Shinatsuhime ❤️

“There’s been a breach in the atmosphere. An unidentified space craft, headed this way.” 

Clark’s brow raises higher, his curiosity piqued.

“Here? From space.” 

“Well, there’s certainly not anyone from earth who knows about this place.” 

“But who-” Clark stills, his heart beating a little faster as it hits him. The Superman robot says it aloud before he can.

“It has no markings, but we’re inclined to believe it’s a Kryptonian spacecraft. Considering it’s being drawn to the fortress. Like calls to like, you know.” 

Kryptonian. 

Home. 

A chill runs down Clark’s spine, something akin to excitement and the feeling he gets when Ma calls him to congratulate another front page article. He’s off before the Superman robot can finish telling him the details, crimson cape trailing behind him as he flies. 

The large doors to the Fortress open with agonizingly slow dramatics, and Clark is pretty sure he’s taken out a large chunk as his shoulder clips the edge. He flies through snowy spray, breath plumbing in the barren icy landscape of the antarctic. 

The sun shines down brightly, painting everything a hazy white. Clark stills as he hovers in the sky, looking upward into the vast blue. He squints, catching the glowing orange pinprick, still too far to be anything identifiable. 

But it gets closer.

And closer. 

The sleek and hexagonal spacecraft begins to hurtle down with startling speed. Clark’s heart lurches as he watches it speed towards the snow.

It’s going to crash-

The air booms with the shockwave of Clark’s speed and he flies towards the spacecraft, strong and steady hands grabbing the front to slow its course. He grunts as the force presses against him, the smell of burning metal and astro dust flooding his senses. But Clark is strong. Determined.

Every bit of the Superman his hero title claims him to be.

He manages to slow the ship, just enough so the impact of snow and ice doesn’t leave a noticeable crater in the earth. It crashes, bouncing once. Clark yelps, tumbling in the powdery spray, watching as the ship comes to a slow, sliding stop. 

Clark shakes the snow out of his hair, panting and trying to catch his breath as he gets back to his feet. The ship looms beside him, his neck craning upwards to catch the entirety of its vast body. 

It’s beautiful, Clark thinks. 

All sleek angles and smooth craftsmanship. Like something from a dream he had once.

He approaches the ship carefully, looking back once towards the Fortress, its sharp crystalline spikes still towering high. Majestic and mighty; a beautiful marvel really. Clark stands beside the ship, blinking once as he watches steam roll off of the surface.

Clark reaches out with a tentative hand, pulling back with a hiss as his hand makes contact with the burning surface. He takes a breath, blowing a strong puff of cool air, the steam dissipating. This time, the metal is a much more approachable temperature, and Clark wraps his knuckles against the surface with a timid knock.

“Hello?”

His voice is clear, just enough baritone to sound authoritative but rounded out with a friendly lilt to sound approachable. Clark’s heart is still pounding nervously. He’s encountered alien and foreign entities before. There had been plenty of crash landings in Metropolis and the occasional supernatural occurrences he’d seen in Smallville.

But this was different. This was uncannily familiar. 

Kryptonian.

Home. 

It’s strange to feel such a pull to a place he’s never even been. Clark clears his throat again, knocking on the ship once more. He hopes whoever is inside is alright. Hopes nothing happened in transit. 

Why a Kryptonian ship had made a descent to earth, now of all times, Clark didn’t understand. Maybe he didn’t want to know why. He had a hard enough time understanding the laws of time warping and the light years between his home planet and earth.

What he did know was that a piece of him lay inside the spacecraft looming before him. A piece of his past, and hopefully one of his future. A bridge between his humanity and his alien identity. 

Clark calls out once more and he takes a quick step back when a loud sound echoes in the ship. There’s a bright light, blue and blazen. Glowing from a crack that forms in the middle of the ship.

It splits, and Clark is reminded of an egg cracking, something trying to push its way out. The spacecraft crackles noisely, humming with anticipation. He waits for a moment, eyes darting around as he tries to watch for something else to happen. 

There’s a sound from the inside. Like banging. Clark reaches out instinctively, lifting the top of the ship and tossing it. It raises effortlessly, teetering for a moment before falling backwards into the powdery snow. Clark blinks, trying to register what he’s looking at inside.

Who he’s looking at.

“Golly,” he breathes, smiling before he can think of a better emotion to present.

You blink up at him, long lashes fluttering rapidly as you try to adjust to the bright sunlight now filtering into your pod. Clark grins like an idiot, his heart still fluttering rapidly. Although he’s not sure it’s just because he’s encountering his first Kryptonian anymore.

You’re sitting in the pod, a silver thermal suit zipped tightly around your body. You watch him carefully, assessing and cautious. 

Clark clears his throat, giving a small wave.

“Hi there.” 

You blink once.

“Are you Kal El?” Clark’s stomach falls, just slightly as he hears the foreign language on your tongue. You point to him, tilting your head questioningly.

“Ohh…”

“Are you Kal El?” you repeat the phrase. Clark’s ears turn red as he realizes he has no idea what you’re saying. And no way to know if you’ll be able to understand him either.

“I’m sorry,” he cringes, face scrunching with apology. “I don’t- I don’t speak Kryptonian.” 

You stare up at him, legs shifting beneath you. Clark continues, embarrassed now.

“I didn’t ever- ever… shoot,” he huffs, chuckling slightly. He hadn’t really thought about what this moment would be like. Meeting someone from his home planet. And now he was here, standing in front of you. 

And all he can think of is how he’d like to tell you how beautiful you look.

Not that he actually would. His Ma had taught him better than that; how girls often didn’t like when guys came off too strong. Clark has no idea what Kryptonian girls like.

Your eyes rake over his brightly colored suit, and Clark scratches the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t raised in Krypton. In Krypton… I wasn’t raised there- why am I talking louder?” Clark sighs, mentally slapping himself. “I, uh, here,” he offers a hand to you.

You stare at it for a moment, looking up to his face with curiosity. Clark nods, hoping it comes off as encouraging. You take a breath, and place your hand in his. Clark notes how cold your hand is, even through the thick gloves you wore.

You allow him to lift you up easily, wobbling slightly as you stand.

“Woah, careful.” You shake your head, squinting.

“Man, my legs. They fell asleep.” 

“You alright?” Clark asks, holding you steady by the crook of your elbow. You look up at him, and Clark can’t help but think again about how distinctively otherworldly you are. He helps guide you out of the pod, taking one cautious step after another. The snow crunches beneath your boots and you look down at it, curious. 

“It’s cold,” you murmur.

Clark frowns, watching as you squint upwards toward the sky. Your brows scrunch, lashes blinking rapidly. Like it was the first time you’d seen a light so bright. 

Perhaps it was, Clark realizes. Who knows how long you’d been in the dark pod, floating through endless space.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I know the sun can be bright. Here-” 

You take a wary step back as Clark reaches for your face, watching him with caution.

“What are you doing?”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Clark raises hands, smiling reassuringly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You frown, eyes tracking Clark’s hand as he slowly reaches over again. This time, you allow him, keeping eye contact with him as he places one of his large hands over the ridge of your brow. 

“There,” Clark nods, watching your pupils relax as the shadow of his palm covers your eyes.

“That better?” You glance down at his mouth, watching as he sounds the word again.“Better?”

“Bet-ter.” Clark grins. It was broken, still heavily accented. But it was a start.

“Wow! Golly, you must be a genius up there.” You smile. He’s not sure you understand exactly what he’s saying, but if the flush on his cheeks is any indicator, he must be coming off as impressed. 

You’re standing so close to him, the pluming fog of your breath mixes with his. Clark grins, a feeling of excitement surging through him. This was the start of something new. 

Something he had a feeling would change his whole world for the better.

------------------------------------------------------

The cemetery had emptied hours ago. The mourners had gone home, the flowers left behind had begun to wilt beneath the downpour, and even the groundskeepers had disappeared. Only Clark remained, standing motionless before the grave as though if he stared at it long enough reality might finally lose its nerve and take everything back.

Your name was carved neatly into polished granite, and somehow that was the thing he hated most. Not the rain. Not the silence. Not even the crushing emptiness sitting in his chest. It was the fact that an entire life could be reduced to something so small. A name. Two dates. A line of text. Clark's eyes traced the letters over and over until they blurred together, and still he couldn't look away. The stone didn't tell people who you were.

It didn't tell them about the way you laughed when something genuinely surprised you, throwing your head back without caring who was watching. It didn't tell them about the way you stole food from his plate and then acted offended when he caught you. It didn't tell them about the way you always reached for him in your sleep, your hand searching for his even when you weren't awake enough to realize it. It didn't tell them about the future you'd spent years building together. The children whose names you'd argued about. The places you still wanted to visit. The tiny apartment you'd once shared before moving somewhere bigger. The old age you were supposed to reach. The wrinkles you were supposed to earn. None of it existed here. Everything that had made you you had been reduced to carved stone and cold earth.

A strangled breath escaped him. "You were supposed to grow old."

The words vanished into the rain almost immediately, but Clark kept staring at the headstone anyway. His own voice had sounded unfamiliar. Thin. Fragile. Like it belonged to somebody else.

"You were supposed to keep making fun of my cooking." A weak smile appeared despite himself, because you always complained about his cooking. Even when you liked it. Especially when you liked it. He could practically hear your voice now, teasing him about burning breakfast again, insisting that Ma was still the superior cook. The memory arrived with such clarity that it physically hurt.

That was the part nobody warned you about. People talked about grief as though it was sadness. As though it was crying and funerals and learning how to move on. Nobody talked about the violence of remembering. Nobody talked about how a perfectly ordinary memory could suddenly drive the air from your lungs. One second, you were standing still. The next you were remembering the exact sound of someone's laugh and wondering how it was possible for the world to continue turning when that laugh no longer existed inside it.

God, he missed you.

He missed you in ordinary moments. He missed turning around and expecting to find you there. He missed hearing his phone vibrate and hoping it was you. He missed having someone to tell about his day. He missed your toothbrush beside his. Your shoes near the door. The way you stole the blankets every night and denied it every morning.

Most of all, he missed being known. That was what nobody understood. People loved Superman. They loved symbols and legends and larger-than-life heroes. But you had never loved Superman. You had loved Clark. The awkward farm boy from Kansas who still called his mother when life became overwhelming. The man who burned pancakes because he got distracted. The man who worried too much, cared too much, and carried every failure like a stone in his chest.

You had known every imperfect part of him and somehow loved him anyway. And now the only person who had ever looked at all of him and chosen to stay was gone.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut. For a moment he could almost hear your voice. It was so vivid that his heart lurched painfully against his ribs. Some foolish part of him wanted to turn around, wanted to believe you'd be standing there behind him with that familiar smile, telling him he was being dramatic and that standing in the rain wasn't going to solve anything.

