word to you the entire time you’d been down here together.

The silence has become the hum-drum of your life for the moment.

You’d finally worked your way through to the last shelf, and you’d never felt more relieved — though a part of you would miss what you felt like you’d found here. Maybe you hadn’t spoken, but at least you had been close, if only physically. Maybe the mold you knew lingered between the water-damaged tiles was getting to your head; you already felt dread at having to return to avoiding each other completely.

Days had passed, and still, the streets of Metropolis maintained their taunting silence. You’d been struggling to find something to write about with the absence of happenings — no word from Superman, Lex Luthor, or anybody.

You found yourself wishing someone would do something, no matter how bad, just so you had something to occupy yourself with. To avoid the horrible pit in your stomach that followed Clark’s prolonged avoidance of you.

The newsroom was quiet, a thickened silence blanketing the bullpen. The only noise was the soft tapping of your fingers against your keyboard, your pen clip tucked between your teeth, eyebrows drawn thoughtfully.

The only light in the room was from the small lamp at the side of your desk, paired with the faint streetlight glow pressing in through the glass at the opposite side of the room.

“You shouldn’t do that, you know.” A voice interrupted the solitude, making you jump out of your skin. “It can damage your teeth.”

Clark bounded down the stairs towards his own desk, warm papers from the downstairs printer still clutched in his palm. You don’t know how you missed the noise of the rickety old elevator, but you had.

“Jesus, Kent,” you sighed. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

His brows pricked together, as if he picked up on the sudden rise of your pulse, and he looked genuinely apologetic.

“Sorry,” he said awkwardly.

The same energy that had settled between you wedged itself into the space now, and you looked away before he did. He kept watching you for a moment before silently making his way across the floor towards the coffee station.

As much as he hated the sludge generated by The Daily Planet’s coffee machines, he supposed he’d have to settle for the inky substance. His usual cafe closed about three hours ago.

Lois preferred to drink it with half the sugar bowl turned over inside of it — he didn’t think there was any way to make it digestible. To him, the coffee never got hot enough to melt the sugar, instead leaving it as one grainy mass sitting in the bottom of the mug.

He’d rather choke himself than drink it that way; even if it was bitter, at least it didn’t remind him of sand. Coarse and rough and irritating, he thought.

He placed a cup at your side, nudging it into your forearm with an insistence mirroring that of a dog, the feeling like that of a cold, wet nose pressed to your skin.

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Sure.”

He sat down at his desk, a few more minutes of silence spreading back through the room, broken up by the responding clicks of your keyboard, almost like a dance.

You stared at your blinking cursor, seemingly lost in thought, or maybe just lost.

Your incomplete headline stared at you tauntingly, mocking your struggle. If the words could laugh at you, they’d be cackling like hyenas.

Clark briefly looked over at you, noting the familiar wrinkle of your nose, your thumb restlessly clicking the end of your pen.

“Can I ask you something?” He finally said, watching you curiously now. He didn’t think he’d ever seen you without words.

You stopped, shoulders growing taut with the same tension you’d been carrying for weeks.

“That article you wrote,” he started. “About Superman.”

There was a hint of something in the air now, a charge that widened the pit in your stomach.

“Do you really believe what you said? That Superman was in the wrong for getting involved in Jarhanpur?”

You sighed, letting out a huffed breath through your nostrils. Swiveling in your chair, you turned fully to face his desk, eyes meeting his own in the dim light.

“I do,” you murmured. You paused, expression drawing in consideration before you spoke again. “Well, I did.”

He raised an eyebrow at your hesitant tone, leaning forward, attention fully on you. He clasped his hands in front of him, resting in the gap between his knees as he rested his elbows on them.

“Okay.” He said quietly, nodding encouragingly.

“I won’t deny the fact that people would’ve died if he hadn’t gotten involved when things started getting bad. I guess, at first, I just thought that there was a possibility that more issues could’ve arisen by his involvement than any good that could’ve come out of it.”

A beat passed between the two of you, thick and sharp.

“And do you believe that now?”

“No. I don’t.”

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it since he’d stepped foot into the bullpen, slightly leaning back — less interrogative, far more relaxed than the previous moment.

“Can I ask you something now?”

He blinked before giving an affirmative hum, intently watching your every move with the same interest he’d suddenly developed every time you spoke. Or moved. Basically when you did anything at all.

“Why’d you get so upset?”

He went silent then, something inscrutable crossing his features. You got the feeling he knew you weren’t done, like he was waiting for you to continue.

“It almost seemed personal, the way you acted. I know you’re a little close with the guy, considering the interviews and all, but you seemed mad on his behalf. Like you know him insanely well or something.”

His silence stretched on, something obvious suddenly settling in the quiet, that familiar tether of tension pulling between you.

You thought about the interviews you’d seen. Nights you stayed up, watching his battles against the latest threats in Metropolis — against The Hammer. The way he spoke, his inflection just familiar enough to Clark’s to make your nerve endings go haywire in a way that felt personal.

The striking blue of his eyes, the way the sunlight seemed to settle around him like it was created only to be a backsplash for him.

You’d thought they were too different for your suspicions to be true. Clark was meek — he stood with his shoulders scrunched, his head tipped placatingly during every conversation, voice always soft.

