#superman2025

Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes. His glasses started to slip on the journey, they sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on. Just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You feel like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story about how he saved a cat from a tree or something equally as ridiculous.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly have a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark has a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wearing a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of those cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here,“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton, has pleats and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and pulling his lips out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. The words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re too horny for patience.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears turning bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

Once again he knocks you breathless. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your heat pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel it already. You should be embarrassed, but what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like a map.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. You yank off his jeans, working fast and aggressive, until you only have his briefs left. Your index fingers are crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picturing it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

Your cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.

Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this far thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!

and all seems well enough when you return back to the daily planet. you find clark still hunched in the same position you left him in, head buried into the glare of the computer screen. and when he feels your fingers run through his hair, tugging at the sensitive spots he loves, he lifts his head upwards and shoots you a look of pure adoration and it melts right through you.

"hey baby," he murmurs fondly, and from where you're perched up on the side of his desk, he drags you straight into his lap. you've never been big on pda but something about clark kent- your 6'4, 200lb hot nerd of a boyfriend has you doing a lot of things you usually wouldn't do. you lean into his embrace for a second before placing your hands on his chest, patting him gently.

"come on, munch time- you need to get something in you or you'll crash out," and you make work of unwrapping his sandwich. and when he sends you that lazy smirk, like he's biting back his laughter at his own joke, your eyes widen and clamp his mouth shut with a hand over it swiftly.

"do not," you whisper, blushing a violent red, "say what i think you're about to say," and he muffles an innuendo against the back of your fingertips before pressing a kiss to the hand smothering him. you let go when it looks like he's going to behave himself and make a move to stand.

"eat," you pat his shoulders gently, "i'll swing by when you're done," and he furrows his brows, gripping your waist and drawing you to him.

"stay," he mumbles into your stomach, hugging you as he's still seated in his chair. you slide your fingers through the soft curls of his hair again and he leans back, sighing in bliss.

your sweet sweet moment is cut in half- literally sliced when the voice of jimmy olsen grates at your ears and you wince as you feel your boyfriend tense below you.

"hey kent! you should join us next time, enjoy the sandwiches- my treat!" he hollers as he strolls past clark's desk, sending you the biggest grin you've ever seen stretched on his small face and you groan. when he disappears from view, you open your eyes at clark, hoping to find a teasing grin but there's nothing there. literally nothing, just a glare of pure steel focused on the mark where jimmy has left, scorching the spot with a burning disdain.

"clark," you start slowly, grabbing his chin to face you upwards again. he looks away begrudgingly and into your nervous eyes. "we've been over this, jimmy is a friend- our friend!" and part of you feels annoyed that this isn't the first time you've had to remind him.

"friend is a stretch, i hate the way he looks at you," he grumbles, swiftly moving the sandwich with his pen- not even his finger as though it would kill him to touch it- and straight into the bin. a startled gasp leaves you as your eyes widen in shock at the outright revenge and you tap his chest lightly.

"clark!"

"what?" he stares at you and you cross your arms in a protective stance.

"jimmy is just a friend- we've been over this!" you whisper exasperated, aware that you're still at work and in public.

"he's a boy," clark rolls his eyes, "and he looks at you like i look at you," he growls with a pointed glare. you scoff, it's just a crush! a silly crush jimmy olsen has that you liken to a puppy love, knowing damn well that no one on planet earth would dare make a move on you with your absolute hulk of a boyfriend by your side.

"i don't get this way about lois and you spend a lot of your time with her," you counteract, you've abandoned that bit of jealousy long ago but in this moment, right here and now it feels only right to throw something back in his face- give you some bit of stance to face clark on with.

"that's different- you love lois!" you do, she's one of your best friends and an incredible journalist.

"and you like jimmy-"

"no i don't- i tolerate him and he's a fucking loser if he thinks he's got a shot with you, so no."

"clark," you moan, this all feels really childish and a waste of your short unpaid lunch break that could spend just eating a sandwich and kissing your boyfriend silly, "are you really jealous right now?"

"no," and he's stubborn with it, "i just think he's disrespectful like i'm right fucking here," he rolls his eyes, and when you take a step back out of his hold, he doesn't exactly reach for you- which hurts even more.

"clark, we've been over this and i'm getting real sick of repeating myself, there's nothing between us," you complain, "do you not trust me?" it's a light-hearted remark, sarcastic as it leaves your lips but you wish you could take it back once you see your boyfriend's reaction- or lack of thereof

he stills, frozen in his seat. it takes him a beat longer to reply but that beat is all you need to scoff, you detach yourself from him completely, mouth gaping open. "you really don't fucking trust me?" and it's a little louder than you'd like as the betrayal drums along your chest, matching the erratic beat on your heat and pounding in your head. there's just too much going on, too much to feel.

you're sure you've caught a few stares because clark is up in a second, gripping your wrist as he leads you to the privacy of the stairwell. you snatch your wrist back when the door slams and face him with a quiet fury, "oh my god, you've got some fucking nerve, huh?" you spit back, the anger at not being trusted pound in your veins.

"what?" he raises his voice back, he's tried to contain himself but it's too late- the stress of this article, the slimy look jimmy olsen sends your way and the betrayed glare you slice him with is overstimulating, he's loosing control.

