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bewitchedfeathers · 27 days ago

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Patented Reassuring Handsqueeze | Superman (2025)

Hello friends! I saw the new Superman movie twice, and my pattern with summer superhero blockbusters persists. Here’s some sneeze about it.

I know only a very casual pop culture amount about this character or DC Comics, so be nicies! Although in hindsight, what’s wrong with me? Supersneeze that is canon in several instances over the years. Am I stupid? Sign my ass up.

A few relatively minor spoiler warnings, but nothing that should ruin the movie. Set shortly the film, all fluff, I guess minor warnings for some weird alien body stuff but I don't get too graphic. Thanks for reading!

—

It’s late by the time they escape the photo flash and clamor of the press flooding in. There’s a camera in his face at every turn, a violation that he’s never had to tolerate very long. It’s easy to fly away, and preferable to do his own journalism, but he’s… trying. Lois at least has the option of disappearing among the throngs. If he weren’t in costume, he’d be doing the same.

He keeps spotting her long after she has every reason and right to head home, though. There’s more work to be done here than can be accomplished in a day, a week, or a month. A handful of metahumans will shorten the load, but regular people will always be the first and last defense of Metropolis’s beating heart. Seeing the outpouring of humanity’s support warms his own.

It’s the sentiment, or possibly it’s a fine layer of the Engineer’s nanite bots he can still feel clinging to his throat, his lungs, his sinuses. He’ll deal with it all later.

Each time he thinks Lois has been pulled away for good, there she is again — behind the press line with their other sleepless coworkers, or helping out at relief tents being erected along blocked-off city streets. Some of the barricades are repair crews and civil engineers already taking stock of the destruction, planning clean up on a larger scale.

Guilt will nag at him about that for a while, as it always does. He’ll help with the recovery as much as he can.

Lois is the one who finally pounces and drags him off, into the first moment of privacy he’s had since their kiss earlier. She gets him behind one of the tents offering clean water and temporary charging stations to most of the block. The cafe that’s providing the power has had its windows smashed and all other services suspended until the insurance pays out, but they’re still helping the community. Lois manages to squeeze him into the service alley alongside the building, where they’re less likely to be seen and mobbed.

The moment is a well-timed relief. Not just because Lois catches his face between her hands and hauls him down into another kiss. That’s fantastic, and he chases the press of her soft mouth as long as he can stand it.

Eventually though, Clark is forced to pull away and deal with the urge to cough that’s been threatening him for hours.

He lets her down, then turns and buries the hacking against one shoulder. A bright bloom of pain erupts behind his ribs with the pulse of each one. It’s not nearly so bad as having waves of the microscopic robots choking his every last cell for oxygen while he blazes through the thermosphere. By comparison, this is a breeze.

It still must look bad, gauging by the face Lois makes as he recovers. The fire in his lungs has dulled to an uncomfortable itch, his throat now scratchy and warm with the effort. Clark swallows and ducks his head.

“Sorry. I — HKMM! Excuse me. I really didn’t want to do that on camera.”

He doesn’t want to expectorate any nanites in front of Lois, either, but at least she won’t put it on the internet. Hopefully she won’t be too freaked out by the whole situation in general. She puts up with a lot of nonsense, both alien and terrestrial.

“Okay, wow. No kidding.” There are new lines of worry tightening her features now. As he drifts back down, she lays her hands against his chest, where even their negligible pressure almost triggers another spasm. He just manages to swallow it down, disguised behind a throatclear. He’d rather deal with it than have Lois stop touching him.

“Are you okay?” She presses.

Clark flashes his best reassuring smile, reaching up to curl his fingers around hers. There’s a feeling like ground glass behind his eyeballs. He has to keep blinking to ensure it’s the burn of a foreign irritant, and not his optics malfunctioning.

“I’m fine.” When that doesn’t smooth the pinch between her brows, he pairs the smile with a patented hand squeeze. “I just need to heal.”

That’s not a lie. It accounts for the throbbing, full-body ache he’s been enduring for much longer than the prickling sensation along his respiratory tract. The irritation is but a note in the symphony of fractures and perforations. A concentrated dose of solar radiation and a nap will cure all of the above, he hopes.

He sniffs, and Lois’s expression hesitates.

“Can you… heal here? At my place tonight?”

Clark gives it a second to let his brain catch up. Lois also must know that the process will be slower and less efficient, but he finds himself nodding dumbly along with her suggestion. He’d be an idiot to decline the invitation, not after how they left it last time. More than that, he wants to spend time with the woman he’s maybe officially dating now. As Clark Kent, preferably, and not as Superman.

“I…can. I can do that.” Lois couldn’t have been more blunt, but he still finds himself swallowing and asking, “Would you like me to?”