But reality returned quickly. It always did. Cruel and silent and completely indifferent to his grief. The worst part wasn't even that you were gone. The worst part was discovering that the world didn't care. Cars still drove down busy streets. Children still laughed in playgrounds. People still argued about meaningless things. Tomorrow the sun would rise exactly as it always had. The Earth would continue spinning. The city would wake up and move forward. The universe had lost the best thing Clark Kent had ever known, and somehow it kept going.

A hand settled gently on his shoulder.

Clark didn't have to turn around; he recognized Lois immediately.

She stood beside him beneath an umbrella, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. For several moments, she said nothing. She simply looked at the grave alongside him, and Clark found himself grateful for the silence. There was nothing either of them could say that would make this easier. Lois missed you, too.

Everyone did.

That had always been the problem with you. Loving you had been effortless. You had moved through people's lives, leaving pieces of yourself behind without even realizing it. Clark had watched strangers warm to you within minutes, watched friends seek you out whenever they needed comfort, watched entire rooms brighten whenever you walked into them. You made people feel seen. Important. Loved. And now every one of those people had to learn how to exist without you.

"Clark."

He didn't answer. His eyes remained fixed on the stone, on your name, on the unbearable proof that none of this was a nightmare.

"You need to stop doing this to yourself."

Still, he said nothing.

The rain continued to fall around them, drumming softly against Lois's umbrella while soaking through his clothes. He barely felt it anymore. The cold wasn't a problem for Superman. It should have bothered Clark Kent. It didn't. Nothing seemed capable of reaching him through the numbness that had settled over everything since the day he'd lost you.

Eventually Lois sighed. "You couldn't have saved her."

A bitter laugh escaped him before he could stop it. The sound was ugly. Broken.

"I save people every day."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I hear them, Lois. I hear people screaming from the other side of the world. I hear heartbeats through concrete. I hear accidents before they happen."

His gaze dropped to his hands. The same hands people trusted. The same hands that had pulled survivors from burning buildings and caught falling planes from the sky.

"So explain to me why I couldn't save the one heartbeat that mattered most."

Lois looked away immediately, and Clark hated himself for the relief that brought him. If she couldn't look at him, it meant she didn't have an answer. If she didn't have an answer, then maybe there simply wasn't one. Maybe there wasn't some mistake he'd missed. Maybe there wasn't a moment he could replay differently. Maybe there wasn't a version of events where he got to keep you.

The thought should have comforted him. Instead it made everything worse. Because if there was no answer, then there was nothing left to fix, nothing left to fight, nothing left but grief.

"I would've traded all of it," he said quietly. "The powers. The cape. The symbol. Every bit of it."

Rain dripped from his hair as he stared at your name carved into stone.

"I would've given it all away if it meant she stayed."

And he meant it. Every word. The world worshipped Superman. Entire cities slept easier because they believed he was out there watching over them. Children wore his symbol on their shirts. People looked at him and saw hope. Clark would've surrendered all of it without hesitation. Every ounce of strength. Every impossible ability. Every gift Krypton had given him. None of it had ever mattered as much as you.

The silence that followed stretched painfully between them.

Finally Lois spoke. "She wouldn't want you blaming yourself."

Clark shut his eyes.

"Don't."

"Clark..."

"Don't tell me what she would've wanted."

The words came out harsher than he intended. The instant they left his mouth, regret followed. Lois didn't deserve that. She was grieving too. He knew that.

But the truth was that nobody knew what you would've wanted anymore.

You weren't here to tell them.

That was the part he couldn't survive.

Not the funeral.

Not the grave.

The finality.

The realization that every conversation between the two of you had already happened. Every joke had already been told. Every argument had already ended. Every kiss, every embrace, every quiet evening spent together had come and gone without either of you realizing they were finite things. There would never be another one. Everything left between you would remain unfinished forever.

"She's not here anymore."

His voice broke completely.

For the first time since the funeral began, Clark looked exactly what he was. Not Superman. Not the strongest man in the world. Just a grieving man standing in the rain, staring at the grave of the woman he loved and realizing that all the strength in the universe couldn't change what was written on the stone in front of him.

Lois stood beside him for another moment, the steady rhythm of rain striking her umbrella filling the silence between them. Clark knew she wanted to say something else. He could hear it in the way she shifted her weight, in the hesitant breath she drew before letting it go again. She was searching for the right words, searching for something that might ease the grief carved into him. But there was nothing left to say. No combination of words could undo what had happened. No reassurance could make tomorrow easier. Tomorrow would still arrive without you in it, and the thought alone made his stomach twist.

After a while, Lois squeezed his shoulder gently. "You should go home."

Clark let out a quiet laugh that sounded more like a wounded exhale.

Home.

The word felt cruel now.

Home wasn't home anymore. It was your blanket draped over the couch because you were always cold. It was the mug with the tiny crack in the handle that he'd been trying to convince you to throw away for months. It was the half-finished novel still sitting on your nightstand with a bookmark tucked between pages you would never reach. Your jacket still hung by the front door. Your shampoo still sat in the shower. Little notes written in your handwriting still clung to the refrigerator. Every room contained evidence that you had existed, and every room reminded him that you didn't anymore.

He hadn't been able to sleep there since you died. The house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still. As though it were waiting for you to walk through the front door at any moment. Sometimes he caught himself listening for your footsteps. Sometimes he found himself looking up whenever he heard a sound, expecting to see you rounding the corner with that familiar smile. Every single time reality returned, and every single time it hurt just as much.

"You need rest," Lois said softly.

Clark stared at the headstone.

At your name.

At the dates beneath it.

An entire life reduced to a few carved numbers.

How could he rest?

Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in the hospital. Back in that room. Back in that awful stretch of time where every second felt like an hour. He remembered the doctors' faces before they even spoke. Remembered the way the silence changed. Hope had disappeared before a single word was said, and some part of him had known it. There had been a version of Clark Kent that existed before that moment, a version that still believed everything would somehow be okay. That version was gone now. Buried alongside you.

When he didn't answer, Lois sighed quietly. "Okay."

Her voice cracked around the word.

"Call me if you need me."

Clark nodded once, not because he intended to, but because he couldn't bear to make her worry any more than she already did. Lois lingered for a few seconds longer before finally turning away. He listened to her footsteps grow fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely. Eventually even the sound of the umbrella vanished, leaving only the rain and the unbearable silence that followed.

Clark remained standing long after she was gone. Then, with a weariness that seemed to reach into his bones, he slowly lowered himself to the ground. The mud soaked through his clothes immediately. He didn't care. The earth was cold beneath him, damp and unforgiving, but none of it mattered. What was a little discomfort compared to this?

He shifted closer to the grave until he was lying beside it, resting his head against the wet grass. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend. Just for a second. Just long enough to imagine that you weren't really gone. His hand reached toward the headstone, fingertips brushing across the engraved letters of your name. He traced them slowly, carefully, memorizing the shape of every letter despite already knowing them by heart.

The ache inside him had become constant now. Not sharp enough to make him cry anymore. Not sudden enough to catch him by surprise. It was simply there, lodged somewhere deep inside his chest, woven so thoroughly into him that he no longer remembered what it felt like to exist without it. Grief wasn't something visiting him anymore. It wasn't a storm that arrived and passed. It lived here now. It woke up with him every morning and followed him to sleep every night. It sat beside him when he ate, when he worked, when he tried and failed to imagine a future that didn't hurt.

"I can't sleep without you."

The confession escaped before he could stop it.

A sad smile tugged weakly at his lips as he stared at your name carved into the stone.

"Of course you already know that."

You always fell asleep first. Usually halfway through a conversation. Your words would grow slower and softer until eventually they disappeared altogether, leaving him to smile at whatever unfinished thought you'd been trying to share. Yet even then, you always reached for him. Sometimes without waking up. Your hand would search blindly across the mattress until it found his, and the moment it did, your entire body relaxed. Like some small part of you needed that reassurance before you could truly rest.

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

God, he missed that.

Not the grand moments people always talked about after someone died. Not the anniversaries or holidays or photographs. He missed the ordinary things. Holding your hand while watching television. Feeling your weight settle against his side when you were tired. Listening to your sleepy rambling at two in the morning when neither of you could fall asleep. The tiny, forgettable moments that had once seemed so insignificant now felt priceless. They had become the things he missed most because they were the things he could never get back.

"I never told you this," he whispered. "But sometimes I'd stay awake after you fell asleep."

A tear slipped from beneath his lashes.

"I'd just watch you."

His throat tightened painfully.

"Because I couldn't believe you were real."

The admission hurt more than he expected.

Clark had spent most of his life feeling separate from everyone around him. Different. Isolated. Like he was standing just outside a world he could see but never fully belong to. He had spent years pretending the loneliness didn't bother him. Then you had walked into his life and somehow made everything feel simple. Easy. Like belonging wasn't something he had to earn anymore. For the first time in his life, he had a place where he didn't have to be Superman. He didn't have to be a symbol. He didn't have to be anything except himself.

"You made everything quiet."

A broken laugh escaped him.

Not the world.

The world was never quiet for Clark. He heard everything. Every siren. Every cry for help. Every heartbeat. Every accident unfolding somewhere beyond the horizon. The noise never stopped. It never had.

But you had quieted something inside him.

The loneliness that had followed him since childhood.

The fear of never truly belonging.

The endless pressure of carrying the world on his shoulders.

You made it bearable.

You made him feel human.

His hand pressed harder against the wet earth, as though somehow being closer to you might lessen the ache. It didn't. Nothing ever did.

And now you were gone.

The realization struck with the same brutal force every single time. It didn't matter how often he thought it. It never became easier. It never became smaller. It remained enormous and impossible and world-ending.

"I don't know how to do this."

His voice cracked completely.

"I don't know how to wake up tomorrow. I don't know how to walk back into our house. I don't know how to keep being Clark without you."

Silence answered him.

The rain continued to fall.

The world continued to turn.

And you remained heartbreakingly absent from both.

For the first time in his life, Clark felt truly powerless. Not because he couldn't stop an asteroid or lift a collapsing building or save a city. Those things had never frightened him. This did. Because there wasn't an enemy to fight. There wasn't a disaster to prevent. There wasn't a problem to solve.

There was only loss.

And for all his strength, for all the impossible things he could do, there wasn't a force in the universe powerful enough to bring back the person he loved.

Clark curled slightly against the grave, as close to you as he could possibly get, and closed his eyes. For just a moment, he allowed himself to want something impossible. Not world peace. Not an end to suffering. Not another miracle to save humanity.

Just you.

Only you.