"you don't trust me, i fucking knew it," you heave a heavy breath to yourself and his nostrils flare out air in annoyance. you've not let him speak this entire time but maybe that's the problem- he's not exactly composed himself to reassure you that this has all just spiralled out of control. but the fire you spit carries a heavier heat and clark detects this immediately.

"that sounds like you've got something to get off your chest, go on," he pushes, "lay it on me huh?" and you scoff at how big of a delusional idiot he's being, careless of your feelings and how he makes you feel so small, like you're the one with the problem. and the thing is, you can meet his fire immediately, if clark kent wants a problem- oh boy, you'll give him a problem.

you take the steps to close the distance, your fury fighting in the air as it wraps around him whole. you don't mean to increase the intensity but you need to make sure that this next sentence hits his ears and his ears alone,

"then why'd you tell lois about superman before me?" and its thundering how his heart roars in a panic.

"what?" he breathes, and you nod in fierce determination.

"you heard me," you return without skipping a beat, "you can accuse me of cosying up to jimmy- a baseless accusation by the way- for a good journalist that you are, you are a fucking idiot," you roll your eyes, "but lets talk about trust huh, why did lois know before me?"

"because she was smart enough to figure it out! we've been over this!" his restrained shout is met with a click of your tongue as you take a step back, sizing him up with a look. its also an echo of your earlier defense- you've been over the jimmy crush saga plenty and clark still worms it back up

"are you saying i'm not smart enough?" you drawl, annoyance bubbling in you and burning you whole. "first i give some loser the time of the day and now i'm too dumb, you're really winning boyfriend of the year, kent," and it should stop him at how you've addressed him by his surname. he's never been kent, he's always been clark- your clark.

but he's stubborn as he is tall and pushes back, cornering you into the wall, "you are twisting my words," he hisses, "and it's not like i wasn't going to tell you eventually."

you place a hand on his chest, not lovingly like you usually do but to stop him. you're not about to be backed up against the wall for a fight you did not start.

"and how was i supposed to know that?" you speak, "am i supposed to just what-" and the glint in your eyes is murderous, "trust you?" you squint and clark knows there's no way out of this for now.

he stands, feet apart holding his head high, and you scoff knowing you're the one who's going to have to break, to level this or you won't come out of this alive.

"look," you breathe but he still hasn't looked at you, "we're going to go back inside, we're going to carry on our day like the professional working colleagues that we are, then we are going to go home and you're going to tell me what the fuck is really going on, because this has spiralled out of control," you wait to hear clark's stoic murmur of approval, like he usually does when you reach the height of an arguement but it doesn't come.

"clark?" you pull him out of his thoughts and force him to look at you. "look honey, i'm sorry, i've said some nasty things in the moment and i know we've been over the lois drama- i shouldn't have brought it up again," and it's true, part of you is over it- you argued over it back months ago where you didn't take clark back after weeks of grovelling. it was petty you know, but you just needed some ammunition with all the jimmy nonsense he was gunning at you.

your phone lights up with an alarm, signalling the end of your lunch break and your stomach cries at the wasted time which you've not even had the chance to eat yet. "listen baby, we'll talk about this at home, yeah?" when you realise he's not going to give you a reply other than a singular nod, you plant a kiss on his cheek, heading back onto the floor and straight to your desk.

you don't miss the small smile lois lane sends your way and you return it back. this isn't her fault in the slightest and she's been nothing but the best of friends to both you and clark. you almost hate yourself the tiniest for dragging her into that ugly arguement in the stairwell, but being accused by your boyfriend after dating him for an entire year for being untruthful wasn't exactly on the board for your tuesday lunch time plans.

the rest of the day ends in a blur, you focus on your article and at how your grumpy lover sits a few desks away, hardly looking in your direction. five o'clock hits and you get ready to pack up all your things in your bag, the still packaged sandwich from earlier sits there like a painful reminder and you stick it in the small fridge under your desk for tomorrow's lunch. in this economy, you're not about to lose your boyfriend and your lunch, god what a wreck.

and when you walk past your boyfriend's desk you're met with pure emptiness. your tote slouches in a growing fatigue on your shoulder, already carrying the weight of tonight and then your eyes settle on a yellow post it, blinding in your vision.

"needed some space. you take the car, drive safe."

and you scoff, crumple it up between your fists and dump it in his bin alongside the pesto and mozzerella sandwich from earlier. the keys are hidden in his top drawer and you snatch them in a wave of annoyance- less anger than before and make your way to the parking lot.

the drive home feels a lot slower without your boyfriend humming along to the songs, interlocking your hands across the control panel and telling you off handed comments about his day. you sit in silence, unbothered to connect your phone to the bluetooth mode and just drive and drive and drive.

you don't go home immediately, choosing to clear your head and his fuel tank before you land at your apartment door.

it's seven pm and the house is untouched, you got off work two hours ago and there's still no sign of clark. as soon as you've set foot through the door you drop your tote to the floor and shrug off your coat, letting it land wherever next to your bag before dragging yourself to the sofa.

there's no messages on your phone, no inkling of where your other half is and it hurts you. this is classic clark behaviour, clark who runs away when things get hard and he doesn't know what to do- the only difference is, and you feel it with every tick of the clock hands that warn your ears, he's never not come home like this.

seven pm turns to eight pm and then to nine, and somewhere along the lines where you try to sit up and wait for him, sleep decides to take you in an easier feat and when you close your eyes, clark is still the one you see and call home.