Lois’s enthusiastic yes comes in the form of tugging him back down into an equally enthusiastic kiss, her hands wrapped around his neck and shoulders.

This time, it’s the distant but familiar sound of barking that breaks Clark’s focus. He exhales through his nose and pulls back once more. Lois looks less patient now.

“Clark…”

“Look… Lois, look at me. I know.” He wants very desperately to go back to her place right now, this very second. He can get them there in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, the barking is getting louder and he has one more complication and responsibility to deal with. “I have to take Krypto home before he annihilates the entire pigeon population south of the Pickett.” He looks down at her sincerely. “It’ll be so quick.”

Lois signals exasperation, but her expression is fractured by a real, raw smile that makes his chest ache. That’s not just the collateral damage irritating his bronchi, he’s sure of it. “Okay. You know, I haven’t even asked what you planned to do with it. Is it your dog now?”

That she doesn’t immediately assume is one of the many reasons he loves her. “Thank you for asking. He is not my dog.”

“It’s just that he’s a flying alien dog that wears a cape, you know.”

Clark sighs.

“I know.”

—

In the end, he begs a favor off of Hawkgirl, rather than flying all the way to home base and back again. He’s going to owe her so, so much for this.

“I owe you,” Clark promises. “So much. I can pick him up tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d keep your curtains drawn so he can’t see any squirrels. And he’s very food motivated, so put a lock on the fridge. Or something really really heavy in front of it.”

Like that’s going to stop the mutt when he’s well and determined. Clark watches Krypto sniff around a tipped-over hot dog cart and has a sudden vision of the very real gastrointestinal havoc he might wreak on Kendra’s carpet. He gives a short, sharp whistle. It gets the superdog’s attention, but in the next moment Clark is hopping back on one leg and fending off a familiar game of boot theft.

“Maybe just assume he has no manners in gener– ow! Hey, no no no. Krypto, leave it!”

Hawkgirl watches the entire thing with her mace slung over her shoulder, looking unimpressed.

“Have you considered training him?”

“I have tried training him. You know it’s not a regular dog, right?”

Hawkgirl purses her lips, producing a pretty good approximation of his whistle. Krypto pauses in resoling Clark’s shoes and puts his head up, ears cocked. Hips starting to wag, he watches Kendra unscrew the spiked metal ball from her mace and toss it in her hand a few times. His snout follows the trajectory in a synched bob and drop.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like listening to you. Sit.”

Clark can’t even be surprised, just sighing and humbled by Krypto’s furry butt immediately planted to the pavement. He is one thousand percent laser focus, the goodest boy there ever was, and a traitor for it. Fine. At least he’s out of Clark’s hair.

He takes Kendra’s smug look on the chin, and she rewards Krypto by shotputting the Nth metal

sphere somewhere down the ruined avenue. The canine takes off after it in a thunder of clattering paws and barks. Let her figure out how to get her weapon back from the mutt in her own time.

Clark smothers another sudden, urgent cough into his shoulder, feeling each catch like sandpaper in his throat. He wants to keep coughing, but Hawkgirl is good enough not to mention it, so he gets a hold of himself.

“Alright, get out of here. Go make your girlfriend happy. You earned it, I guess.”

“You’re amazing. Seriously, I owe you.”

Please please please be good, he tries to impress upon Krypto through some late-stage telepathy he’s hoping to spontaneously develop. He’s starting to run out of dogsitters for the dog he’s supposed to be sitting, here.

—

While not quite the same as cranking the UV index up past 11, the hot shower at Lois’s apartment feels incredibly good. Clark muffles his coughs into cupped hands under the sluicing spray, swaying and soaking in the heat. He can’t tell if his nose is running in the constant streams of water, or if he’s imagining some of it. He takes advantage of the privacy to clear it into his bare hands anyway, grimacing through the nasty necessity of it all.

He also can’t tell if it’s concerning or relieving to find a faint, silvery glitter on his palms afterwards, gleaming like sand before the water washes it away. Hmm.

The warmth is more settled in his bones when he finally climbs out to find a change of clothes set out for him. That in itself isn’t unusual. It’s handy to keep a spare cache of civilian attire anywhere he can, and he’s positive he had an extra shirt or two at Lois’s apartment before they ever slept together.

He’s certainly not going to say no if she’s interested in that tonight. Still, a part of him is relieved when she appears in the doorway and herds him into the kitchen first. Lois reaches up to compulsively ruffle his wet hair, trails her palms down his back, and best of all: begins assembling sandwiches.

“I’m all talked out about it for today, if you are. I‘m definitely thinking of a social media ban for the rest of the evening. I haven’t checked the news in like… an hour.” Considerable restraint, on her part. He knows her phone has been blowing up since her article dropped. “Are you hungry?”

It’s like she’s speaking straight to his soul. “I could eat.”