Clark woke with a gasp so violent it felt like his lungs had forgotten how to work.

For several terrifying seconds, he couldn't breathe. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs, each beat painful and frantic, and the dream clung to him with such horrifying clarity that he couldn't immediately tell where it ended and reality began. He could still feel the rain soaking through his clothes. Still see your name carved into polished granite. Still remember the awful helplessness of lying beside your grave, knowing there was nothing left to save, nothing left to fight for, nothing left except learning how to survive without you.

The grief had felt real.

Not the strange, distant kind of sadness dreams usually carried. It had felt real enough to break him.

Clark sat frozen for a moment, staring into the darkness as panic climbed his throat. Then his eyes focused on the room around him. White walls. Dim overhead lights. Medical equipment humming softly in the background. The familiar shape of a hospital room slowly emerged from the haze of sleep, and relief hit him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy.

His head snapped toward the bed.

There you were.

Exactly where you'd been before he fell asleep.

Surrounded by machines and monitors, an oxygen tube resting beneath your nose, your body almost swallowed by white blankets, but there. Not buried. Not gone. Not reduced to a name on a stone.

There.

Clark felt something inside him crack.

A breath escaped him, shaky and uneven, and before he fully realized what he was doing, he was already on his feet. The chair scraped softly against the floor as he crossed the room in a matter of seconds. His hands were trembling when he reached for yours.

Warm.

Your hand was warm.

Such a simple thing. Such an ordinary thing. Yet after the nightmare he'd just had, it felt miraculous.

Clark wrapped both of his hands around yours and lowered his head. A strangled sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and suddenly he was fighting tears all over again.

"Oh God."

His forehead rested against your knuckles.

"Oh God, you scared me."

The words sounded pathetic the moment they left his mouth. Selfish, too. You were the one lying unconscious in a hospital bed. You were the one fighting through whatever darkness had taken you away from him. Yet he couldn't stop the tears from coming.

Because for a few horrible moments, he'd believed he had already lost you.

He had stood at your grave. He had spoken to a stone bearing your name and imagined a future stretched out endlessly before him, a future where every morning began without you and every night ended in an empty bed. But the part that still made his chest ache wasn't the grief itself. It was the realization that life would continue afterward. The city would still wake up every morning. People would still go to work. Children would still laugh in parks. Somewhere, someone would still need Superman. The world wouldn't stop simply because yours had ended, and somehow Clark would be expected to keep moving through it as though surviving such a loss was possible.

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

"I don't want to know what my life looks like without you."

The confession lingered in the quiet hospital room. The only response came from the monitor beside your bed, its steady rhythm filling the silence between them. It should have been an ordinary sound, the kind people stopped noticing after a while, but Clark found himself listening to every single beep. Each one felt precious. Reassuring. Proof that you were still here. Still fighting. Still holding on.

His thumb brushed softly across your hand before he carefully tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so familiar it made his throat tighten. He'd done it hundreds of times before while you were reading on the couch, while you laughed at something he didn't understand, while you dozed off during movie nights with your head resting against his shoulder. For a moment he simply looked at you, really looked at you, trying to memorize every detail as though he hadn't already done so a thousand times before. The curve of your face. The slow rise and fall of your breathing. The warmth of your skin beneath his fingertips. Some frightened part of him worried that if he looked away for too long, the nightmare would return and steal all of it from him.

"I dreamed about you."

His voice was barely audible.

"I can't even tell you what happened."

He swallowed hard and looked away briefly.

"Because if I say it out loud, it feels like I'm daring the universe to make it real."

A humorless smile flickered across his face before disappearing just as quickly. Clark leaned forward and pressed a kiss against your cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. When he finally pulled back, his hand remained cupping the side of your face.

He thought about everything he had survived in his life. The battles. The invasions. The disasters. Every impossible thing the world had ever thrown at him. None of them had frightened him like this. Not because they threatened him, but because none of them had ever threatened you.

"Out of all the dreams I've ever had about you," he whispered, his voice trembling despite his best efforts, "I hope this one never comes true."

The room fell quiet again.

He pulled his chair closer and intertwined his fingers with yours before settling beside the bed. He never let go. Not once.

For the rest of the night, Clark remained awake, watching over you. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the grave again. The rain. Your name carved into stone. A future without you.

And that was what terrified him most.

Not that he could imagine losing you.

That he could imagine surviving it.

The dream had shown him exactly what that future looked like: waking up every morning with grief sitting permanently in his chest and carrying it for the rest of his life. As Clark sat beside your hospital bed with your hand held tightly in his own, he found himself praying for the first time in a long while, asking for only one thing.

Please.

Don't make me learn how to live without her.

It had never meant to become a regular thing , you and Clark fucking in secret. Heck now it was thing of fucking before a show.. and after. But there was no label. It wasn't like that. The whole world was convinced you had something going on, Alex and Brad had their suspicions. But who were they to judge. They basically encouraged it.

Today was no different, it was going to be a sold out show. The busiest so far on the tour. The stage director told you you were due on soon. And Clark was late. He would've normally been in your dressing room now, Had his way with you and been ready to go on stage.  You roll your eyes applying your eyeliner muttering to yourself when your door opens rapidly. You almost poke yourself in the eye from jolting  and in the mirror you can see Clark putting the bolt on the door for your dressing room.

"What the fuck clark?!" You shriek standing up , he's stood there with a grin on his face. His lip ring glistening in the light as he puts his hands behind his back smug swaying back and forth on his feet. He had ripped jeans. A crop top showing his happy trail and his eyeliner smudged perfectly under his eyes.

"Sorry!! I'm a little late.. really needed a fuckin cig" He huffs. You knew he smoked cigarettes or a joint when it was a sold out show. Calmed his nerves.

"Clark. I hate to break it to you buddy but we have five minutes before the show. No pre show fuck!" You point at him and he almost whines.

"That's bad luck!"

"Clark. We literally don't have enough time. Unless you can make me fuckin cum that fast then by all means go for it." You spray yourself with your usual perfume standing up and something darkens in his eyes.

"Is that a challenge missy?" He grins walking closer to you towering over you. His usual Smoky scent lingered making your heart race and between your legs ache.

"I just don't think you have what it takes Kent." You taunt him playing shoving him back making him stumble back.

He chuckles stepping forward and grabbing you by your throat pulling you in for a deep. Sloppy kiss. His tongue thrashing against yours grunting desperately. You whine into the kiss and claw at his shirt tugging him impossibly closer. He pulls away shoving things off your dressing room vanity and bends you over it.

Another slutty groan slips from his lips when he sees how soaked you are through your black lace thong. He knows he's done that to you. He pulls them down until they pool around your boots and undoes his belt at the same time. Normally he would prep you. Make sure you're all ready for him. But there's no time.

He pulls himself out spitting onto his tip and leaning down to spit onto your pussy. A sickening whine slipping from your mouth at the sensation.

"Sorry sweetie. You're gonna have to take it n be quiet" He pushes himself all the way into your soaking walls muttering "shhhh shh there we fuckin go" He groans burying himself all the way to your hilt. A shrieking gasp spills from your mouth and he covers his hand over muffling any sounds as he sets a punishing pace. Pulling your head up slightly so you can see yourself in the mirror. You whine against his mouth as his dick slams into you rapidly , the sound of skin slapping filling the room and he holds you up with his other arm.

He leans over whispering in your ear as he keeps bullying his dick in your pussy groaning.

"Look at you. Go. On. Look how much of a desperate fuckin slut you are. So desperate for dick that you get fucked before every show. By your fucking bandmate. Go on. Watch yourself for me baby."

The way he was speaking to you was so vulgar. He was rarely like this. But you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you more fucking wet as you clenched harder around him. You look in the mirror. He's grinning and biting his lip holding back moans. You ? You looked fucked out. Like you belonged here. Your eyes watering almost smudging your eyeliner more. Your mouth hanging wide.

"You look good like this baby... full of rockstar dick" He grunts slamming into you harder and your eyes roll back. The door opens slightly catching on the latch and you screech loudly. Clark has stopped his thrusts. His dick throbbing painfully inside you.

"SHUT MY FUCKING DOOR IM NOT READY!" You squeal and the door shuts. Your heart pounds loudly. Clark grins sliding his hand up to feel it race.

"Sorry Miss.. you're on in a minute.. uhm.. wardrobe malfunction again? And where's Clark?" The stage director sighs impatiently. Clark was slowly moving inside you and you bite your lip.

"Yeah yeah problem with my skirt sorry ! And uh.. clark went for a smoke!" Your jaw dropped further as Clark kept moving his hips deep inside you.

"Okay.. sorry again miss!" The stage director apologises again.

"It's okay!" You could hear the footsteps fading and clark snaps his hips inside you like he was possessed. Pulling your head back to slam his lips against yours kissing you deeply.

"You like getting caught huh? You're fucking nasty" He moans his thrusts getting harsher and deeper.

He yanks your face back to the mirror feeling you getting close.

"Go on baby.. watch yourself cum for me" That's all it fucking took. You clamp down hard around him. Watching yourself in the mirror eyes rolling back. You can feel him groan loudly and your pussy being filled with his warm hot cum. He shoves his dick in further before pulling out and yanking your thong up and patting your ass tucking himself away. He really didn't have time to clean you up. You'd just have to walk around stage filled with his cum. If anything it only turned him on more.

"Just in time!" He grins as you fix your dress and tear open the dressing room door. Brad raises an eyebrow looking at you and clears his throat looking at clark behind you.

"Stage director said you had a wardrobe malfunction ... is that what we're calling it nowadays?"

"Yeah! Clark just had to help me with it. Could've been you if you were around to ask!" You roll your eyes and his eyes playfully light up.

"REALLY?"Brad gasps jokingly.

"NO!" You and Clark said at the same time. Clark clears his throat. "So.. let's get this show on the road?"

"You know we aren't due on for another half an hour right guys? Stage director fucked up times" Alex smiles and your eye twitches. You side eye Clark.

You had more than enough time.

YES. NO.

LISTEN TO TWISTED HOPE?

HELLO TWISTED HOPERS😋

I love love love writing for rockstar Clark!! And i appreciate all the love I have been receiving lately THANK YOU SO MUCH

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You're staring at the large expanse of his back, that giant back with broad shoulders and sleep-soft muscles stretching out wide. Your hand hovers over your leg as you think about reaching out and touching it.

But the angry red lines that litter his soft skin, a golden glow from the bedside lamp illuminating it like a memory, stops you from touching. You don't want to wake him by poking your fingers into his scratches.

The scratches you gave him.

The scratches that look like they should really hurt, but he's sleeping too peacefully for that to be the case. His back lifts and falls with big, pleasant breaths. He takes up the majority of the bed, spread out as he is, but it doesn't quite matter much when he's got his body curved toward you like a part of his whole.

