#dc superman

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

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

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

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

He was so curious, and he just wanted more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” He asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You deserve to be happy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner was served and over before he knew it. 

How he got here, he was unsure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of it was swept under the rug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confidence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clark nods. “I guess that’s true.”

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

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

Maybe because you hadn’t either. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you wanted it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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