Clark sinks back against the doorframe, pretending like it’s not mostly propping him up at this point. “Am I banned from social media too?” He wonders, mouth hooking with soft amusement.

“I thought you didn’t read that stuff,” Lois retorts. Her smile is sharper, but no less fond. “I think it’d be a good idea, but.” She shrugs. “You’re a big boy, make your own choices.”

“Hm,” Clark agrees. He doesn’t have the energy to argue if he wanted to.

Also, even the effort of talking is starting to aggravate his throat. He passes a massaging palm over it while Lois’s back is turned, flitting about the kitchen.

“You’re probably right.”

Those are some of her favorite words.

Lois makes him three sandwiches, which he handily demolishes. He needs the calories as sorely as he does sleep. He can tell that Lois is exhausted too, and bullies her into throwing together a turkey and cheese for herself. He’ll concede on her preference for an unholy amount of mayonnaise, so long as she’s not thriving on sugar and sugar alone. He’s never met a human hummingbird before her.

“I need something mindless, mundane,” she rambles, waving away his attempts to help with either the making or the clean up. Too stubborn or tightly wound to let herself unravel just yet. She takes unexpectedly ravenous bites of her sandwich in between putting away packages of deli meats and relegating the dishes to the sink. “I’m behind in Love River. Ethan and Hailey were about to split.”

“Oh, no way,” Clark deadpans. He moves behind her, sweeping crumbs from the counter in her wake and dodging the towel smack she flashes his way. “They were?”

Lois’s guilty pleasure of terrible reality dating shows is an indulgence that Clark is happy to ignore, relegated to a mutual but different tier of background noise. They can talk tomorrow. For now, he gets to just lay his head in her lap with a pillow between his still-damp hair and her bare thighs.

His frame is too long for her sofa at full sprawl, so his legs either hang over the edge or his knees stick out, but it doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes while she watches her trash television and threads her fingers across his scalp. She’s been constantly tousling and touching his hair, like she’s determined to make him as fluffy as possible when it dries. Clark couldn’t care less. He’s completely subdued, melting and pliant under her touch. This is all he wants in the universe right now.

The only downside is that either the steam of the shower or his natural healing processes seem to have loosened something in his chest. That deep, scratchy irritation keeps trying to crawl back up his throat, to the point where he’s forced to press a hand over his mouth and abort a few coughs that want to break through.

The gritty sensation behind his eyes has spread to the back of his nose, too. He tries to wrinkle and relax it, hoping that sleep will claim him before the irritation really gets a foothold.

He doesn't get that lucky.

Lois also seems done with pretending that she doesn’t notice his plight. Clark feels a tug on his ear, and cracks his eyes open. She has paused in her idle stroking, instead frowning at him anew.

“What’s going on with you, Spaceman?”

“Hm?” Even that much response snags in his throat. He clears it, automatic and damning.

“Your bruises are healed,” Lois says, tracing a spot between his neck and back where a broad purple stain has already yellowed and faded, now a mere shadow disappearing under his t-shirt. “But you still sound like you’ve got the black lung.”

She doesn’t know how accurate that is. The surprise makes him laugh, which makes him cough, which turns into a whole production. Clark ends up shrimped on his side away from Lois, shoulders shaking as he drives another round of deactivated nanites into his sleeve. He manages to sit up and away from her with the effort, but each inhale is quickly becoming a wheeze.

Worse, the change in position somehow exacerbates the tingling in his sinuses, and the shifting pressure finally triggers something more disastrous.

He feels himself draw a huge breath without meaning to. His chest rises sharply, and Clark only has enough time to think ‘oh… oh no’ before a sneeze rushes him like an oncoming train.

“HUH–IGHHTZSST’sshh–uhh…!”

He does his best to choke it back, albeit with only limited success. The half-strangled explosion feels like a sonic boom inside his own skull, and the gust that escapes him still completely clears the coffee table.

Lois’s haphazard piles of books, papers, charging cords, snack wrappers and empty coffee cups all go flying across the room. Scattered pages are still drifting to the floor when Clark catches his breath, nose prickling, and pries his eyes open to check the casualties.

It… could be worse. There’s no broken glass or major electronics. He missed the TV, and Lois’s laptop is still parked at her opposite side, out of his immediate range. Even so, he’s mortified at the slip-up.

Clark rocks to his feet at once, ignoring the blood rush to his head. He goes to work collecting her scattered notes and disguises a quick assessment of any environmental or structural damage while he’s at it. There’s none, fortunately. Clark is only a little reassured.

“Ugh. I’mb– SNFF! I’m so sorry.”

Lois is staring at him, as he expected, but she snaps out of it quickly.

“That’s not… Clark, sit down, it’s fine. I don’t care about the stuff.” As she realizes that he’s not going to respond, she sighs and gets up. Lois bends over to retrieve a couple of books that have landed with their spines open, and somehow her helping only makes him feel worse. They clean in silence for a minute.

