#corenswet

At first, he kept his promise and called every night. Even with the noise of Metropolis in the background, he made time. He’d tell you about classes, the weird people on the subway, how he missed the stars out in Smallville. You’d talk for hours sometimes, until one of you (more often you than him) fell asleep on the line.

But promises aren’t made of steel, not even his. A skipped night here. A shorter call there. “Sorry, something came up.” “Long day.” “I’ll call tomorrow, I promise.” He always meant it. You could hear it in his voice. But sometimes, the phone just didn’t ring.

You tried not to take it personally. You told yourself he was just busy. There’s always something to be busy about in Metropolis: internships, papers, roommates. Maybe there’s even someone new in his life. God, you hoped that’s not it. But even if it was, it’d be okay. That’s normal. That’s expected.

But sometimes, you caught something in his voice. A hesitation. You knew Clark better than anyone, but you just couldn’t figure out what he’s hiding from you. And once, he ended a call mid-sentence. No goodbye. Just gone. You didn’t hear from him for three days. When he called again, his voice was tight and tired, like he hadn’t slept. He didn’t explain. You didn’t have the guts to ask.

But later that same night, you saw something on the news. A building caught on fire in downtown Metropolis. The anchors kept saying it was a miracle no one had died. That someone had gotten people out before the fire department arrived. But no one saw who. You thought about Clark. You never said it out loud. Never asked him directly. But deep down, you already knew.

Clark Kent was still trying to save the world. He just hadn’t figured out how to carry it yet.

Days turned into weeks, and the calls grew fewer and farther between. When you did hear from him, his voice was heavier. It was no longer the familiar warmth you remembered, but clipped, exhausted, almost guarded. You knew he was out there, doing things no one else could, saving people in ways no one else even knew about. But every time you thought about reaching out, about asking if he needed you, your heart clenched.

You couldn’t, and wouldn’t, add to the weight he was already carrying. So you stayed silent.

Sometimes when missing him felt too heavy, you slept over at the Kent’s. Martha would make tea without asking, and Jonathan would leave the porch light on like he was expecting both of you home. His room hadn’t changed. You’d lie on his bed, stare at the ceiling, and pretend he might walk through the door any minute, tired but smiling.

You told yourself it was better this way. That he needed space. That he was doing something important. That maybe, someday, he’d find his way back to you. You told yourself you can’t be selfish. You needed him, but so does the whole world. 

So you let others have him. The people in danger. The strangers in burning buildings. The ones crying out in the dark. You gave your Clark to them without complaint, without question, like it was the only thing you could do. Because how could you be the one to ask him to stop? To come home? To choose you, when he was out there saving lives?

But just because he broke his promise, doesn’t mean you broke yours. You moved to Metropolis, just like you said you would. You weren’t sure if it was for you, or if you were just being stubborn. Maybe part of you still wanted to keep the promise, even if he didn’t. You didn’t reach out. You couldn’t. It had been a year and a half since the last real conversation, and reaching out now felt... wrong. Heavy. Like you’d be asking for a version of him that no longer existed. So you built a life. A small apartment, a job as a nurse at Metropolis General. A routine that’s enough to keep you grounded. You learned your way around the city. Made some work friends. Bought groceries on Sundays. 

Then one morning, during a rare quiet moment between shifts, you glanced up at the TV mounted in the break room. The newsroom was buzzing with something unusual. The screen showed a figure standing tall against the Metropolis skyline. Red and blue, cape fluttering in the wind. The voice was steady, calm, filled with a strength you’d never heard before. 

“I am Superman,” he said. The words echoed through the room and through your chest. And you swear you feel the echo of it deep in your chest. The way his voice, calm and sure, cuts through the static. It’s a voice you’ve known all your life. It’s him. No question.

But now the world is seeing what you already knew:

He isn’t like anyone else.

The rest of your shift passes in a daze. Everyone’s talking about it. Patients, doctors, people passing by on the street, they all talk so loud. The words come fast and sharp, overlapping each other.

You can’t bother to listen to them. Not when your heart is pounding in your ears and your knees feel like they might give out any second now. He can’t seriously be doing this. Not when the threats keep showing up nonstop, now more than ever. Not when each one is more dangerous than the last, like the universe is testing how much he can take before he finally breaks.