. . .

you don't hear the turn of locks, or even the soft sound of shoes shuffling at the door. sleep has been kind on you and taken the exhausation out of your system, gently lulling you to a clearer conscious and its only when your airborne you begin to stir.

"clark?" you murmur, the sleep heavy in your voice it kind of comes out as a grunt.

"hi, honey," he whispers, careful not to be too loud. his body is warm against yours, he carries you like a baby, your head is up against his chest as your legs have wrapped around his waist. one of his arms comes across your back and the other just at the back of your thighs. your body could remember every single sensation he's ever sent you by heart, that you relax into his touch, melt into the warmth because in his arms you've never felt safer.

he takes you into your bedroom and lies you on top of the bed, onto your side before he leaves to change and joins you on the other side. the lights are off, and there's something unresolved in the air- clark hoped to apologise tonight for being the biggest idiot on the planet but seeing you asleep on the sofa? waiting for him? god he deserves longer to wallow in his regret and pity.

"clark?" you call out for him in a mumble and he softens, guilt filling his blood in every vessel, pumping like its trying to break free.

"babydoll, i'm sorry," he breathes, the apology lingers in the air before you speak again, slightly more awake but still tired.

"you didn't come home," you whisper, rolling over to face him, "you've never done that before," and the silence that follows is thick. he reaches out to brush a rogue tendril of hair out from your face and behind your ear. your mouth parts open at the touch, a look of sadness wavering over your features and he closes his eyes, wincing.

"i needed some space," he starts and you interrupt him.

"you couldn't have called? or texted? or passed by my desk and just let me know? i'm your girlfriend clark, if you need space you can just trust me to respect it," and its that damn finnicky word all over again. trust. clark does trust you more than anything, than anyone, he was just a gigantic jealous idiot who let his mouth run quicker than his brain could catch up and reprimand him.

" you're right," he speaks low, "you're right. i should've let you known but a large part of me was fucking embarrassed of how i acted. i'm ashamed i even implied the worst of you," he closes his eyes, hiding from his earlier regret, "i do trust you, with my whole life i just- oh god, i'm just a dick and i'm sorry, i'm sorry for even raising my voice at you earlier god, who does that? and the jimmy thing was immature, i know you'd never be dishonest with me i just got wrapped up in it and unfairly took it out on you," somewhere during his spiel, you've lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping it softly.

"thank you for being honest with me now," you mumble and he takes the cue to move closer to you, bodies almost touching.

"and you have every right to still bring up lois- if it bothers you still, we can talk through it again and again if that's what you need then that's something i'll keep being sorry for," his reply is earnest, he mustve practised it on the way home, you think and you nod slowly, sleep creeping in on you.

"clark honey, couples fight-"

"i don't want to," he counteracts immediately and you just start groaning until he gets the hint to stop speaking and let you finish.

"i said couples fight," you repeat yourself firmly, "i said some mean things to, like i didn't mean to call you an idiot but i did, so i'm sorry-"

"i believe you called me a fucking idiot," he teases and you level him with a stony look.

"okay wise guy, you also tried to call me a cheater,"

"which i apologise profusely for, it was incredibly disgusting of me to even insinuate that-"

"and then i forgive you," you lazily return, "we'll talk more on this tomorrow i'm tired, clark."

"okay," he surrenders, he can wait for the morning to come and make it up to you properly, apologise and grovel when you're alert enough to understand the weight he's trying to lift from you. "you know that i do trust you though right? i didn't mean-"

"clark," you whine, throwing your leg over his and borderline climbing on him, using him as your pillow and trying to find a good spot for you to fall back asleep. "i know that and i said we'll talk about this tomorrow, go to sleep," you beg.

he lands a kiss to your temple and murmurs a goodnight and you pause with a frown.

"kiss me goodnight properly," you moan and he does, letting his lips press to yours a moment longer than usual, melting in all the words he doesn't know to formulate but hopes you can feel it burn through him and you hum in approval.

you nestle into his hold, he wraps you up tighter, putting you in your favourite position which is having your ear pressed up against his heartbeat as your body rises and falls with the soft breaths of his chest. he thinks you've finally fallen back asleep again before he lets out a final sigh, but then you're mumbling- to yourself more likely and clark tries to bite back the laugh this time.

"jimmy olsen, you know," and it comes out as a sleep filled, drooling mumbling scoff, "couldn't have at least given me more credit and said bruce wayne." the chuckles escape him and he knows you're not even going to remember that you believe you could've bagged batman tomorrow- but hey, you managed to get superman on his knees so there's real strong potential.

tomorrow comes and clark is going to do everything he can to make it up to you, and that includes secretly killing jimmy olsen before breakfast.

riya saying hi: hii 🥺 my sole purpose in life feels like its to provide clark angst and when its requested- i fear i may have to step up and prove myself LOL anyways, i hope you enjoyed this, it was based off a request i linked at the top if you want a little more context. to op, i hope this is similar to how you expected it- again, i don't really take requests i get nervous and overthink everything and think im a piece of shit, but i did like this idea so didn't mind it. hope you liked & as always please let me know what you think! if you ever wanna say hi, come say hi- my inbox is always open! except to those loser anons who correct my grammar and try and remind me to include "x reader" as a tag; here's your reminder to actually check my tags because i do!!! get off my page!!! ugh sorry for the rant, enjoy the clark! because i dont actually have anything planned for him next so who knows where the wind will take me, love ya!!! xxx

You thought back to the beginning of your relationship, when you met almost a year ago.