They're so deep. You hadn't realized you had dug them so far when his body eclipsed yours, pressing you farther into the bed with each thrust. Your mind was so hazy, and you couldn't distinguish moan from gasp. You hooked your arms beneath his for something to hold on to and when he fucked into you just right? You raked your nails with a hiccuped cry as you trembled.

His head dropped into your shoulder as he moaned right into your ear, his breath hot against your skin as his muscles shook. He pressed himself deeper into you. You could feel him so deep, solid and full and filling you. Clark could feel the outline of himself with each thrust, bulging from your tummy to rub into his. It only worsened that pleasure, rolling over him until he was sure he was going to let go too soon.

Does sex always use this much energy? He usually had so much left in him by this point, but it had been a very long week of stormy weather that he was running out of all that energy he had stored away. His healing had started to take a blow. When you managed to bite his lip hard enough to bleed, things had gotten a little carried away from there.

He makes a mental note to lengthen the massages he usually gives you afterwards.

Those sounds he'd made had been so pretty, you just had to keep pulling them from him. More and more, until the pleasure was too much and he was spilling inside of you all over again.

He fell asleep the moment you were both wrapped up in each other. And now you can't look away from those lines tracing along his back, burning his skin splotchy and pink.

He shook as he came, canting his hips and trying not to lose too much rhythm in his hand as he rubbed messily at your clit. His muscles flexed against you, he moaned your name in your ear with the whiniest sounding “g-gosh”. You gave one last nasty drag of your nails down his back as you broke apart beneath him for the nth time.

“Why’re you starin’ at me, pervert?” he mumbles, his voice thick and lazy, a deep drawl that melts you like sap.

You look at his face, soft with sleep as bright blue eyes gaze back at you. You just smile, bending down slowly and pressing the softest kiss to the center of his back along his spine. The only response he shows to it having hurt is the slightest breath that hitches from him.

You look back at him, dopey smile in place before kissing his nose. “Just sizing up my prey.”

A smile curls his lips so much, his dimples go deep and pretty. “Weirdo.” You kiss him again, this time lingering as he happily returns the favor.

“Please, d-don't stop. That—ah, feels good.”

You nod, squeezing a little tighter. “Not gonna stop, baby. I got you.”

You watch his muscles flex, his strength bursting at the seams at the overwhelming pleasure of your hands, so small around him but so fucking good.

You drag your hands down to the knot closer to the base of him, squeezing your hands tighter and tighter and watching his eyes close shut behind his fogged up glasses. He chokes on a rushed breath, his body curling in at the sensations that course through him.

“Ah, fuck. Yeah, honey. Tighter,” he rambles, chasing that pleasure as the pressure renders him useless to it. “Gosh, you're so—Tighter, please, please.”

You oblige, watching him squirm beneath you and struggle to catch his breath. He looks so pretty like this, flustered and unkempt. His hair is a mess, sticking to his forehead as the heat of his skin fogs his glasses almost enough to shield his precious blue eyes.

His cock pulses in your hands as precum leaks in a steady stream that coats your fingers and makes it easier to coax him. The filthy sound of your slick hands fills the room and joins his shattered breaths and deep moans.

You wish you could do more, but you couldn't possibly take his knots outside of your heat, especially not the bigger one throbbing in your hand. He's just too big, too filling. He wouldn't even try to have you take it, too afraid he'd split you apart just trying to get past the first one.

You can tell it's not enough. Sweat dots his forehead, and his chest rises and falls like he's seconds from sobbing. The fact that he has two knots to take care of is ridiculous enough, you couldn't imagine the pain it brings when he's too big to even manage getting one in you. You can only cover so much of him with your hands.

But he needs this. He's pent up, so close to his rut that you can smell the burnt edge to it in the air, can feel the way something in you writhes under his scent and threatens to come whining back. You think if he doesn't get to pop his knots soon, he'll spontaneously combust. After all that time he spent helping you during what was probably the worst heat of your life, you can't leave him to suffer like this. Not when he deserves so much better.

He whines, bringing his hands to his face where he presses the meat of his palms into his eyes. His chest shudders, and you know it's a poorly veiled sob. “I know, alpha, I know. I'm trying, ‘m sorry.”

He shakes his head, looking at you with unfocused eyes as he struggles to think straight enough to answer. “No, honey. You're—gosh, you're perfect. I just–” His gasps, his hips bucking up again. “I'm just…too much.”

It's your turn to shake your head, insistent and showing it. “Not too much, honey. Promise. I'm gonna find a way.”

He covers his face again, letting you continue to try and help. You can tell there's a good part of him that's really embarrassed, that wants to sink into the mattress and disappear. That part of him only makes you that much more determined to prove that he isn't wrong.

You let go of him, and he lets out this sound like he's going to start sobbing, falling apart in a heap of pent up frustration and a dash of humiliation.

You shush him gently, adjusting yourself on his lap to lean back. Settling his cock between your thighs, you bring your hands back to his knots and squeeze them and your thighs together as hard as you possibly can.

Clark's breath gets caught, and his head flies back into the pillow again. “Fuck! That's–” He's cut off by another dreadful moan.

You keep tightening around him, using as much strength as you can get in your thighs to get tighter and tighter until you can feel the way his balls are drawing up beneath you.

“Honey, that– Oh, gosh. Oh, my gosh, you're so–” He struggles to speak, sentences beginning in the middle of sentences, words interrupted by catching breaths. His brows draw together, his mouth gaping to swallow down more air. You watch his neck beginning to strain, veins bulging as he clenches his jaw tight. “I'm– baby, I'm gonna–”

“Cum for me, Clarkie. I got you.” You squeeze even tighter, until you can feel every pulse of him against the pulse of you. “C'mon, alpha. Let go.”

Clark's jaw tightens so hard, you're afraid he'll crack his teeth. His hips push up into the air, arching off the bed as he finally bursts. He moans and whimpers, unable to handle the pleasure drowns him as he cums and cums.

He paints the skin of your thighs in thick, white stripes. It's hot against you, and you watch with apt attention as he falls apart in a mess of himself.

He can't string together too many coherent words. You catch “yes” and “thank you” and an onslaught of praises involving “pretty omega” and “perfect f’me”.

You watch, smiling and encouraging as you keep at your squeezing. Ropes of cum cover your thighs until you're sure this is just too much cum. Your core throbs with a need of your own. That thing inside of you licks its chops at the prospect of having all of that inside. The memory of how he filled you up to the absolute brim when you were delirious and desperate fills your head until you're needy for him all over again.

You watch as he slowly comes down from his high, slowly relenting the hug of your thighs, slowly loosening your hold. Clark catches his breath and stares heavy-eyed at the ceiling.

“Feel better?” you murmur after a while, when his chest is rising much slower and he looks like he can think a little better.

His eyes find you, a slow, lazy smile finding his lips as he nods gently. “Yeah. So much better.” One of his hands comes to your hip, traveling up to the back of your neck and pulling you down enough to kiss you nice and deep and slow. “Thank you. You're—gosh, you're incredible.”

You smile, trying to hide your face and stifle a flustered giggle. His smile spreads.

When he glances down and sees the mess he's made, the absolute puddle of cum coating your thighs, he gets red all over again and starts profusely apologizing.

“Shit. I'm sorry. I made a mess of you.” He starts to sit up, but you place a hand on his chest to stop him.

“It's okay,” you smile. “I can clean us up. I don't mind.” You give him another kiss, anything but chaste. “I'm just glad I could help.”

He sighs gently. Then he tilts his nose up in the air when he catches a whiff of your scent, warm and sticky with a familiar edge. He notices your thighs clench slightly, the way your eyes have begun to droop in that way it does when your brain starts to get distracted.

He grins a bit, clasping his hand at the back of your neck in that way that makes you feel limp. “Do you wanna clean up before or after?”

You dip your head, trying to hide the shyness that suddenly overcomes you. He doesn't need to clarify, you already know. Looking into his eyes, these shining eyes like stained glass over ocean waters, you can see that darkened edge that makes you tremble.

You look down at your lap, thighs pressed together to keep from getting his spend everywhere. “Before.”

Clark grins.

The bullpen of the Daily Planet smells like burnt coffee and newsprint, and you've learned to love both.

You've been here three years now, long enough to know which elevator takes forever, which vending machine steals your quarters, and which desk belongs to the man you're desperately, stupidly, hopelessly trying not to be in love with.

Clark Kent's desk is directly across from yours, because… of course it is.

It's a Tuesday when it starts — or rather, when it continues, because you've lost track of where the beginning actually was. Maybe it was the night of the LexCorp exposé, when the two of you stayed until two in the morning cross-referencing sources, and he'd loosened his tie and laughed at something you said and you'd thought, oh no.

Maybe it was before that.

Maybe it was always.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Tonight, he knocks on your apartment door at half past eight with Thai takeout and a bottle of wine he picked because he remembered you mentioning it once (three months ago) in passing.

That's the thing about Clark. He listens. Not the polite, half-distracted listening most people do; he actually listens, like every word you say matters, like he's filing it away somewhere safe.

"You didn't have to do this," you tell him, stepping aside to let him in.

"I know," he says simply, and smiles. And that's that.

You eat on the couch with the TV on low in the background, neither of you really watching it. The conversation moves the way it always does with him, easy and unhurried, drifting from the story Perry shot down this afternoon to the book you're both reading to something your mother said on the phone last weekend that made you feel sixteen again.

He laughs in the right places. He asks follow-up questions. When you trail off mid-sentence because you've lost your train of thought, he waits without filling the silence, and somehow that patience undoes you more than anything else.

As the night wanes, the wine disappears. The takeout containers get stacked neatly on your coffee table; Clark's doing of course, not yours.

And then, the way it always happens, the evening turns into something... quieter.

Closer.

More.

His hand finds yours somewhere between the third glass and the last of the conversation. You look at your joined hands and then at him, and neither of you says anything, because there's nothing to say that you're both willing to say yet.

You just move as you always do; lips against lips, hands beneath clothes, and all rational thought thrown out the window. This was routine by now though with him, expected even. Hell, you would be lying if sometimes your mind wandered to the dark place in thinking this may be all he ever wanted from you -- to have you beneath him, stretching to accommodate his size no matter how many nights a week he came over. Or, perhaps he just liked the way you looked on your knees, eagerly gazing up into those impossibly blue eyes, practically begging for him to use your mouth.

But, it was the warm feeling that settled in you after each time, knowing those thoughts were just that; thoughts. A man like Clark, who made sure you were cleaned up and tucked cozily into bed after couldn't just see you in that light. He at least cared for you a little, that much was true -- "friends", you'd called it, whatever "it" was between the two of you.