“Have I… seen you sneeze before?” Lois wonders with a dose of side-eye.

“I’m sure you have.”

“I’m sure I would have remembered that.”

Touché.

Clark taps the last stack of papers together and sets them back on the table. He sinks down to the couch, embarrassed. Bowed over his lap, he runs his fingers through his hair with a sniffle.

He doesn’t want to actually be dishonest with her, not any more than he has to be. Avoidance would have been preferable. They can skip the rest of it, but somehow they have to talk about this right now?

“Right. Well.” He sniffs. ”That doesn’t… usually happen.” Not if he can at all help it.

Lois comes to perch in a newly cleared spot on the coffee table. It’s a bold choice to sit across from him, given that his eyes are still watering and his mouth is hung slightly open in a not-quite-there-yet anticipation. There’s no way he’s done. Everything within his focus feels like a fuzzy uncertainty.

Lois crosses her legs and leans forward anyway, her hand slipping under the rumpled fringe of his forelock. The press of her palm against his brow flutters his eyes shut. He’s not febrile, but he recognizes the gesture for what it is and finds himself leaning in.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but are you getting sick?”

He laughs weakly, and this time doesn’t fall to pieces over it. Lois’s unamused expression sobers him.

“Sorry, sorry– HKMM. No, I’m not sick. It’s just that a cold actually might be… less weird?” He rubs his nose. “Maybe less gross?” And overall less likely. Clark clears his throat into the cup of his hands, using the temporary cover to scrunch his nose with a little more effort.

Lois barely even blinks at the warning. She does seem to realize something is brewing, however, and comes to sit beside him rather than in the direct line of fire. Clark takes the opportunity to press the flats of his fingertips to either side of his nose. He rubs with fierce abandon, until the flaring itch starts to dull.

“You lost me again, Smallville.”

He’s trying. If his nose could just let him continue.

Clark sniffles carefully. “Uhm, I got way more intimate with the Engineer’s naa–haaah…” His eyelids flicker, fighting it. “... hhh, with her nanobots. SNFF! More intimate than I wanted to be.” He barely recovers, and goes back to scrubbing his nose before it verges again.

“You almost had it right, with the black lung. I think my body’s still trying to work some of them out.” Another sniff. “It itches like crazy.”

He’s glad he doesn’t have to spell it out in any more detail than that. Lois seems to infer the general nature of his predicament as she looks him up and down, wincing with sympathy.

“Oh. Well that sounds… wildly uncomfortable.”

So, he’s not going to give her the details on what it feels like to claw huge handfuls of the abrasive and suffocating black mucus straight from his lungs. This is better!

But he really does have to sneeze.

Lois sees it coming too, and she leans to snatch a tissue box off the same end table her computer occupies. That’s a good idea. He probably could have asked for those earlier.

She gets the box in front of him just in time for Clark to tug a few sheets free. Now that he knows it’s coming, he does a better job controlling the breath he takes in preparation. The breakwater of his hands and tissues corrals the rest to a powerful, head-bobbing sneeze.

“—H’PHFFF’SSHH!”

He exhales shakily, but doesn’t let himself relax. The downside of checking their strength means that sometimes he needs more than…

“H’FFZSSHHh—shuh!”

That’s better. Sometimes it takes more than one to do the job. He hitches once, then again, keeping the tissues firmly in place until he trusts himself to relax. He draws a deeper breath. Turning from present company as much as he can, Clark strains to blow his nose with some remaining shreds of decorum.

He’s expecting Lois to give him a little more space for all of this, but through trust or bravery she doesn’t budge. The subsequent sneezes have only stirred a few sheets of paper and floated them to the edge of the table, so that probably helps. He’s nonetheless appreciative of her hand smoothing over his back.

“Bless you.”

“Thank you.” He lowers the tissues, and quickly crushes them into a fist at the slightest glimpse of something dark and metallic within. For the love of… “Sorry, I mean.”

Lois reaches up to finger one of his curls back into place, then another. “How about we can the apologies unless you actually break something, huh?”

Until he actually breaks something, Clark corrects in his head. It would be smarter to leave now, just in case. She really doesn’t seem fazed, though, and he does crave the company.

“I will… try very hard not to. Break something or apologize.”

Lois does her adorable laugh-snort, and leans in to kiss his arm. He thinks she’ll be less amused if he blows out her windows. He won’t, but he could.

“Appreciate it,” she murmurs through the cotton of his shirt worn soft and thin. Heat curls through his center, at her dark-eyed look and her closeness. The last bastion of his own reluctance is melting fast.

She starts to lean up and kiss him with intention, but breaks off from the contact when a belated thought occurs to her.