Superman not only garnered people’s attention, but he commanded it. He stood like he was ten feet tall, muscles braced against every threat, hands strong under the weight of the world. He was kind to children, whereas Clark flinched whenever one began screaming.

Their mannerisms, their face structures, everything — it was just different enough for you to convince yourself that you were crazy.

But now you think differently.

You seemed to look at him in a new light; the steady gait in his eyes, the power that seemed to simmer just beneath his shoulders, all indicative of a strength that he fought to hide. You weren’t sure for whose sake — yours, or his. Or maybe everyone he knew.

You thought about Lois’s knowing looks during conversations when you’d ask about him. You thought it was because she suspected you felt something beyond being coworkers with a penchant for teasing each other — maybe it was a bit — but now you wondered if it was possibly even deeper than that.

You swallowed, something odd wedging itself in your chest as you looked at him.

He seemed to catch on to your train of thought, gaze unflinching as he met your eyes, like he knew you’d placed the last piece into a puzzle you didn’t know you were putting together. The last paint stroke in a narrative you’d been building for months.

“You’re Superman.”

Despite your confidence in the assertion, your voice still trembled like you didn’t believe it.

You gaped when he nodded, his expression a little sheepish.

“Yeah,” Clark murmured. “I am.”

“All the interviews. Knowing all his motivations. How defensive you got when I—” You tapered off, looking apologetic.

“I basically insulted you in my article. It’s no wonder you got so mad.”

You stood, hands cupping around the back of your head as you began to pace the floor by your desk, eyes fixed on him with the tread of a guilty dog. He followed suit, taking a few steps towards you. He leaned over you, voice lowering.

His tone was effectively smooth when he spoke, like the brief catches of his words when you’d seen him on TV. Strong, charismatic. You nearly choked on your own breath.

“Hey, hey.” He let his hand settle on your shoulder, the weight stopping you in your tracks, fingers sliding to wrap around your wrists as he pulled your hands down by your side.

His touch lingered thoughtfully for a moment before slipping away, restlessly dropping his arm by his torso.

“I wasn’t offended,” he began.

“Okay, well, maybe I was, like, a little bit. But only at first.”

He paused for a moment, noting your stillness as he spoke, taking it as his sign to continue on.

“I realized that I couldn’t expect you to understand why I did it, because you’ve never had to make a decision like that.” His voice was earnest — calm and kind, but firm in his belief in every word that came from his mouth.

“You must’ve been as scared as everyone else. When I thought of it like that, I could understand why you wrote what you did.”

He stopped, taking in the shift in your expression, the way your whole face changed. You looked equal parts understanding and confused, like you still couldn’t wrap your head around the idea that he was actually Superman.

“Hypno-glasses,” he supplied. The shift in conversation was sudden, causing you to tilt your head in a way that made his chest clench, your eyebrow raising.

“They change my face. Just enough to make a difference.”

Your silence stretched for a moment, and he looked unsure at it. He felt his breath hitch when you slowly raised your hand, pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose.

His eyes flicked to the way your hand curled around them, gaze tracing over the delicate curve of your fingers with a look that seemed to long for the feel of them against his skin. To see what more they could do.

He forced the thought aside, feeling the burn of your gaze against his face.

“Huh,” you murmured. “They really do.”

You eyed him heavily, like you were trying to work it out. You could tell something about him was different, but not exactly what.

“It was a great article, by the way,” he blurted suddenly. “Everything you write is amazing.”

You stopped, blinking the blurriness from your eyes, a little smile working its way onto your face. Clark thought he was going to explode.

“Is that right, Kent?”

He nodded furiously, eyes flitting across your face like he wanted to lock this moment into his mind forever.

His hand twitched imperceptibly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you. His face felt hot.

“Call me Clark,” he finally murmured. “Please.”

His heart practically burst when your smile grew, redness sliding over your cheeks in a way that made him realize why Jimmy called him ‘loverboy.’

“And yes,” he added. “Your work is always perfect. You’re perfect.”

You both seemed to falter, like the weight the words carried suddenly hit the two of you at the same time.

“Okay, Clark,” you said quietly. Something in his heart unraveled at that. He’d never heard you call him anything but ‘Kent,’ or some silly nickname. Hearing his name fall from your lips, especially so tenderly, made him want to eat up your every word even more than usual.

“So, you’re not mad, then?” You added, watching him intently.

“No, I’m — No.” He said.

“Then.. what is it?”

He paused, his chest aching as he peered down at you — the way the fading light from the windows slid along the planes of your face, the dark hue to your cheeks, the deep pools of your irises. Full of feeling in that way that he loved.

“You know what.”

You fought through the catch in your throat to speak, your voice thick.

“Show me.”

He seemed to hesitate, hand tenderly sliding up to brush along the back of your knuckles. His fingers shook slightly, even as you nod your affirmation.

He tipped his head, eyes closing as his mouth sought yours. The kiss was gentle, his hands slipping around your torso to pull you closer, touch sliding beneath your shirt to feel your skin.

You parted beneath him — your lips tasted like fresh fruit beneath his own, and it made him feel dizzy. You let out a weak breath as he pulled back, his forehead pressing to yours.

“Does that mean I can get that interview now, Big Blue?” You asked. The question drew a laugh from his lips, light and airy. He buried his head down in your neck, nose pressing to your skin — seeking solace in your form.

“Maybe.”