Though the one simple word felt too small for all the feelings tied up within your chest, unable to break free of their cage just yet.

Later, in the dark of your bedroom, with the city humming fourteen floors below and his strong arms around you, you press your face against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. It's steady, like nothing in the world could shake it.

You think: I love you.

You say nothing.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You always fall asleep first. You don't know how or when this became a pattern, only that it did. There's something about being near him that makes your body finally fully relax, like you've been holding tension in your shoulders for weeks and he's the only thing that lets it go.

And when you wake, he's always already gone.

The first time, it stung. You lay in the empty space where he'd been and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was nothing, you were both adults with complicated lives and this was just what it was.

You'd said as much to him once, in the early days of whatever this was, in a moment of misguided practicality: let's not make it weird, Clark. We're friends. This doesn't have to mean anything.

He'd agreed. Of course he had. Clark Kent, for all his warmth, doesn't push. Doesn't demand. He holds space and waits, and sometimes you wonder if he's waiting for you just as much as you're waiting for him.

But this Tuesday morning, you don't wake to an empty apartment.

You wake to the smell of coffee.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

It's not the coffee from your kitchen, you recognize the particular richness of it before you're even fully conscious, before your eyes are open. It's from Grounds for Debate, the little shop three blocks over that you've been going to since your first week in Metropolis. The one that makes your order (a large, embarrassingly sweet concoction involving vanilla syrup and oat milk and an extra shot of espresso) without you having to say a word anymore, because you've been coming long enough that Marco behind the counter just starts making it when he sees you walk in.

You sit up.

There it is on your nightstand: a clear plastic cup with the familiar green logo, your abbreviated order scrawled on the lid, and a sticky note in Clark's handwriting.

Don't tell me how much sugar is in this. I don't want to know. — C

You laugh before you mean to, the sound surprising you in the quiet of your bedroom. You pick up the cup and it's still cold — not freezing, but cold, like he timed it almost perfectly for when you'd wake.

The coffee is exactly right.

Of course it is.

You sit there for a long moment, cup in both hands, and feel something move through your chest that you don't have a word for yet.

Or maybe you do have a word for it.

Maybe that's the problem.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

At the Daily Planet, you are professionals.

You are very, very good at being professionals.

Clark is already at his desk when you arrive, glasses on, sleeves rolled to the elbow, reading something on his monitor with that small focused frown he gets when he's turning a story over in his mind. He looks up when you walk in, and the frown dissolves into something warmer.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning." You set your bag down, boot up your computer, and absolutely do not look at him for longer than is reasonable.

Lois stops by your desk around ten with a press release and a look she's been perfecting for months, the one that says I see exactly what's happening and I find it both endearing and exasperating. Lois is perceptive in the way that makes her a brilliant journalist and a mildly terrifying friend.

"You've got that look," she says, dropping the press release on your keyboard. Your eyes flick up, relieved to see Clark is gone from his desk.

"I don't have a look."

"You absolutely have a look." She glances briefly, pointedly, across the bullpen. "Did he bring you coffee again?"

"Lois-"

"I'm just asking."

"You're never just asking."

She smiles fondly. "One of you is going to have to say something eventually."

"We're friends," you say, and even as you say it, you hear how fake it sounds.

Lois gives you the look again, picks up the press release, and walks back to her own desk.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The story you're chasing this week involves a shell corporation with ties to LexCorp — not unusual in Metropolis, where Lex Luthor's fingerprints seem to appear on half the city's financial architecture if you look hard enough. You and Clark are working it together, which means long afternoons at adjacent desks, trading documents and theories across the narrow divide between your workspaces.

At one point, leaning over to look at something on your screen, he's close enough that you can feel his warmth, and you catch the scent of whatever soap he uses, and you have to take a very deliberate breath and remind yourself about professionalism.

"Here," he says, pointing to a line in the document. His finger is an inch from yours on the desk. "This transfer date. It's two days before the subsidiary was officially registered."

"Which means whoever set this up knew it was coming before it was public record." You muse.

He smiles softly, his gaze flicking to you. "Inside information."

"Or someone who makes things happen and then makes them look like they happened naturally." You glance at him. He's already looking at you.

"Good catch," he says, his cheeks flushing at the sudden eye contact.

You grin, turning back to the screen. "You found it."

"You knew what it meant."

This is how you work — the easy back-and-forth of two people who've learned each other's rhythms. Perry once called you his best team, which made Clark duck his head like a pleased kid and made you feel something warm bloom behind your sternum.

It's nearly seven when the bullpen empties out. You're still at your desk, finishing your notes, and you look up to find Clark still sitting at his, watching you.

"You should eat," he says.

"I had a granola bar at four," you shrug.

He shakes his head. "That's not food, Y/N."

"It had oats in it."

He stands, straightens his tie, and picks up his bag.

"I was going to get dinner," he says. "If you... wanted to come."

It's such a simple sentence. It shouldn't make your heart do what it does.

"Sure," you say. "Yeah. Let me grab my jacket."

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

You go to the Italian place on Fifth that you both like, the one with the checkered tablecloths and the candles in old wine bottles and the owner who calls everyone cara regardless of whether he knows them.

You order the same things you always order. Clark gets water; you get the house red. The bread basket arrives and he passes it to you first, automatically, because he knows you'll want it.

These are the things that get you. Not the grand gestures (not that Clark doesn't make those too, in his own way) but the small, accumulated knowledge of you that he carries around like it's nothing.

The coffee order. The bread basket. The way he always walks on the street side of the sidewalk without making a thing of it. The way he remembers the name of your college roommate and asks about her sometimes.

Even the positions that have your heart racing the most, and how to coax the gentlest of sounds from you after a particularly hard day.

You're halfway through your pasta when he says, quietly, "I hate leaving in the mornings."

You look up.

He's looking at his plate, and there's something in the set of his jaw. He's being careful, like he's chosen these words specifically and is now committed to them.

"Clark-"

"I'm not... I'm not trying to make it complicated." He looks up then, and his eyes behind his glasses are very honest and very tired all at once. "I just wanted you to know. In case you ever thought it was easy, or something. It isn't."

The candle between you flickers.

You think about all the mornings you woke to the ghost of his warmth in the sheets. You think about the coffee on the nightstand. You think about the sticky note — don't tell me how much sugar is in this — and how it made you laugh and ache at the same time.

"Why do you leave, then?" you ask, feeling like a mouse the way your voice comes out.

He's quiet for a moment, contemplating telling you the truth, the whole truth.

He settles on telling you half of it -- the bigger part of it.

"Because I don't know what happens if I stay."

You furrow your brows. "What do you even mean?"

"I mean..." He exhales slowly, and pushes his glasses up in that way he does when he's stalling. "I mean that if I stay, it stops being something I can keep at a distance. And I don't know if that's what you want."

The restaurant murmurs around you. Someone laughs at the bar. The candle flickers again.

"Clark," you say. "When have I ever asked you to keep your distance?"

He looks at you for a long moment.

"You said we were friends," he says. "You said it didn't have to mean anything."

And there it is; your own words, returned to you. You said them so easily, back at the beginning, because you were scared and convinced that naming the thing would ruin it. You'd thought you were being sensible. You hadn't considered that he might actually take you at your word.

"Well... I lied," you say.

It comes out almost before you decide to say it. But once it's out, it feels like setting something down you've been carrying for a very long time.

Clark just stares at you.

"I was scared," you say. "And I thought... I thought if I said it out loud, it would change everything, and then if it went wrong..."

You shake your head. "I was just protecting myself. I'm sorry, Clark."

He's still looking at you with ... relief. It's the face of someone who's been holding their breath for a long time, and has finally come up for air.

"I memorized your coffee order the second week we worked together," he says. "I know you hate the sound of the third-floor printer. I know you always check your horoscope even though you don't believe in it. I know your perfume smells like lemons, and I know-"

He stops. Swallows. "I know I'm in love with you, Y/N. I've known for a long time, I think."

The candle between you is very still now.

"I'm... in love with you too," you say, unable to keep the smile spreading across your lips. "I've been terrible at hiding it."

"You weren't that bad," he says, and the corner of his mouth curves up.

"Lois knew."

"Lois knows everything."

You laugh, and the tension finally breaks. He reaches across the table and his hand covers yours, and this time it doesn't feel like something unnamed, or secret.

This time, it feels real.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

That night, walking back through Metropolis with your hand in his, you pass a newsstand with tomorrow's early edition already stacked in neat rows. The headline is something about Superman -- it's always something about Superman in this city. Clark glances at it briefly, something flickering in his eyes behind his glasses, and then back to you.

"What?" you ask.

"Nothing." He squeezes your hand. "Just thinking."

You lean into his shoulder as you walk, the sounds of the city dull around you; for right now, it's just you and Clark, and you think that all this time, that's all it was meant to be, anyway.

･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

The next morning, you wake up and the bed is still warm beside you.

You open your eyes. Pale light flows through the curtains. The familiar sounds of your apartment drone on; the hum of the refrigerator, a pigeon on the fire escape.

You reach out, fearing the worst and hoping for the best.

He's there.

Clark is asleep on his side facing you, glasses folded on the nightstand, dark hair slightly messed, looking more relaxed than you think you've ever seen him in daylight. Younger, somehow. Like this version of him is one he doesn't often get to be.

You watch him for a moment, this man who leaves notes that make you laugh and walks on the outside of the sidewalk without thinking about it.

He stirs, opens his eyes, and finds you immediately, like he knew exactly where you were.

"Hi," he says, voice rough with sleep.

"Hi," you say back.

He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, slow and easy, like he has all the time in the world. Like he's not going anywhere.

"I didn't leave," he says.

You grin. "I noticed."

"I thought you might want—" He stops. Tries again. "I thought I might want to stay. If that's alright."

You shift closer and you press your lips to his, toes curling as you feel his hand slide up the curve of your spine. He inhales, long and slow as he kisses you, holding you close like you may slip away if he let's go.

"It's more than alright," you say, pulling back just an inch.

The Planet will open its doors in a few hours and Perry will have opinions about your LexCorp story and Lois will give you that look and life will continue in all its extraordinary ways.

But right now, in the early morning quiet, Clark Kent's arms are around you and his heartbeat is steady beneath your palm.

The city can wait.

For once, so can you.

The conversation went a little like this…

“Oh, come on. He’s a prude. There’s no way he could withstand actual overt flirting from you. He turns red when he overhears a couple on the street talking about joint filing for taxes!”

“It would be mean, Lois! Plus, I tease him enough.”

“What, by wearing normal clothes and doing nothing? Seriously, tell me you’re not the least bit curious to see what the guy would do if you tried!”