“Okay, wait. One second, follow-up question.” Clark blinks dazedly at her. Before they get distracted? Too late.

“Uhm-hm?”

“You’ll be okay, right? Should I be worried about these nanites doing any other damage? They’re not going to seep into your brain when you’re asleep and turn you evil or anything?” She holds his cheek with one hand and thumbs back one of his eyelids with the other, scrutinizing his corneas for evidence of a foreign invasion.

Clark puts up with it until his eyes start to water, which is almost immediately. He ducks away from the touch, sniffling.

“Sorry,” she says.

“It’s fine.” He blinks a few times. “I think that was several questions, though.”

Lois shrugs. “I never specified just one.”

He reaches a curled knuckle up to collect a tear threatening to overspill. He almost doesn’t want to know if they have the same silvery, car paint quality of disseminated microscopic tech. Maybe the whole thing freaks him out more than it will her.

“Well. I think that’s… very unlikely, though I guess not technically impossible.” He rubs the faint glitter of wetness on his fingertips away. ”I’ll be okay.”

He’s a bit touched by her nagging skepticism turned concern. They can be one in the same. He sniffles as she moves closer, yet still runs a hand up her arm. He can never say no to her.

“I’m probably going to keep sneezing, though.”

Lois seems to consider this, and finds that it doesn’t dissuade the inviting peck of her mouth against his. “I’ll take my chances,” she decides.

She’s halfway into his lap already, so he cups his hands beneath her thighs and scoops her the rest of the way. That seems to have been her angle all along. Lois straddles him comfortably, hips seated against his own, and kisses him to distraction. He’s… well.

He’s tired, but he’s not dead.

Before that thought can go any further, the arrangement is already proving problematic. Her nose rubs against his own as they kiss, and even a gentle smush against her cheek right now is enough to sow irritation. The back of his sinuses twinges, and something he’d usually never notice suddenly has Clark gasping and reeling back.

Oh, gosh, that tickles…

He gets his hands on her waist and his head turned, just in time to rock them both with another tightly-bridled sneeze.

“IGT’NK–SHHh’uh!”

He manages to hold it in, if barely. Lois puts a hand on his shoulder for three-point support, so he also manages not to throw her in the process. That’s crucial. If the coats in the hall are swaying a little, well…

He doesn’t have much opportunity to notice, anyway. Lois bails sidelong off his lap while he’s trapped in a building crescendo of breaths towards another. He can’t blame her for taking cover.

But then she presses a pre-plucked nest of tissues on him, nudging his hands away from his face so he can take them. Is she crazy?

“Bless you. Here, c’mon, don’t do that. You’re supposed to be getting rid of that crap.”

Oh. She has a point, there. Clark fumbles the tissues from her, and clasps them quickly back in place as his chest expands.

“ —IH’TZZSHHHh–SHOO!”

Despite the strength of the explosion, there’s no collateral damage this time. His own body acts as a good enough shield to contain the blow, the soft paper in between notwithstanding. He works his nose carefully into what remains of it, clearing his head in the wake of that last go.

Surely he’s got to purge it all at some point.

“Bless you,” Lois offers yet again, once he seems finished. He can’t deny that a warm golden buzz seeps through him at the attention. Hers is a very normal response, despite him acting anything but.

She’s also got another handful of tissues ready, because she’s incredible and intuitive and he’s a mess. Clark does wish he were faring a little more smoothly. In his defense, each sneeze is knocking him nearly senseless.

The second attempt to empty his sinuses is more successful, at least.

“Thank you,” he says as he cleans up. Lois still hasn’t moved from his side. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I’d completely understand if… ”

Lois seems surprised at the question. She smooths his hair back into place again, suddenly committed to keeping it neat even as he is clearly falling apart from the inside out.

“I’m sure. You’re actually very cute like this.”

Clark cuts her a skeptical look, which makes her laugh.

“I’m serious! It’s sort of… vulnerable.” When he opens his mouth to protest that she has definitely seen him at rock bottom, physically and emotionally, she cuts him off with a quick kiss. “A different kind of vulnerable. I don’t know.” It’s her turn to dole out a reassuring hand squeeze. “Look, Clark. I trust you to leave if you need to,” she says, with a softening sincerity. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Clark considers this for a moment. He’s not going to argue with her, he’ll take ‘cute’. And if she trusts him about everything else, then so does he.

“Okay.”

Lois leans aside to turn the television off, then gets to her feet and holds her arms down to him with a little flappy fingers ‘come on’ motion.

“Wait, what happened?” Clark blinks as he rises to her bidding. “Did they break up or not?”

“Shush, you don’t care,” Lois taunts him as she draws him into a familiar, standing embrace. It’s a little safer than having her in his lap, so he leans in and props his chin on her head. “And I don’t think I was actually paying attention. I was thinking about how much I want to take you to bed.”