He worked in the building next door, the Daily Planet, a reporter. Cute, you remembered thinking.

You worked in a little espresso and book nook. It was your sanctuary, a tiny, warm-lit shop that smelled of roasted coffee beans and old paper.

The first time you saw him, he was a study in adorable clumsiness. The doorbell jingled and in he walked, all broad shoulders and nervous energy, his glasses slightly askew. He’d been so focused on the notepad in his hand that he’d walked straight into the low-hanging antique sign that read ‘Mind Your Head.’

Thwack!

You’d winced in sympathy from behind the counter. “Oh my! Are you okay?”

He’d blinked, dazed, a hand flying to his forehead. A deep, delicious blush spread across his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he met your worried gaze. 

“Golly, I’m sorry about that, really I didn’t see that there.” 

His voice was warm, a little shy, and it did something funny to your stomach. And he was apologizing for getting hurt, that was a first.

You smiled, “It’s fine, it happens all the time. A hazard of the job, I’m afraid. We like to keep our customers on their toes.”

You started to quickly make a makeshift ice pack for him, doing it so efficiently seeing as it had happened more times then you could count. You slid it over to him and he grinned lopsidedly as he took it and placed it on his forehead, despite not really needing it.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You checked again, since you never really got an answer the first time.

“Yes- you’re fine. I mean I’m fine.” you raised an amused brow, and he suddenly thought that maybe it sounded like he was insulting you. “You’re fine too, really uh great.” he trailed off sheepishly.

“Thanks,” you mumbled shyly, starting to blush despite yourself, “Can I get you anything? On the house since you got hurt.”

“Oh you really don’t have to do that. I don’t mind really.”

You just waited expectantly with a pointed look not taking no for an answer.

Seeing this, Clark caved, dropping his shoulders that didn’t quite fill out his too large suit and spoke, “I’ll just take a coffee. Extra sugar.”

“Ok, one large extra sweet coffee coming right up.”

Clark smiled and sat at an open seat as you made his coffee. He took in the small but homely place, surprised he didn’t try this place out sooner since it was right next door to his job. 

Despite himself, Clark’s eyes kept flickering towards you though as you flitted around and when you turned back around with the coffee in hand smiling, he got up and made his way back to the counter.

“Here you go, sorry again for the whole sign thing.”

“Don’t worry about it really.” Clark paused, and he suddenly got the overwhelming urge to hold out his hand and introduce himself to you, “Clark Kent,” he said that day, “Daily Planet. Next door.”

“I know,” you’d responded, and then immediately felt your own face heat up. “I mean, your press pass. It’s… visible.”

He looked down at the lanyard he always forgot to take off, his blush deepening. “Right. Of course.”

That was it. A five-minute interaction. 

But he came back the next day. And the day after that. Not for the coffee, he admitted later once you started officially dating, but for the barista who blushed as much as he did.

Your first official date was a disaster in the best way. 

He’d taken you to a county fair, and you’d challenged him to a game of ring toss. He was impossibly, hilariously bad at it, his throws either comically weak or shockingly strong, sending the rings flying over the booth entirely. You’d laughed until your sides ached, and when you finally won a tiny, stuffed bear with one graceful flick of your wrist, he’d looked at you with such unabashed admiration you thought you might melt into the sawdust-covered ground.

“I’m clearly out of my league here,” he’d murmured, his hand finding yours as you walked past the Ferris wheel.

The first time he’d said “I love you” was under the muted glow of your apartment’s fairy lights that he took upon himself to hang for you. It had slipped out, quiet and sure, as he’d watched you absently hum along to a song on the radio while washing dishes. 

You’d gone still, your hands submerged in soapy water, and turned to look at him. There was no grand gesture, which you appreciated deeply. Just Clark, on your sofa, looking at you like you’d hung every star he’d ever flown past.

“I love you, too,” you’d whispered back, and it was the easiest truth you’d ever spoken.

He was your Clark. Clumsy, kind, endlessly patient Clark, who burned toast and wore mismatched socks and whose heart was so big it sometimes seemed to physically pain him when he saw suffering on the news. He was your home.

But that Clark felt like a memory now. 

The man sitting across from you at your kitchen table, his dinner growing colder by the second, was a stranger. His smiles were strained, his eyes distant. 

He’d been late more times than you could count and sometimes downright MIA even more times then that, his excuses flimsy and always delivered with a strange evasiveness.

It was something you were able to ignore in the beginning of the relationship, as the two of you still got to know one another. But you live together now. You were in love. You’ve done practically everything together.

What was the need for secrecy?

Weren’t you passed that?

A darkness came over you as you realized that you really had no idea. A pit started to form in your stomach at the alternative thought. No, you thought, Clark would never, he’s a faithful man.

But was he? Because now as he made an excuse for the thousandth time to leave dinner, you didn’t have the heart to even argue back with him this time.

The seed of doubt had blossomed into a thorny vine, choking the air from your relationship and you knew, with a cold, sick certainty, that he was hiding something. Something big.