You chewed your lip, spinning in your desk chair. “Well… what would I even do?”

Lois’ machinating eyes glimmered as she leaned forward, pointing a pen in your face. “Wear something skimpy– well, however skimpy you’re capable of, Annie Hall– y’know, red lip, maybe ditch the glasses for the day… slink around, say some salacious things, eat some fruit really loudly. That sort of thing.”

You scoffed softly and turned back to your computer, clicking into an editorial proof. “That’s ridiculous. What, I’m gonna whore myself out in the bullpen just for kicks?”

“Nobody said anything about that! And hey, call it what you want, but to whore oneself is an honor. And to think you call yourself a feminist!”

You giggled in slight annoyance and chucked a pencil across the desk clump at Lois, who dodged it and winked, sipping her coffee. “I’m just saying, I think it would be fun to test his limits. He is just a man, after all.”

What she said got you thinking. Lois might be crazy, but she wasn’t wrong. Clark was a lot of things– Kryptonian, for one. Intelligent, generous, thoughtful, emotional. Handsome. Reserved. But even knowing him as well as you do, and loving him just the way he needs and wants… he really is just a man, isn’t he? His human side had immense power over him. And he was a weak little thing when it comes to flirtation. How hard would it be to tease him? How much could he take, really, if you tried? Your mind began reeling, thinking about what kind of stunts you could pull before he caught on or collapsed… and then the curiosity got too strong. So, you took on the challenge. 

The next morning, you came to work in a dress. This was not unusual for you– you wore skirts and dresses all the time. And this dress wasn’t a showstopper, either. But you knew Clark like the back of your hand, and if you were going to do this thing, you would have to play the long game. It was supposed to be a test of his limits, right? So, you wore his favorite color on you. A true, deep red. It was a modest enough cut– above the knee but below the thigh, and the sweetheart neck dipped a bit low. You clasped the necklace the reporter gave you around your neck– a silver C– and you painted your lips to match. When you walked into the bullpen of the Planet in the morning, flashing your boyfriend a smile, you watched him audibly choke on his coffee. 

Clark had been wondering why you refused a ride into work today, and now he knew why. You used the time to dress up. He felt a bit dirty for how difficult it was to peel his attention away, but he managed to stare at his mug and regain some composure. 

“Hi, honey,” he rasped, clearing his throat. 

You smiled and walked over to his desk, sitting on the edge with a flipping stomach. You were a terrible actor, and you grew incredibly awkward when you had to try; but if you didn’t commit now, it would all be a big, embarrassing disaster. So you went for it. Leaning close, you wrapped your nimble palm around his tie and gave it a gentle yank, drawing him close. You laughed as his deer-in-headlights eyes fluttered, and you pressed a suspiciously wet kiss to his lips without warning. That was the first attempt.

Pulling back and wiping the corners of your mouth for any lipstick residue, you hummed, “Morning, handsome.”

As you stood up and walked away (giving a little extra swing in the hip department) Clark swallowed thickly and shook himself out. Nobody was watching. The bullpen was operating like normal. You were following your usual routine, completing the whole “get coffee, sit down by Lois, log on” checklist. But you were doing it in one of the only sexy dresses he knew you owned, and you just kissed him like this was the start of a very not-safe-for-work film. For someone who was as reserved as him, this was insanely out of character. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, feeling a mortifying throb between his legs. Perhaps you had a high-profile interview later (that would explain the clothes). Or he was dreaming. Anything but the obvious would work just fine. 

The second test of his willpower came not an hour later. The morning was still young, the Planet bustling with conversation and caffeine. You needed to copy an article out for editing, and while on any regular day you would kick the machine and resolve the issue yourself, you knew that one of the things which worked Clark up most was being needed. You made the decision to slip past his desk, around the back of his chair, and lean over his shoulder. After placing a feather-light peck behind his ear, you grinned at his shivering shoulders and murmured, “Clarkie?”

The name within itself was a punch to the gut, but as he glanced over his shoulder at you, watching your hair fall around your face, your red lips pouting, a fire lit inside him. “Hm?”

“Copier isn’t working. Could you help me?”

Clark jolted out of his seat fast enough that it wobbled and nearly tipped over. His hand shot out to steady it, and he followed at your heels. He was kind to his invisible leash.

You breathed through a spark of nervousness as you tried to play up the sexy meter, bending down before the keyboard on the copier and pressing some buttons. It was a bit humiliating, pretending to act stupid, and a part of you knew that he’d see right through it. You weren’t dumb. You handled this copier better than Clark could most days. He was the last person to come to the rescue of a woman– usually they had things sorted before he got there. But he was under the spell of your jutting hips, staring at the soft rolls of your tummy as you rose again, and on that fact alone you knew Clark’s sound judgement was not present to assess the situation for its reality. You stepped close again and rubbed up and down his arm, squeezing his bicep. 

“See? It just won’t scan!”

Clark fumbled over himself to smack the machine and jostle it around. You heard him mumbling to himself, and every few seconds he would look over at you, almost like he was making sure you were still there, watching, seeing how hard he could try for you. Trying to woo you with his heroic acts upon the damned scanner. You bit back a laugh as he gave the machine a rough kick. The screen lit up and the laser beam buzzed under the hood, and you sighed happily. 

“There!” Clark beamed, turning to you with a dopey smile. 

“Thank you, baby,” you cooed, snuggling up and tugging him by the tie again. It worked last time. 

Clark stumbled into you and flushed, hands gripping your waist. His eyes flickered around before saying, “You’re acting strange.”

You fought to keep a blissful smile on your face. “What?”

Clark squeezed you and laughed nervously. “You’re all…”

As you watched him struggle to speak, you traced shapes in the hollow of his chest. It made the brain fog much worse. “What was that, honey?” 

Clark stuttered like a fool, and it took a mountain of restraint not to laugh. God, he was so cute when he was flustered. You took advantage of the mental clog and poked his chin, stepping away with your copy. 

“Hey–”

“Gotta go! Busy day!”

As you hurried off, Clark stood at the copier like you stranded him on a highway, alone and dejected. You were so warm under his hands. You never fled like that… She’s up to something, he thought. She has to be.

When it was time to make a third swing at his self-control, you had to up the ante. Flirtatious eyes and smiles wouldn’t be enough. Lois had caught a glimpse of your transparent copy machine trick and scolded you lightly for being, as she put it, “a terrific wuss”. Now, as it came time for your lunch break, she coached you into a newfound confidence. “Don’t just bat your eyes, you loser, do something you would never in your right mind do at work,” Lois urged. “You want to break him, don’t you? Give the doggy a bone!”

You stood near the elevator waiting for Clark. You two always walked to the coffee cart together. You were a safe, predictable couple, and usually that was all you ever needed. But not today. No, today you would prove to yourself that you had balls, and that he could fold like a house of cards whenever you pleased. You wanted to do it. You knew you could. 

You could smell him before you saw him. In a soft cloud coming from behind, the smell of his cologne wafted over you. Did he put on more? you thought, spinning around to see him looking down at you with a suspicious level of calmness. 

“Hi, Clarkie,” you sighed, pressing the elevator button. “Ready?”

“Mhm,” was all he gave in return.

As soon as the elevator doors parted, you stepped in with him following suit. You quickly hit the ‘close doors’ button, seeing his eyebrows furrow, and as they slid shut, you placed your palms firmly on his chest and pushed him back against the wall. 

“Woah– hey,” he staggered, blinking through the confusion. “What’s gotten into you today?”

“Nothing!” you assured, before promptly trapping him in an eager kiss. 

Clark’s hands flexed as the overwhelm hit him, and within seconds he was grabbing you and hoisting you around his hips, swapping places with you. His soft grunts of joy made your gut clench as he shoved you against the cold metal, hands squeezing your thighs. His blatant excitement was pressing against your leg and you nipped his bottom lip, breathing his air, getting lost in it for just a moment before remembering the game. 

“Mm– Clarkie,” you panted.

“What?” he mumbled, kissing down your neck. 

You smirked as the doors slid open to the ground floor of the Planet, and you shimmied free, finding the floor again. “Lunch!”

As you swaggered out of the elevator, Clark stood burning hot and dumbfounded. You didn’t even warn him. He followed you quickly, the subject of many judgemental glares, out to the street. 

“What was that for?”

“What do you mean?” you asked, feigning innocence. 

“That– the– the kissing! And the– you– the–”

“Clarkie, you sure seem nervous today. Did you sleep alright?”

“Don’t you– oh, you little–”

You whipped around with a cup of coffee and quirked a playful eyebrow, flashing him a sweet and unapologetic smile. “What were you saying, baby?”

Clark looked down at your open face. You were doing this on purpose. You were trying to bait him, get some kind of reaction. He wasn’t sure why, but that much was clear… and it was working. He was so worked up that he felt angry. He wanted to punch a wall almost as much as he wanted to rip that dress off your body. He raised a finger at you, eyes narrowing, jaw clenching. 

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, my love,” you tilted your head, dipping a finger in the whipped cream atop your cup and licking it off deliberately. “Don’t you want coffee?”

“Look at you! You’re– you’re– tempting me!”

Christ, was it hard not to bust out laughing then and there. Instead, you opted for a light and infuriating chuckle. “I hardly think I’m tempting you!” 

“Oh, yes you are! With– with your little dress a-and your looks and the pet names!”

Clark’s cheeks were a fiery red, and his breath came short as you rocked on your feet and acted like he was crazy. Never in the time you’ve been together have you done anything to make him so irrevocably irritated. You kept to yourself and let things out at home, that was the girl you were, but today you were so outspoken, so physical, you almost reminded him of–

Oh, he blinked. A piece clicked into place, and the image of a certain rowdy reporter flashed before his eyes. Oh.

You saw his expression shift and felt an internal urge to squirm. Clark didn’t say another word. He handed over the cash for your coffee and his, and then he hooked an arm around your back, ushering you into the building again. 

“Clark? What is it?” you swallowed, peering up at him in confusion. 

“Nothing, my love,” he quipped, guiding you into the elevator once more. 

As the two of you made the ride back up to the bullpen, you could feel the energy radiating off him. Something warm and strong. Something knowing. Fuck, you panicked, he knows.

Up until the end of the work day, you managed to give him a little space and air out what happened at lunch. Something inside you was a bit thrilled at the idea of him knowing you were teasing him; his back straightened, and he seemed for a moment that he would set free the dominant side, but it was gone as quickly as it came. Clark went back to the bumbling boy he was in conversation with Jimmy and Perry. But on your last ditch effort to make your boyfriend lose his filter, you found you were not the sole possessor of tricks.