He still jostles her with a laugh that turns to a cough, stepping back when it jags on for a few beats. He manages to recover himself before it gets out of control again.

“Uhm – SNFF! I want to, trust me, but it might not be the best idea right now.”

She looks at him in confusion while he dithers over the best way to decline, then scoffs in sudden, amused relief. “Put you to bed, I mean. I’d like you to be unconscious in the next fifteen to twenty minutes,” she assures, reaching for him once more. He lets her step back in, relaxing. “And me behind you. But…” She kisses the center of his chest, then gives him a full-body push towards the bedroom. Clark lets her displace him into a slight stagger, smiling. “I am going to jump you the second you’re better. Don’t worry.”

His smile turns up a notch, wry. “I wasn’t worried. But it’s good we’ve got similar goals.”

“Bed.”

—

Winding down through their individual routines provides a comforting sort of domesticity, the kind of cozy human connection that he favors most. Laying in the dark and just holding Lois might be a better form of healing than any Kryptonian fortress or automatons can provide.

Well, no. That’s not fair to Gary. He does a great job.

His symptoms have even died down a little, save for the persistent tug of a few coughs and sniffles. There’s still a funny, granular sort of tingling in his sinuses that could go either way, but he’s once again hoping that sleep will win out and he can deal with it all in the morning.

It’s why Clark sighs, when Lois lifts her head from where it’s snuggled into his arm. She peers up at him in the dim quiet of the bedroom.

“Hey, about those nanobots…”

“Hm’wha?” He manages, slurring back towards full consciousness. The nanobots? The ones real or imagined that he can still feel buzzing around in his head and his chest? He’d almost learned to ignore it.

“I should tell you that Mister Terrific put a bunch of micro-trackers in your blood too,” Lois murmurs against him, as she settles back in like this is a comforting weight to get off her chest. “He made it sound like a compliment.”

Great! How long have those been there? And Superman actually likes that guy…

Clark imagines that’s how they found him in the first place, so he probably can’t be too upset about it. Still, what happened to consent?

He shifts an arm free so that he can rub the flat of his hand against his nose with an effortful squint. Thinking or talking about any of the tiny invaders swarming inside him, like viruses, isn’t where he wants to be right now. It’s just making him want to sneeze.

He sniffles deeply, sheepish about how wet and dragging the sound is, and rolls partially away from her so he can rub with more conviction.

“Ugh– SNFF! Why bring it up now?”

“Jeez, I thought you’d want to know,” Lois frowns. She fishes around for the tissue box while he’s occupied. “What if that’s complicating things? Maybe they’re duking it out with that scary lady’s bots inside you or something.”

Yeah, he really can’t think about it. Mostly because he’s…

“I’m go’huh–onna—...”

It’s the most warning he gets before the urge overwhelms him. If Lois already has tissues ready, he misses them. Despite all of the warnings he’s had, Clark still just manages to get an arm up in front of his face.

It only mitigates some of the damage.

“—HUH’ESSZHHHH-SHOO!!”

Lois has the forethought to get the blankets in a deathgrip before he rips them from the bed in the wind tunnel of his sneeze. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help the resulting skid, thud, and CRASH of something finally shattering on the other side of the room. The sound of broken glass tinkles down for a few seconds afterwards, followed by stunned silence.

“... was that my mirror?”

Clark squints through the darkness. “I think so.” He sniffles. “Sorry.”

He starts to get up, but Lois puts an immediate hand on his chest. She pushes him back down to the mattress. “Don’t. We’ll clean it up in the morning.”

“But–...”

“Clark,” she warns. “It’s fine. I probably deserved that one.”

He lets himself slowly settle into her embrace this time. He doesn’t think she did, but he’ll take the dismissal. “I’ll get you another.”

Lois nudges and resettles him to her liking, until she’s corrected him into the little spoon position. “Fine, if it makes you happy.” She kisses his shoulder, and he can’t deny that he feels secure like this, both being held and because it’s easier to turn away if he needs to. He really hopes he doesn’t need to, though. He’s exhausted.

“Do you feel better, at least?” Lois murmurs, in a softer tone. He curls his fingers around the ones she twines between them, and returns the squeeze.

He does feel better. That last eruption seemed to dislodge some of the more persistent irritation. He suspects he’ll be paying for some inertia in the morning, and he’ll feel guilty about the mirror all over again. Right now he feels sore, satisfied, and loved.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Good.”

Lois also seems satisfied, because she’s quiet afterwards. Clark feels her hand slacken and listens to her heartbeat slow in the darkness, matching his breathing to hers until the tide of sleep finally pulls him under.