The silence stretched, taut and unbearable, as he waited for your response, your permission to allow him to leave. Sometimes you don't know why he even bothered, he was going to leave anyway.

You studied his profile but said nothing, the way his jaw was clenched tight, the way he couldn’t quite meet your gaze. The love of your life was slipping through your fingers, and you had no idea why.

“Perry needs me to run down a lead on the Westside,” he said, the words practiced, hollow. “It… it can’t wait. I’m so sorry, honey.”

Honey. 

The endearment felt like a shard of glass in your heart. You just nodded slowly, your eyes fixed on the congealing gravy on your plate. “Okay.”

He looked almost disappointed by your lack of fight. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

Promises. They were just words now. Empty calories. You simply nodded again, the motion robotic.

He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, but you subtly turned your head, and his lips grazed your hair instead. He froze for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something—pain? guilt?—in his eyes before the shutters came down again.

“I love you,” he said, his voice thick.

The words felt like a taunt. You couldn’t say them back right now. The lie would have choked you. You just watched him grab his coat and leave, the click of the door echoing in the silent apartment like a gunshot.

The moment he was gone, the air rushed out of you in a ragged sob. You buried your face in your hands, the weight of your paranoia crushing your chest. 

You were going insane. You had to be. This was Clark. Your Clark. The man who cried during sappy movies and helped little old ladies carry their groceries.

But the evidence was building bigger and bigger right before your eyes. 

If only you knew that you’re breaking point would come just three days later. 

You’d gone to the Daily Planet to surprise Clark with lunch. You entered the building pretty inconspicuously, those who knew you offering you a quiet greeting. Just as you reached the bullpen however, you stopped abruptly. 

Clark was at his desk, swiveled around in his chair, but that wasn’t the problem. It was her. Lois Lane who stood awfully close to him with a soft hand on his shoulder. She was leaning down to be closer to his ear, as she whispered something that Clark seemingly found really funny.

Not a problem, right, just two close coworkers you gulped, hoping to convince yourself you weren’t seeing what you thought you were.

And then Clark spoke, and though you couldn’t hear the words, you saw the shape they made on his lips: “I just don’t know how to tell her.”

Your blood had turned to ice. Her. You knew, with every fiber of your being, that her was you.

Lois had nodded, her expression one of understanding and sympathy. 

You’d backed away, your lunch meant to be shared suddenly feeling like a lead weight in your hands, and fled before anyone else could see you.

You stumbled home, the city blurring around you. The walls of your shared apartment felt like they were closing in. You made it to the bathroom just in time, sinking to your knees as your stomach revolted, heaving up nothing but acid and anguish. The cool tile against your forehead was a small mercy against the feverish heat of your heartbreak.

You hated this. You hated the jealous, paranoid person you were becoming. You hated the constant knot of anxiety in your stomach. 

But most of all, you hated the chilling clarity that was now staring you in the face. It wasn't just a feeling anymore. It was a truth you'd seen with your very own eyes.

You pulled yourself together, piece by shattered piece, scrubbing your face with cold water until the redness around your eyes was less obvious. You were just putting the abandoned, now-cold lunch in the refrigerator when you heard the key in the lock.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, thinking about how you could approach the subject. You wanted to yell at him and demand answers, and pray that what you saw was just a big misunderstanding, but another part of you just wanted to curl up in bed and rot heartbroken forever. 

Sigh, is it better to speak or to die?

Clark walked in, a tired but genuine smile on his face. “Hey, you.” He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into his arms and pressing a warm, familiar kiss to your lips.

You froze for a fraction of a second before forcing yourself to respond, the kiss feeling like a betrayal of your own crumbling sanity. It was stiff, unyielding.

He noticed immediately. Of course he did. He pulled back, his smile fading as his eyes searched your face, taking in the puffy eyes you couldn't fully hide, the tension in your jaw.

“Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice soft with concern, his thumb brushing your cheek. The gentleness of it almost broke you.

You took a shaky breath.

His brow furrowed speaking before you had the chance to. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“Yeah, Clark. Something happened.” You stepped out of his embrace, needing space to breathe, to think. “I stopped by the Planet today. To bring you lunch.”

The color drained from his face, because something must’ve happened on the way to him, seeing as you never made it to give him lunch.

“I saw you,” you continued, your voice trembling. “With Lois. You looked… very cozy.”

His expression shifted from concern to defensive panic. “Honey, it’s not what you’re thinking. Lois is just my friend, my work partner. We were just talking about a story.”

“A story?” you let out a bitter, broken laugh catching him in the obvious lie. “What story requires her to whisper in your ear and touch you like that? What story has you saying ‘I don’t know how to tell her’?” You threw his own words back at him, watching him flinch. 

“Who is ‘her,’ Clark? Am I the ‘her’? What is it you can’t tell me that you can so easily discuss with her?”

“I am not cheating on you with Lois,” Clark said, his voice firm, desperate. “I would never do that to you. You have to believe me.”

“Then what is it?” you pressed, tears welling up again. “What is the big secret? Because something is going on! You’re gone all the time, you’re distant, you have whispered conversations you think I can’t hear! And she knows! I saw it on her face! She knows whatever it is that you’re hiding from me! So just tell me! What does Lois Lane know about my boyfriend that I don’t? And don’t you dare lie to me right now.”