You knew Clark was good. Always trying to help. Always doing what he could. He’s capable. He’s strong. You’ve seen that.

But that was pulling people out of a burning building. Guiding a lost kid back to their parents. Climbing a tree to rescue someone’s cat.

Not… whatever this is.

You’re not even sure what to call it. What do you call creatures that crash from the sky like meteors, tearing through concrete with claws? Or things that speak in sounds that rattle your bones? How do you fight lasers, or collapsing cities, or things that don’t bleed? You don’t know. And you’re not sure if he knows, either. What you know is he’s out there, putting himself in danger, over and over again. And with him coming out like this, he’s basically screaming for those things to come and get him. Well maybe that’s fine for him. Maybe he can handle it, that it’s no sweat for him. You don’t know how strong he is. He might be stronger than you can even begin to understand. 

But he’s still Clark. The Clark that used to run to you whenever he felt out of place. Your Clark, if you can still even call him that. 

So the next steps you take are a bit of a blur. You don’t remember leaving the hospital. One minute you’re taking off your scrubs, and the next, you’re on the subway. The screech of the tracks is nothing compared to the noise in your head. You don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re standing in front of the revolving glass doors of the Daily Planet.

This is a bad idea. You know that. You haven’t spoken to him in over a year. You don’t even know if he wants to see you. But you don’t have time to think it through.

Martha’s voice echoes in your mind then, warm and full of pride, from that quiet night you stopped by for tea.

“He’s doing great, sweetheart. You should see the pieces he’s been writing at the Planet! He even had one front page last month. Above the fold!”

You step inside, and the receptionist looks up. “Can I help you?” You weren’t expecting her to speak. For some reason, you thought you’d just… slip through. Like maybe if you didn’t look directly at anyone, no one would look at you.

“Uh…” Your voice comes out thin. You clear your throat. “I’m looking for Clark Kent.” She blinks at you. “Is he expecting you?” You shake your head. “No.” There’s a pause while she types something. You can hear every click of the keys. It suddenly dawns on you that all of this is very silly. What are you supposed to say to him? Hey, I know we haven’t talked in a while but—

“He just went out. Might be for a story—” She frowns a little. “Looks like he badged in a few minutes ago. Try the newsroom. Fifth floor.” You nod, mumble a thank you. Your mouth feels dry.

The elevator’s to your left. You make yourself walk toward it. You hit the button and try not to look like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin. Too late to turn around now.

It’s hectic inside, that’s the first thing you noticed. Phones ringing, printers whirring, the low buzz of conversation layered with the occasional bark of an editor trying to chase down a quote. But you can still hear his voice. Calmer than it should be, considering everything. 

He’s talking to someone, just behind one of the taller cubicle walls to your right. You don’t mean to listen, but your body leans toward the sound before your brain catches up. “…No, I’ve got time. Just send me what you’ve got and I’ll take a look.” The other person says something you can’t quite catch. Then a quiet laugh, soft enough that it doesn’t match the world-ending images still burned into your memory. You follow the sound. Slowly. Carefully. 

And then there he is. Tall as ever. Talking to someone else you can’t bring yourself to care about. His back is facing you, but you’re sure it’s him. “Clark…?” At the sound of your voice, he turns around sharply. There’s something different about his face. He’s wearing glasses, which is new, but there’s also something else that’s different that you can’t quite put your finger to. He freezes when he sees you. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Not like you gave him enough time to talk anyway. “Please tell me it wasn’t you.” The words hang in the air like you shouted them, even though you barely whispered. Clark doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, eyes wide now. Not with shock, but with something closer to alarm. You see it the second it registers. Not just what you said, but where you said it.

He moves. Not fast enough to draw attention, but faster than anyone else around him. He steps in, closes the space between you in two strides, and gently, but firmly, takes your arm. “Not here,” he says, voice low, barely audible over the hum of the newsroom. You let him lead you past desks and columns. He doesn’t look back, but his hand stays steady on your arm, not pulling exactly, just enough to keep you close. No one stops you. No one even seems to notice.

He stops in front of a door that’s unmarked, tucked between two filing cabinets. You barely catch a glimpse of fluorescent-lit shelves inside before he opens it and nudges you through. Storage room. The door clicks shut behind you. And his arm doesn’t let go of yours.