This time it wasn't anything wild. You had retreated back into awkwardness– getting the whole minx act right was a lot of work. All you did was perch yourself on his desk and pick up one of his pens, twirling it around in your hair while he finished up some article on the desktop. 

Clark didn’t even spare you a glance. “What do you want?”

You chewed the inside of your cheek, stilling the twirling. “Just waiting for you to be done, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” He mocked softly, closing out a tab and turning the monitor off. Clark swiveled in his chair, leaning back, and he cocked his head. “Well, I’m all yours.”

You flushed a bit. Shit. Bad look. “Good! I was thinking maybe we could get some Italian–”

Clark suddenly stood, corralling his messenger bag and your arm in one swoop. “Actually, I think I’m gonna take you home.”

You yipped in a startled moment of surprise and stumbled over your feet as Clark manhandled you down the stairs. “Hey– Clark!”

“Oh, I’m just Clark now?”

“What are you–”

The second he was able to wrestle you onto the street and down the alley beside the Planet, Clark scooped you up in his arms and shot off. You yelped as the world rushed by you in a fit of cold wind, and a slight swell of nausea rose in your chest. Before you had time to yell at him for using his speed in broad daylight, your feet hit the floor in his farmhouse. 

“What the hell?”

“No, you what the hell!” Clark grumbled, shrugging off his bag and seizing your hips, walking you backwards into the living room. His eyes were dark and starving, despite the embarrassed flush of his skin. “What was your angle today, huh? Teasing me? Did Lois put you up to it?”

You tripped over the edge of the carpet, and the two of you flopped on the couch in a tangle of limbs. You grunted softly under his weight and tried to backtrack. “It was a joke, we were just curious about how you would react–”

“You got me all worked up in front of our coworkers,” Clark complained, cupping your face. “That was cruel. You know how bad it hurts when I can’t get off?”

A trapped heat buzzed under your skin. The mix of guilt and desire made an intoxicating cocktail inside you. “I was only playing around.”

“Yeah? Just playing? Well, it’s only fair I play with you now, isn’t it, honey?”

As you gazed up at the man you loved, a healthy dose of fear rippled through you– an exhilarating, hungry, entertained fear. The game worked, alright. Clark was pissed and horny and you had gotten a result you did not expect. There was no stuttering now, no sheepishness. Only need.

Clark unceremoniously shoved your dress over your hips, and you twisted under his grasp. “Clarkie–”

“Don’t deny me this, baby, because I’m a fucking mess, and it’s all your fault,” he whined as he made quick work of unbuttoning his slacks. 

Your eyes fluttered as you surrendered happily, the sound of your farm boy swearing melting any last strain of resistance as you braced for the delicious punishment. As if he couldn’t get any hotter, he was begging through gritted teeth to take the treat you’d dangled before him all day. 

Clark usually took a great deal of time to be sure you were safe and ready when it came to sex, but he was not stupid. If you had the wherewithal to poke the bear, you were looking for the response, and he was aching to give it to you. He groaned as two fingers tugged your panties to the side, and he crawled over you to sink inside your cunt with a helpless moan. 

Your body arched at the contact, and for a second you feared the wind had been knocked out of you. It all happened so incredibly fast. First he spread his palms wide over your inner thighs to press you open, and then he was rutting like a dog in heat, coiling around you, groaning and whimpering with the long-awaited relief of being buried in your walls. All day long, while you sauntered in that dress and tried your very best to be a seductive temptress, he had wanted to bend you over the closest surface and show you just how well it worked, how you could wear a garbage bag and he’d still drool at the sight. He dreamed of making you say you’re sorry for being so cruel while his cock nudged your insides apart. Now he had that chance, because you were reduced to the girl you’ve always been beneath him– blushing, clinging tight, playing with his hair, taking every inch in a flurry of sweet, delicate greed. 

“Apologize, honey,” he prompted, kneading the flesh of your ass as he thrusted deeper, nestling his cock in the spongy refuge between your hips. 

“M’sorry, m’so sorry,” you slurred. The pleasure was so blinding, so heavy, that your eyes were starting to roll back. “Sorry, baby… was just– mmf– playing!”

“You tell me when you– nngh– wanna play games,” Clark hissed, rocking into you hard enough that the legs of the couch squeaked an inch over. “I’ll play them with you– God, you feel good.”

“O-okay– ah, Clarkie!”

Clark made quick work of it, because there was no fooling either of you. You had made a half-baked attempt at a Lois-induced power trip, and he was struggling to punish you for it. Neither of you had incredibly strong control over yourselves in that way. When Clark was with you, he was wholly himself, and vice versa. No amount of teasing or roleplay would ever change that. The deeper he was, the more he remembered just how much he loved you, and suddenly the two of you were right back to normal, writhing on the couch, lip-locked and whimpering into each other’s skin, begging for release. 

“So good, honey, don’t ever do that again,” he begged.

“Won’t, I swear– please!”

“I’ve got you, it’s okay, come on, let go–”

“Clarkie, please, I’ll take it, I– ah!”

A white-hot wave crashed on your heads, and Clark pinned you beneath his heavy weight on the couch as he spilled into you. Your legs twitched around his hips as you shook and jerked, pleasure numbing your nerves. Air was precious now as you collapsed in a heap. Clark buried his face in your neck, holding on for dear life. 

Drawing a deep and shaky breath, he mumbled, “Never listen to Lois again… can’t take it.”

Clark Kent is a big guy.

The years of manual labor from working on the farm have sculpted his muscles, making him a piece of stone derived from the most hard-cut marble. His full 6’3 frame swallows you whole– far too easily. 

And his powers? He’s inhumanly strong– allowing him to take down anyone and anything in sight. He could toss around a grown man with his pinky.

So having him beneath you like this? Hands running all over your hips like he’s unsure of what to do? Watching as breathy grunts and moans leave his lips, you can forget all about his abilities.

Because right now, his hips are jerking up towards yours. Every time you drag your clothed cunt over the hardness in his jeans, his breath hitches. He’s whining. Like he’s never done this.

His large hands sprawl over your hips, his grip almost bruising. His voice comes out in a high pitched breath, trying his best to be quiet. “fuck, baby.. s-so good.”

Your knees are bracketing his hips. Your hips twitch, pleasure shooting through your skin. Every breath comes out as a pant, the seam of his jeans catching your clit just right. 

His breath comes out hot against your neck. Clark tries to silence himself, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and inhaling your scent.

“Shh, Clarkie.” You whine softly, speaking low against his ear.

He responds with gripping your hips harder, grinding you down onto the hard imprint of his cock. “m’tryin’..” 

Going to the barn— or Clark’s ‘fortress of solitude’, since it probably  would have given you both some more privacy— had seemed like too much work earlier. But now, knowing that his parents were just downstairs, was proving to be very annoying.

Your hands grasp onto his shoulders as you grind yourself on him, totally using him for your pleasure. 

“makin’ a mess all over me..” Clark mumbles, pressing kisses to your neck.

The bed creaks softly under your combined weight, the headboard tapping against the wall. You can feel your slickness ruining your panties. If you were to look down, there was no doubt there would be a big wet spot on his jeans.

“Look so pretty, baby. Gettin’ yourself off.. ungh, please.” He whimpers, voice barely a whisper as his hips rut upwards.

His mouth attacks your neck, peppering kisses and whimpering against your skin. “wait.. s-slow down, shit. m’gonna cream my jeans.”

A soft laugh leaves your lips but you don’t stop. In fact, your grasp moves from his shoulders down to his wrist, moving his hands from your hips down to the mattress. And he can easily get out of your grasp— he’ll, he could toss you around the bed in a blink of an eye if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t.

“Fuck, cum for me Clark.” You breathe out, rutting yourself against him. “make a mess for me.”

Every time your hips move forward, your clit rubs up against his clothed cock just right. Your insides clench around absolutely nothing and the idea of him coming from just this has your head fuzzy. 

Clark tries his best but he’s just so loud. Whining and whimpering as he ruts his hips like a puppy. He’s not even inside you but he’s already pussydrunk. The sheets are rumpled beneath his fingers from grasping onto them, trying to hold onto the last shred of his control.

The tension builds and coils in your abdomen, ready to explode at any moment. Every noise that falls from Clark’s mouth throws you closer to the edge, heat running burning through your blood.

“fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuck..” Clark whines out, loudly. His hands fly up, super strength easily over powering your light hold. His hands find themselves back to your hips. 

He’s coming, spurts of warm cum filling his boxers and jeans. One of your hands comes up to clamp over his mouth, a chuckle leaving your own.

His cock twitches beneath his boxers, yet he keeps your hips moving against him. Even if the pleasure is quickly becoming overstimulating.

“need.. need you to feel good, baby.” He whines, bucking his hips up against yours. “c’mon cum on me.” He pleads, grinding you down onto him perfectly. “need it so bad, please.”

The combination of your clit dragging, his whines and pleas, and the way he’s so needy makes your orgasm crash down on you. Every muscle in your body draws tight as fireworks shoot through your nervous system.

“Clark!” You whine, face falling into his shoulder as you try to muffle yourself.

“oh, thank you, baby.. god y’look so perfect.”

The ceiling of your shared apartment had never seemed so vast, so oppressively white. Clark Kent lay on his back, one arm flung over his forehead, the other hand absently worrying a thread on the comforter. The silence was a living thing, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant wail of a siren three boroughs over—a sound he could easily parse, catalog as non-life-threatening, and then ignore.

Four days.

You had been gone for four days. A business trip to Chicago, something about a mountain of paperwork you’d promised to handle personally even when you shouldn’t but that means some extra money. Clark still thinks your coworkers are idiots. He made love to you that morning, made you a tea the way you love because you despise the ones at the airport and then kissed you goodbye at the door, a soft, lingering press of lips that had tasted like morning coffee and your spearmint toothpaste. He still hates the fact that your best friend picked you up, he wanted to be the one to do it but he had some things to do at the Daily Planet.

He’d told you to have fun, to be safe and show your coworkers how the job has to be done and that he’d be right here when you got back. He was a liar. He wasn’t just here. He was disintegrating.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic. He was Clark Kent. He was Kal-El. He could hear a heartbeat on the other side of the planet, could bench-press a tectonic plate, had stared down Darkseid without flinching. And yet, the absence of one person—you—had reduced him to a restless, irritable, lovesick mess.

The first day had been fine. Productive, even. He’d filed twelve stories, reorganized the pantry alphabetically (your idea of a joke he’d taken too seriously), and done three loads of laundry. The second day, the edges started to fray. He found himself staring at your empty side of the bed, the pillow still faintly holding the ghost-shape of your head. By the third day, he was a menace. He’d snapped at Jimmy for chewing too loudly (he could hear the saliva, Jimmy, for God’s sake) and had to physically restrain himself from flying to Chicago just to catch your scent on the wind.