The plea was raw, ripped from the deepest, most vulnerable part of you. You were begging him to prove you wrong, to shatter this nightmare.

Clark looked torn apart. His eyes were wide with a mixture of love and sheer terror. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He was physically wrestling with the words, and losing. “I… I can’t,” he finally whispered, agony in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s… it’s not safe.”

The admission was a knife to the heart. You scoffed, the sound wet with unshed tears. “You can’t tell me. But it’s safe for her?” The pieces were clicking into a devastating picture. “So there really is something. And she’s in on it. And I’m… what? Not trustworthy? Too fragile to handle it?”

Your insecurities, fed by weeks of doubt, roared to the surface. “What is it then? Is she better at it than me? Is that it? Smarter? More exciting? Does she not ask questions when you run off in the middle of the night?”

Just then, his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The screen lit up. A text message preview from Lois.

Lois: Did you tell her yet?

The timing was so cosmically cruel it was almost funny.

You stared at him as he reached for his phone, your expression one of utter devastation. “Let me guess. Lois?”

Clark flinched, scrambling for the phone. “No—I mean, yes, but it’s not—she’s just asking about you.”

“Oh, wonderful!” you cried, your voice rising hysterically. “So you do discuss me! In between whatever other secrets you share, you give her updates on your clueless girlfriend! ‘No, Lois, not yet, she’s still blissfully ignorant!’”

Suddenly, Clark stiffened. His head tilted slightly, a familiar, distant look entering his eyes. The sound of distant screams, of crashing concrete, of terror, inaudible to you, flooded his super-hearing. 

Metropolis needed Superman. But you needed Clark. He was torn.

His face fell. “Honey, I… I have to go.”

The absurdity of it shattered the last of your composure. 

“Really, Clark?” you spat, the words dripping with venomous disbelief. “Right now? You’re going to run away from this? Of course you are. Go on. I’m sure Lois needs you more than I do right now.”

The words were designed to wound, and they hit their mark even if they weren’t true. He looked at you, his heart breaking in his eyes, wanting nothing more than to stay and fix this. But the screams in his ears were a siren’s call of duty he could never ignore.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the apology a tortured breath. “I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just… Please trust me.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the silent, suffocating apartment.

You stood there for a full minute, numb. Then, a broken sound escaped you, and you stumbled into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed you shared. 

Sobs wracked your body, great, heaving cries that felt like they would tear you in two. You cried for the trust that was clearly broken, for the love that felt like a lie, and for the agonizing, inescapable truth: the man you loved was keeping a world-shattering secret with another woman, and he had just chosen that secret over you.

When Clark finally returned, it was later in the evening. 

He was hoping that you would still be awake so you could finish the conversation, but the apartment was quiet apart from your soft breathing indicating that you were asleep.

Clark slowly creaked the bedroom door open and saw you were on top of the covers, still in your clothes sleeping on a wet, tear-stained pillow.

Clark’s heart dropped even more. It was all just a big misunderstanding that had spiraled out of proportion. He needed to fix this, and soon, before he loses you forever.

But the next few days after that you had done everything in your power to avoid him. You didn’t want to speak anymore, you just wanted to die.

The apartment became a minefield of silence. You slept on the bed, Clark claimed the couch only agreeing because he wanted to give you your space. You left for work before he woke and came home after you were sure he’d be out. Meals were eaten separately, the clinking of cutlery the only sound in the heavy quiet. When he tried to speak, you’d shut him down with a terse, “I’m not ready,” or simply walk into another room.

Your heart was a raw, open wound, and every look from him, every hesitant attempt to bridge the gap, felt like salt being ground into it. 

Against your will the image of him and Lois, their heads bent together in shared confidence, was burned onto the back of your eyelids.

The worst part was the logic that tried to break through the pain: Clark wouldn’t cheat. He said that himself. He’s not that man. But the secrecy. The intimacy with Lois. His refusal to explain. That’s what hurt.

He was still trying, in his own clumsy way. He left a single red tulip—your favorite—on the coffee table. He made your morning coffee just how you liked it, leaving it in the thermos for you to find. He’d look at you with those soulful, pleading eyes, full of a love that seemed so real it made the betrayal hurt even more.

“Please, honey,” he begged one morning, finally cornering you by the door as you tried to leave. “Just talk to me. Let me explain. It’s really not what you think.”

“Then what is it, Clark?” you asked, your voice flat, devoid of the fire from before. You were just so tired. “Unless you’re ready to tell me the actual truth, the whole truth, we have nothing to talk about. Your ‘explanations’ are just more lies wrapped in pretty apologies.”

He looked utterly helpless, his shoulders slumping. “I’m trying to protect you.”

A hollow laugh escaped you. “You’re protecting yourself. And you’re protecting her.” You shouldered your bag and left, leaving him standing there.

The chasm between you grew wider. You felt yourself shutting down, building walls around your heart to survive the constant ache. You were mourning the relationship while still living in its corpse.

It was on the fourth day of this frozen war that you decided you couldn’t live like this anymore. You needed to know, one way or another. The not-knowing was a special kind of hell. 

If he wouldn’t give you the truth, you would find it yourself. You could be an investigative journalist too. Besides, you were past asking for permission, past respecting boundaries that he had already shattered.

So, you waited until you knew he was at work.