“Sunshine,” he says, voice unsure, “what are you doing here?” You scoffed. Sunshine. How can he still call you that? Like nothing changed. You want to ask him that, ask him where has he been the past 19 months? Where did he go? Did he not trust you enough to share his burden? There’s a million and one questions that you want to ask him. But a more important issue lies.

“You need to tell me right now that the man in the news wasn’t you.” You pull your hand away from his. He sighs. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the floor. “I…” His voice catches, then falters. 

“Please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Please tell me that you aren’t putting yourself in danger like that.” You reach out, grabbing his hands, desperate for him to understand. “Please.” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. It’s obvious that it’s him from the start. 

He pulls his hands gently from yours but stays close, his eyes steady on yours. “I know you’re scared,” he says, voice low but firm. “But I’m stronger than you think. Stronger than those things out there.” He pauses, his thumb reaching up to wipe a tear you didn’t know was there. His voice softens, but the strength behind it doesn’t waver, “You don’t have to worry about me.” You blink, trying to hold back the flood, but it’s no use. Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you just stand there, caught between a kind of relief and disbelief. You wonder: Is he fucking dense? Or just immensely stupid? How can he even say that? How on Gods’ green earth does he expect you not to worry???

At the sight of your seemingly unstoppable tears, his expression shifts. Subtle, but immediate. His shoulders go tense, his mouth parts like he’s going to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Wait—no, why are you—” he stammers, eyes darting between yours, searching, scrambling. “Did I say something wrong? Please don’t cry.” His hands lift, like he wants to touch you again but suddenly doesn’t know how.

“I just—I'm trying to tell you that I can handle it. That I’m okay. Please believe me.” You shake your head, tears hot now. You’re not even sure if you’re angry or terrified, probably both. Your hands are trembling before you even realize you’re reaching for him. And then you’re there, stepping into him, closing that last bit of space, pressing your face into his chest. His shirt’s soft but still smells faintly like smoke and city air and him. You clutch it in your fists like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He freezes for a second, and then his arms wrap around you. Carefully at first, then tighter. You cry into him, full-body, silent sobs that shake your shoulders. And you both stay like that for a while, until your sobs die down, leaving only the sound of his breathing and the faint hum of the building outside the door.

His hand moves slowly, smoothing over your back in careful circles. You don’t know if it’s to comfort you or calm himself. When he finally pulls back, his hands don’t leave you completely. One stays at your waist, the other hovers just above your arm. “Are you…” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows, and when he tries again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. His eyes flicker nervously, searching yours for any sign. “I didn’t know if I should’ve said something sooner. I didn’t know if you even—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “But I missed you,” he admits, almost like it hurts. “Every day.”

You’re not sure how to answer to that. The way he said it sounded like he meant it. But your mind is too tired to think because of all the crying that you just did. “Sorry,” you sniffled. He looks at you confused. You gesture weakly at the damp patch spreading across his chest, “about your shirt.”

His brows lift slightly, it takes him a second to even register what you mean. Then he glances down, sees the mess you’ve made of it, and looks back up with a barely-there smile, eyes warm and aching. “I don’t care about the shirt,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t reach you. “I care about you.” The words land with a softness that makes your chest ache all over again.

He reaches up, not to wipe your tears this time, but just to cradle your cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he adds, voice soft. “You never have to be sorry with me.” You wipe at your face, palm clumsy and damp. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble, breath hitching a little. “I just…” You trail off. The silence stretches. “I’m hungry,” you say finally. “And I miss you. So much”

Clark blinks at you. You don’t meet his eyes, just stare at the buttons on his shirt. “Can you cook me that beef stew thing you used to make?” you ask. “The one with the cumin.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. “Okay,” his smile is so bright it might actually blind you. “Let’s get out of here.” 

No one notices when you leave. The newsroom is still humming, phones ringing, people darting around, chasing deadlines. Clark, as you realized, is quite good at being invisible, especially given how big he is. 

Outside, the sky has turned dark, and the walk back to (what you guess is) his apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city moves around you—horns blaring, people chattering, the distant hum of helicopters circling the skyline—but between the two of you, there’s only the occasional brush of his arm against yours.