He didn’t want to be a burden. That was the crux of it, the splinter lodged deep under his skin. You were brilliant, ambitious, carving out a space for yourself in a world that didn’t make it easy. You needed this trip. You didn’t need your boyfriend materializing in your hotel room like a kicked golden retriever, whining about how much he missed you.

So he stayed. He patrolled. He threw himself into the grimy, relentless work of being Superman, hoping the physical exertion would bleed out the restless energy coiling in his gut. It didn’t. If anything, it made it worse. The adrenaline, the narrow misses, the flash of heat from a downed power line—it all just fed the low, constant thrum of want that had taken up residence in his bones.

Tonight had been a special kind of hell. A warehouse fire in the industrial district, a gang shootout in Central City, and a cat stuck in a tree in Queens (the cat had been grateful, at least). He’d come home just after two in the morning, floating silently through the window of your fourth-floor walk-up so he wouldn’t have to fumble with the lock.

The apartment was dark. Cold. A tomb.

He landed softly on the living room rug, the worn fibers whispering under his bare feet. He’d been in the suit for eighteen hours. The Kryptonian fabric was immaculate, as always, but underneath, he felt grimy. Not with dirt—with absence.

His jaw was tight as he peeled the cape from his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor. He’d pick it up later. Maybe. The boots were kicked off next, landing with two dull thuds that seemed too loud in the quiet. Then the tunic, the sigil of the House of El catching the faint streetlight for a moment before he tossed it onto the armchair.

He stood in the middle of the living room in just the blue undersuit, his chest heaving. He didn’t want to go to bed. Your side of it would be empty, the sheets cold. He’d just lie there, wired and aching, listening to the world turn and hating every second of it.

Irritation clawed up his throat. It wasn’t even anger—not at you, never at you—but a furious, impotent frustration at himself. At his own ridiculous, overwhelming need. He was Superman. He shouldn’t be this… this clingy.

His fingers found the seal of the undersuit, peeling it down his torso. The cool air hit his skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature. He shucked the rest of it off along with his boxers, letting it fall in a heap, and now he was completely, utterly naked in the middle of his living room, the moonlight painting silver lines across the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the thick, heavy shape of his cock already half-hard and pressing against his thigh.

He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, messing up the careful wave he’d sported for the press earlier. He was so pent up it was almost painful. A dull, throbbing ache that started in his groin and radiated outward, settling in his clenched fists and his grinding teeth.

His gaze drifted, almost against his will, towards the bedroom. To the open door. To the laundry basket overflowing with the last of the things he’d been too lazy to fold.

And there, draped over the edge, was a flash of pale grey.

Your tank top. The one you’d worn the morning you left. You’d changed right before heading to the airport, tossing it into the basket with a casual flick of your wrist. He remembered. He remembered everything. He remembered how the thin fabric had clung to the curves of your breasts, the slight sheen of sweat on your collarbone from rushing to pack. He remembered how you’d smelled when you’d kissed him goodbye. Vanilla. Something floral. And underneath, something that was just… you. Warm, alive, human.

A low sound, something between a groan and a growl, rumbled in his chest. He told himself to stop. To go take a cold shower. To do literally anything else but his feet carried him to the basket anyway.

He reached down, his fingers brushing the cotton. It was soft. Worn. He lifted it, and a fresh wave of your scent hit him like a physical blow. It was fading—four days of absence had diluted it, plus it went already into the washing machine—but it was still there, trapped in the fibers. A ghost.

He didn’t think. He just acted.

Bringing the tank top to his face, he pressed the fabric against his nose, his mouth, and inhaled deeply. His eyes fluttered shut. There. There you were. A memory of your laughter, the way you’d whisper his name when he was inside you, the scratch of your nails down his back.

His cock twitched, then hardened fully, curving up towards his stomach, flushed and leaking a thin bead of precum. He was dizzy with it, the sudden, violent rush of desire.

He stumbled to the couch, sinking down onto the cushions. The leather was cold against his bare thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat coursing through his body. He leaned his head back against the cushion, still holding the tank top to his face, breathing you in. Breathe. Just breathe.

But breathing wasn’t enough.

His free hand, trembling slightly, drifted down his chest. He traced the lines of his own muscles—the deep groove between his pecs, the ridged ladder of his abs, the dark trail of hair that led lower. It wasn’t your hand. It was too large, too rough, the calluses on his palms from a lifetime of too much pressure. But it was all he had.

He thought about the way you touched him. Slow, at first. Teasing. You’d start at his hips, those clever fingers drawing lazy circles on the sensitive skin just above his groin, making his breath hitch. You’d never go straight for what he wanted. You’d make him wait, make him burn.

“Okay,” he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice a wrecked, gravelly rasp. “Okay, sweetheart. Like you. I can do it like you.”

His fingers traced those imaginary circles on his own hip, feather-light, agonizingly slow. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t you. But his body, starved for any kind of pleasure, responded anyway. His thighs tensed, his stomach muscles jumping under his skin.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He wrapped his hand around his length, and a choked groan was ripped from his chest. He was so hard it hurt, the skin hot and silky to the touch. He squeezed, just once, and his hips bucked involuntarily.

He tried to mimic your rhythm. The way you’d stroke him with a loose, twisting grip, your thumb sweeping over the head on every upstroke, gathering the slickness there. The way you’d whisper filthy, wonderful things in his ear, telling him how good he felt, how much you wanted him.

He started to move his hand, a slow, deliberate pace that had his toes curling against the rug. The tank top was still pressed to his face, and with every breath, he filled his lungs with you. He was drowning in you, in the memory of you, and he didn’t want to be saved.

“Yeah,” he gasped, the word muffled by the cotton. “Just like that. Fuck, just like that, honey. So good.”

His pace quickened, his control slipping. He was too far gone for slow. He needed more. The wet sound of his fist sliding over his cock filled the quiet room, obscene and desperate. He was making a mess—precum slicking his fingers, smearing on his stomach—and he didn’t care. He angled his hips, thrusting up into his own grip, chasing the pressure, the friction, the blinding heat that was building at the base of his spine.

His mind was a kaleidoscope of images. Your smile. The flash of heat in your eyes when you were on top of him. The way you’d bite your lip when you came. The sound of his name on your lips, broken into a thousand pieces.

“God,” he groaned, his voice cracking. “Oh, God—Sunshine. Please. Please, don’t stop.”

He was talking to a ghost. To a shirt. To the empty air. But he couldn’t stop. The petname fell from his lips like a prayer, raw and aching. Sunshine. What he’d called you since the first night you’d spent together, because you were the brightest, warmest thing in his entire world.

He was close. So close. The tension coiled tight in his balls, a white-hot wire about to snap. His strokes became frantic, uneven, his entire body rigid with the effort of holding on for just a second longer. He buried his face deeper into the tank top, inhaling a final, desperate lungful of your scent.

And that was it, that’s the way the world went white behind his eyelids.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Your name tangled with the pet name was torn from him in a hoarse, shattered cry as he came. His back arched off the couch, every muscle locked taut, and he spilled over his own fist in thick, pulsing ropes. Hot stripes of come painted his stomach, his lower abs, dripping down onto his hip. A small whimper came out of his lips. The mess was spectacular, glistening in the dim light, a testament to four days of agonizing denial.

He shuddered through it, his hand still moving slowly, milking the last tremors of pleasure from his spent body. His chest was heaving, sweat beading on his brow, his hair plastered to his forehead. The tank top, now slightly damp from his breath, slipped from his fingers and landed on his chest.

For a long moment, he just lay there, boneless and dazed, staring at the ceiling. The frantic, feverish need was gone, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in its wake. He felt… empty. The orgasm had been explosive, yes, a physical relief. But it wasn’t you. It was a pale, pathetic substitute.

He closed his eyes, the stickiness cooling on his skin, and wished, not for the first time that night, that you were here to wipe him clean. To curl up against his side and press a kiss to his shoulder.

He fell asleep on the couch, naked, covered in his own release, with your tank top clutched in his hand.

The first thing he was aware of was the smell of coffee behind the door and then the click of a key in the lock.

His eyes snapped open. Sunlight was streaming through the living room windows, turning the dust motes into floating gold. He was still naked. Still a mess. And his super-hearing was suddenly, terrifyingly focused on the sound of your heartbeat just outside the door.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

So fast. So alive. Here.

He should move. He should fly to the bathroom, clean up, put on some pants. Be the cool, collected boyfriend who definitely did not spend his nights jerking off into your clothes but his body wouldn’t obey. He was frozen, still sprawled on the couch, as the door swung open.

You walked in, rolling a small carry-on suitcase behind you on one hand while the other was busy with two coffees from the cafeteria two blocks away. You were wearing a sweater he’s very sure belongs to him and leggings, your hair pulled up in a messy bun. You looked tired. And absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

“Clark?” you called out, kicking the door shut behind you. “You up? My meeting from today was canceled and I was free to go. I thought I’d surprise—”

You rounded the corner into the living room and stopped dead.

Your eyes went wide. They took in the scene in a single, comprehensive Sweep. Your sweet and shy boyfriend, naked, sprawled on the couch. The drying, flaking mess on his stomach. Your tank top clutched in his hand. His flushed, disheveled face. The way his cock, already twitching back to life at the mere sight of you, was beginning to stir again against his thigh.

A beat of silence. Two.

Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across your face. It was a dangerous smile. A smile that made his stomach clench with a new, entirely different kind of heat.

“Well, good morning to you too,” you said, your voice a low purr. You dropped the handle of your suitcase. It fell to the floor with a clatter you didn’t even seem to hear. Your eyes never left his while you put the coffees in the coffee table that was close to him. “Miss me?”

He opened his mouth, but the only sound that came out was a strangled, helpless groan.

You were already walking towards him, shrugging off his sweater, wearing a thin shirt under. “Four days,” you murmured, reaching the couch and placing one knee on the cushion beside his hip. You leaned over him, your face inches from his, your scent—fresh, real, vivid—wiping away the ghost of the tank top entirely. “And you couldn’t even wait twenty minutes for me to get home?”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I didn’t now you were coming today, sunshine.”

“I can see that,” you whispered, smirking because he always can hear you even if you’re far away. He was very into his quiet moment, apparently. Your eyes were on his for a moment and then you were kissing him, hard and deep, and your hand was sliding down his chest, through the mess he’d made, making those faint circles around his groin area, barely brushing the curls of hair there and then wrapping around him with a grip that was so much better than his own.

He moaned into your mouth, his arms coming up to crush you against him, sticky skin and all and that way Clark realices that maybe being a clingy, desperate mess wasn’t so bad after all.