With a resolve that felt like walking to your own execution, you searched the entire place. You started with his desk—drawers of pens, notepads, mundane reporter things. Nothing.

You moved to the filing cabinet, finding old tax returns and article drafts. Your hands were shaking, guilt warring with desperation. You moved to the bedroom, checked under the bed, by the nightstand. Nothing.

And then you saw it.

Tucked in the very back of his closet, behind his collection of identical plaid shirts. It was out of place, something red and blue peeking out. 

You gently pulled it out, unfolded it and paused.

It was a suit. But not any suit. A fabric unlike anything you’d ever felt, a brilliant, alien blue, with a familiar, unmistakable crest emblazoned on the chest. The S-shield.  

The symbol of Superman.

Your mind short-circuited. It rejected the information outright. This was a costume. A joke. A… a prop for a story?

But then your eyes fell on the boots beside it also poorly hidden, heavy, red, and undeniably real. And on a small shelf, tucked away in the back, a pair of old cracked lenses rested beside a small, lead-lined box.

The world tilted on its axis. The floor fell away. You gripped the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

The missed dates. The disappearances. The impossible strength. The whispered conversations. 

Oh, God.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was this.

Relief, white-hot and dizzying, washed over you for one single, blissful second. He wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t lying about that.

And then the second wave hit, a tsunami of a far more profound and devastating betrayal.

Superman.

Clark was Superman.

The man you loved, the man you slept beside, the man you thought you knew better than anyone on this earth, was an alien hero. And he had never told you.

But he had told someone else.

The thought slithered into your mind, cold and venomous.

Lois knows.

You saw it all again, the scene in the bullpen with horrifying new clarity. Clark’s anguish wasn’t about an affair. It was about this. About his secret. 

And Lois Lane was comforting him about you. She was advising him on how to break the news to his poor, fragile, human girlfriend. She was in on it. She had been, all along.

How long? How long had she known? Since before you? During?

The relief curdled into something black and poisonous. This was worse. So much worse. An affair would have been a betrayal of your heart. This was a betrayal of your entire reality, of the very foundation of your trust. 

He had given the truth of himself to her and hidden it from you. He trusted Lois Lane with his universe, and he trusted you with… what? A carefully constructed fiction? A lie he came home to?

You heard the key in the lock. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You stood there, in the doorway of his closet, holding the blue suit in your trembling hands, the brilliant S-shield staring back at you.

“You…” you whispered when he finally stopped in front of you, your voice a broken thing. “You’re… him.”

He took a step forward, his hand outstretched, his eyes wide with panic. “Oh gosh, I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Clark starts taking in the room that was clearly searched.

“Please let me explain everything…”

“Explain?” The word was a laugh, a hollow, ugly sound. “Explain what, Clark? How you’re literally Superman? Or how about you explain why Lois Lane knew before I did?”

He flinched as if you’d struck him. “What? Lois… it’s not what you think, we’ve been over this.”

“Isn’t it?” you countered back, the sound tearing from your raw throat. You threw the suit at him. It fluttered to the ground between you, a banner of his deceit.

“How long has she known? Before me, right? Was I your little experiment in normalcy? Your pet human while she got to know the real you? The super you? Do you trust her more than me?”

“No! God, no!” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “It’s not like that! I was going to tell you, I swear! I just… I needed to find the right time. I was scared—”

“You were scared?” you interrupted, tears streaming down your face now, hot and furious. “You’re S-Superman! What could you possibly be scared of?”

“Of this!” he cried, his own eyes glistening. “Of losing you! Of seeing the look on your face that’s there right now! Of you being afraid of me!”

“You don’t get to say that!” you spat, advancing on him. “You don’t get to use your fear as an excuse! You’ve been lying to me every single day for almost a year! You looked me in the eye and you lied! And she knew! She knew every time you kissed me goodnight, every time you told me you loved me, every time you held me while you were living this… this double life! Did you two laugh about it? Did you tell her how convincing your clumsy farm boy act was?”

The words were vile, born of a pain so deep it had turned septic. You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to crack the invulnerable shell he hid behind and make him feel a fraction of the agony you were feeling.

He looked utterly devastated. “How can you say that? I love you! Everything I feel for you is real! Lois… she found out on her own. It was during a story, it was dangerous, it just happened. It wasn’t a choice!”

“But it was!” you shouted. “Every day after that was a choice! You chose to keep her in your confidence! And you chose, every single second of every single day, to look at me and lie! You chose her to be your partner in this! Not me! Never me!”

You were sobbing openly now, your body shaking uncontrollably. “I thought you were cheating. For so long, I’ve been going out of my mind thinking you were with Lois. But this… this is so much worse. You gave her your truth. You trust her with your life, with your secret. And you trust me with nothing. I’m just the girl you come home to when you’re done saving the world. I’m your… your cover story.”

“That is not true,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. He took another step, but you recoiled as if his touch would burn you.

“Don’t,” you choked out. “Don’t you dare come near me.”

The pain that crossed his face was absolute. It was the look of a man watching his entire world crumble to dust. And a small, broken part of you, the part that still loved him, recognized that his anguish was real. But it was too late. 

“Go away,” you said, your voice suddenly quiet, drained of all emotion.

“Honey, please… we need to talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you stated, staring at a point on the wall behind him. “You made your choices. Now get out. Go to her. I’m sure she’ll know exactly what to say to make you feel better, Superman.”