He had almost dropped the glass of champagne when she had smiled at him. Barely glancing at him when his best friend introduced her to him.

He had tried to smile, which looked more like a grimace, but eventually, she looked away when her group of friends came in the picture.

“How is she? Scored a good one, haven't I?”

“She's perfect” he whispered, tongue poking in his cheek as he shamelessly watched her from a distance.

“What was that?”

His nimble fingers quick to poke around the closed drawers. However, just as he opened the one drawer with laces peaking out, he heard footsteps approaching where he was.

The second time he had seen her was at her engagement party.

Under the pretense of going to the bathroom, he had “accidentally” walked in her room

“Shit,” with a curse, he glanced around the room until he found himself hiding in her closet.

His long legs nudged and probed at the clothes hanging around and the suitcases half full, shoved in much like himself.

“Honey, the guests are gone,” she sang, her fingers meddling with the earring at her ear while letting the heels on her feet fall softly on the carpet.

He heard her words of tiredness before he saw his best friend walk in. He pressed a kiss at the back of her neck as he tried to unzip her dress from her back.

“Mmh, there still a few guests left,” she mumbled, although her own fingers traced the bulge in his pants.

“Naughty,” she slapped his hand without any malice. He chuckled before leaning in for a kiss.

He hummed once, stroking his tongue at the roof of her mouth before pulling away.

“Fine, but how about my pretty little angel, wear this while your perfect husband escorts the guest out, hm?” he took out a black silk blindfold.

She giggled at the sight before walking over the bed, “You better make it quick,” he kissed her nose before gently wrapping the silk around her eyes.

He left with a long glance as she made herself pretty and comfortable on the wide bed.

“Honey?”

It wasn't his fault, really, when he crept out of the closet a beat later. Before walking to the bedroom door, opening it and slamming it shut again.

Really, it wasn't his fault. She called him out so sweetly as he walked over to her.

She just looked lonely in that big bed of hers while her fiancée left her blind and aching to see out the guests.

Personally, he wouldn't have brought such a big crowd for his engagement party and have everyone oogle at her.

Really, it was mostly his best friend's fault.

That is what he kept saying as he impersonated himself as his best friend and took hold of her face. The face he had traced over and over until she had imprinted in his mind.

Her sigh of surprise melted into his mouth as he groaned and moaned into the sudden kiss. Their teeth knocked, and she whined before he licked her mouth to sooth her.

Really, his best friend shouldn't have left her blind and pretty for his taking.

That is what he told himself as he tore the dress off her body in a hurry.

He bit his lips to stop himself from mumbling how pretty she looked, how enticing her scent was, how she could lay perfect still and take his cock like she is supposed to.

He barely had to work her open, the slick between her thighs glistening under the warm light.

The jealousy burning in his chest had him grip her thighs open as he pushed himself in her in one smooth stroke.

Her body flinched before curving into his until there was no place left between them. She whined loud and proud.

The smirk gracing over his face was seen only by himself.

Hard and fast as he mouthed every part of her skin, leaving traces of his spit behind. He tugged at her breasts, licking and sucking the skin until she had goosebumps.

Her hands that were gripping her hair in pleasure were quick to hold his broad shoulder, “Um?” her confusion was forgotten by his thrusts.

“More, honey, more,”

He huffed as his lips bleed from the restrain.

She yelped in surprise as he licked the skin under her armpit, nosing and tasting her flesh before trailing back to suck at her nipple.

One of her finger danced between their bodies, tracing over her clit while the other wrapped around his head as he suckled.

When he looked up, he moaned heartily when he saw the damping of the cloth around her eyes, her pleasure bringing him joy like no other.

It was sudden, the quietness of the house as the guest finally left. Footsteps slowly thread over to the room.

Scott pressed a kiss to her mouth, which she eagerly responded to before she opened her mouth and their tongues met. He could hear it, the knob turning but it only made him fuck her faster.

His own thumb pressing over her finger on her clit as he stuffed her full. He huffed as he tightened the muscles of his body, forcing his own release and hers.

As he came with a grunt, sweet, unfamiliar words fell to her ears. She didn't have time to react before she heard the loud exclamation coming from behind her.