#mmmmm lovely and sweet #and of course love sneezy Clark who is so apologetic #fics #ck #superman

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bewitchedfeathers · 27 days ago

Text

cat & mouse (superman)

lex luthor is a mad scientist and his new muse is clark kent. he is eager to find out what kryptonite mist does to superman, and learns some new feelings along the way. word count: 4.6k tags: light mess, yandere (ish), the closet is glass (literally), superman in a fish tank, really bad and incorrect science sorry, if anyone knows anything abt science don’t read this pls im so embarrassed, written with my dick and not a single brain cell, alien, allergies, hayfever, clex if you squint, freak relationships idk, a/n: i literally know nothing abt dc or superman outside of the movie (which was awesome and david is so sexy wow wow wow dimpledimpledimpledimple) so forgive me for every single inaccuracy in this lmaooooo. i just wanted to write lex being a Homo Freak Loser (bald). i promise i’ll write something normal next i just really wanted to explore this strange dynamic

A cage is too crass of a word to describe the luxurious containment pod Lex built for Clark. This is a gift. A gesture of admiration dressed up as a fish tank.

It’s made of high glass walls, thick and reflective from the inside, so Clark can’t see outwards but Luthor can see in. Inside is a twin-sized cot, covered in burgundy and brown quilts, arranged with the tenderness of a caretaker rather than a captor. Lex isn’t a captor, he’s just a scientist. A round wooden nightstand sits beside the bed, a potted plant at its foot. On top: a silver analog clock, a glass of distilled water, a framed photo of Jimmy, Lois and Clark at a baseball game.

No, it’s a terrarium fit for Superman.

Surrounding of the terrarium is a laboratory, bought and owned by LexCorp, with the purpose of studying meta-human DNA to further modern medicine, science and building a better tomorrow, today.

He came up with the mission statement himself. It sounds nicer than ‘I wanna be smarter than Einstein and richer than Rockefeller.’

Getting the facility up and running was a massive undertaking. But procuring Superman? That had taken years of planning.

Or—no. Not Superman. Not anymore.

Clark.

Clark Kent is his muse now.

There was a very lonely few years in prison, staring at the corroding cement, with those blue eyes burning into the back of his skull. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Superman’s straight teeth and deep, cavernous dimples.

It made his stomach roll with rage enough to kill him.

But it also gave him passion. There was a motivation behind his prison break, one that couldn’t be quenched by curiosity. He needed answers. He needed science.

Clark sits hunched over, elbows on his knees, in a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and a white tee shirt that hangs off of him. He looks… smaller like this. Fragile. Not like the man who once hovered above cities with the sun burning at his back. Not like the god the world once looked up to.

Clark takes off his glasses, rubs the lenses against the hem of his shirt, his hands trembling just enough to betray him.

“I—I don’t know if anyone’s out there,” he says, voice fragile and shy. “But I think… I think you’ve got the wr—wrong guy.” He doesn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

Lex had thought the same, once. Had laughed aloud in disbelief when his men brought him a bumbling reporter from The Daily Planet—the guy who spilled his coffee, who regularly volunteered at the soup kitchen, who said “gosh” and kept a bottle of Zoloft in his medicine cabinet.

But then the cloth soaked in kryptonite was pressed over his mouth, and Clark had dropped like a stone. His skin even screamed. Turned gray, veins rising in angry black rivulets across his arms and neck. His heart slowed. The air had been yanked from his lungs.

That’s when Lex knew. That’s when it all clicked into place.

The bumbling fool. The clumsy hands. The cowardly flinches. The incompetent reporter was actually Superman in disguise.

Clark doesn’t know he’s being watched. The walls of the terrarium are mirrored on his side. But on the other side, Lex watches everything.

He steps into the observation deck now, gloved hands steepled behind his back. He watches the way Clark flinches when the mic flips on, even though he can’t see who it is yet. Something primal in him knows. His senses are heightened, maybe he knows Lex’s scent the way Lex knew his.

There’s a beat. Then recognition.

Clark’s head jerks toward the mirror. He doesn’t see Lex, he’s looking a little too far right. His eyes widen, pupils blown. Confusion, then disbelief. Then horror.

“Lex,” he breathes. “You’re… You were supposed to be in prison.”

Lex smiles, not bothering to hide the satisfaction that ripples through him. “Hello, Clark. It’s been a while since we’ve seen one another. Though, I knew you under a different name then.”

Clark stands. Slowly. He’s taller, broader than Lex, but he shrinks into himself, shoulders curling inward like without his suit he’s trying to disappear.

“Lex, listen—I know you’re upset but—”

“You’re mistaken,” Lex says gently. “I’m not angry. I’ve had time to reflect, Clark. Four years, to be exact. Four years staring at the same four concrete walls, with nothing but your face in my mind. Your eyes. Your voice. Your smile.”

Lex steps closer to the glass, his voice soft, reverent. He brushes his fingers across the glass.