He stood there for a long moment, a statue of grief and regret. You could see the war in his eyes, the desire to stay and fix the unfixable, warring with the respect for your wishes.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in defeat and he walked out the apartment. The Man of Steel, brought to his knees not by kryptonite, but by the devastating consequences of his own secret.

You stood alone in the silence, surrounded by the artifacts of your broken life. The fairy lights he’d hung for you twinkled mockingly. The tiny stuffed bear from the fair sat on the shelf, its beady eyes oblivious to the cataclysm.

You had your answer. You had chosen to speak, and in doing so, you had killed everything anyway.

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After kicking Clark out of your shared apartment, you had expected him to return. You were just hoping that when he did you would have processed everything a bit more than you have right now.

He came in late, probably flying around to clear his head, you thought now. Still such a weird thought to get used to. 

He sat down next to you on the couch but kept a distance, close enough where you still feel his large presence looming over you but far enough that no part of your bodies touched.

You spoke first.

“You came back,” you said, your voice flat.

“I will always come back to you,” he replied, his voice rough with emotion. “Always.”

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different. The lies were out. The secret was exposed. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“Honey, I really am sorry.” Clark began.

“Lois found out two years ago,” he began, his voice quiet, forcing the words out. “A story we were working on… it got dangerous. I had to… intervene. She’s one of the best investigative reporters on the planet. She pieced it together. I didn’t choose her over you. The circumstances chose for me.”

He turned towards you, rising from the couch and standing in front of you now.

“Telling someone… it’s the most terrifying thing I can do. Every time, I risk everything. My life, their life, my parents' lives. With you… it was different. The thought of you looking at me like I’m a monster, or worse, a target… it paralyzed me. I kept waiting for the perfect moment that would never come because I was too much of a coward to create it.”

He sank to his knees on the floor before you. He looked up at you, utterly vulnerable, blue eyes watering. “I was wrong. So wrong. I thought I was building a wall to protect you, but I was just building a wall between us. I trust you with my life, honey. I trust you with my heart. I just… I forgot to trust you with the truth.”

Tears were streaming down his face now, tracing paths through the dust on his cheeks. He reached for your hands, and you let him, mainly because he was literally on his knees apologizing for you and the sight was pathetic (hot).

“The reason I was talking to Lois… the reason I said I didn’t know how to tell you… it was because I had finally decided to do it. I was asking her how she thought you’d react. I was scared and she was trying to make me feel better by joking with me. I was seeking advice from the only other person who knew, because I was terrified of losing you.”

“I love you. All of you. Not the idea of you. Not the normal life you represent. You. Your kindness, your strength, the way you hum when you make coffee at your shop, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. I love being Clark Kent because he gets to love you. And I am so, so sorry that I ever made you doubt that or my trust in you.”

You looked at him—this impossibly powerful man brought to his knees by his love for you. The anger was diminishing, nothing but a dull ache. The betrayal still stung. But the hollowness was beginning to fill with something else. Understanding. And a love so stubborn it had survived this.

You slowly lowered yourself to the floor off the couch, sitting before him, your hands still interlinked.

“You hurt me,” you whispered, the words finally feeling true without being venomous. “You made me feel small. And foolish. And… second best.”

“I know,” he breathed, his voice thick with regret. “And I will spend every day for the rest of my life making it up to you. If you’ll let me.”

You looked at the suit, then back at his face—the face of the man you loved, now superimposed with the hero you admired. They were one and the same. The clumsy reporter who walked into signs and the god who caught falling planes. It was all him.

“You really aren’t cheating on me?” you asked, the last vestige of your insecurity needing to be vanquished.

A pained, genuine smile touched his lips. “The only person I’ve ever been in love with is you. Lois is my friend. But you… you are my home.”

You reached out and placed your hand on his face. His fingers closed around yours instantly, warm and strong and familiar, and he let out a shuddering breath, as if he’d been holding it for days.

“You have to promise me,” you said, your voice gaining strength. “No more secrets. No more lies. Even if it’s scary. We face it together. Or we don’t face it at all.”

“I promise,” he vowed, his eyes locking with yours, pouring every ounce of his sincerity into the words. “No more secrets. Just us.”

He leaned forward slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You didn’t. You met him halfway.

The kiss was nothing like the stiff, painful one from days before. It was soft, a little salty from tears, and full of a desperate, aching tenderness. I

When you pulled apart, you rested your forehead against his dropping your joined hands into your lap. “So,” you said, a shaky but real smile finally gracing your lips. “Superman, huh?”

He let out a wet laugh, a sound of pure relief. “Yeah. Is that… is that okay?”

You looked at your joined hands, then back up at him, seeing both the man and the hero, and finally accepting them as one. “It’s going to take some getting used to,” you admitted honestly. “But… yeah, Clark. It’s okay.”

He surged forward and kissed you again, this time with more passion. You responded in kind, your hands coming up to cup his face, pulling him closer. The world outside, with all its dangers and secrets, ceased to exist. There was only this. Only him. Only you.

And as he kissed you again, slow and sweet and full of promise, you finally understood the answer to your question.

It was always, always better to speak. Because on the other side of the painful truth was the chance for a love more honest, and more real, than you could have ever dreamed.

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author's note: once again, thanks for the request and i hope it somewhat lived up to your vision!