“I learned that it isn’t that I despise meta-humans, I despise lack of understanding. I hate what I do not understand. You see, right?” Lex paces along the glass mirror, and to counter Clark sits back on the mattress. He’s too big for the twin size, his width swallowing it whole. “So in my solitude, I decided I wanted to turn a new leaf. I don’t want war, I want understanding.”

He presses his hand to the glass, palm flat. “And now look where we are.”

Clark swallows hard. His lips are red, bitten, worry-wet. His skin glows golden in the artificial lighting, freckled across the bridge of his nose where the sun has kissed him the most. The prescription in his glasses makes his eyes look enormous. Vulnerable.

Lex wants to trace every line of him. He wants to hold Clark’s face in his hands and make him understand how tragically beautiful he is when he’s terrified. How weak he is when he’s not hiding behind Superman’s bravado.

The door to the terrarium opens with a hiss, and Lex steps through.

Clark freezes. Moves back again. But there’s nowhere to go. The cot creaks beneath him as he sits, arms stiff in his lap.

Lex kneels before him, slow, patient. One hand reaches up, fingers brushing Clark’s chin. He tilts his head left, then right. Studies him like a sculptor admiring his masterpiece.

“You’re magnificent,” Lex whispers. “You always were. Even when you were pretending not to be.”

Clark doesn’t answer. His breathing has quickened. His eyes search Lex’s face like he’s trying to find the man he used to know. But Lex sees the exact moment he realizes he’s gone.

This isn’t a rivalry.

This is worship.

“Lex, there are people who need me out there. You’ve got to see that by now—just let me go. The lives I could be saving—”

Lex’s fingers tighten abruptly around Clark’s chin, the gentleness from before vanishing into the air. His thumb presses cruelly into the hinge of Clark’s jaw. A high, wounded sound escapes Clark’s throat.

Lex smiles thinly. “Feel free to take off your shoes and get comfortable. You’ll be here for a while.”

He releases him with a flick, shoving his hands into his pockets like nothing had happened. As he walks toward the door, Clark’s voice trembles.

“And what happens when you’ve grown bored of experimenting on me? What then?”

The door hisses open, electric and final.

Lex doesn’t turn. “Then I’ll kill you.

Lex is a scientist, not a monster, so he leaves Clark Kent to get acclimated to his room. He watches the monitor of his terrarium from the privacy of the observation deck for the majority of the night. Not out of cruelty, just sheer curiosity.

Clark is a peaceful sleeper, on his back, with an arm thrown over his stomach. He wets his lips and crinkles his nose a lot while he’s dreaming. It’s involuntary, it’s fascinating.

At 6:30 a.m., breakfast is delivered—eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Clark eyes the tray with understandable suspicion. He stabs at the eggs with his fork, flips them, pokes the toast like it might spring to life. Eventually, hunger wins. He takes a tentative bite, and when nothing happens, he finishes the meal. He drains the water last.

At 7:15 a.m., Lex switches on the mic.

“Experiment One.”

Clark bolts upright, startled. He looks around wildly for the source of the voice.

“I’ve long been curious about your relationship to kryptonite,” Lex says, conversational. “We know the green geode in the physical form weakens you…tactile exposure leads to shortness of breath, disorientation, cell decay. But what about different types of kryptonite? What about different states of matter?”

A soft, mechanical click echoes from the ceiling. Then: a hiss.

From the vents, a faint green haze begins to spill, curling like smoke. The color is soft but unmistakable—glowing a radioactive sapphire, delicate in its danger. The mist spreads slowly across the floor, dense, clinging to corners and swirling across the cot like fog at dawn.

Clark tenses. He squints up at the vents as the first trace of kryptonite-laced vapor curls down toward him. The scent hits him instantly, the smoky, charcoal chemical. To Lex, it was barely noticeable, like charred metal or a burnt-out fuse.

But to Clark, it’s overwhelming.

He reels back, face twisting in visible discomfort, his breath catching sharply in his throat.

“Oh, look at you,” Lex purrs into the mic, raptly focused on his subject.

There is a brief second where Clark entirely loses control over himself. His lip curls up in a snarl, driving a knuckle into the side of his nose. The tickle contorts his face into a desperate limbo, lips puckered as the scent shifts around him. The air grows thick with the heavy scent, nearly odorless to Luthor but so strong for Clark.

“Wh—hH!…gzH..”

Erratically, his nostrils pulsate and his breath snags on the edge of a sneeze. He sniffles deeply as moisture immediately begins to collect at the rim of his nostrils. He wipes his nose carelessly on the back of his hand.

Lex watches in fascination as Clark’s elbow preemptively rises and lowers as he wars with the sensation. This was not the reaction he anticipated at all, but it piques his interest all the same. Is he going to sneeze? Maybe? Maybe not?

Clark’s breath trips on a soft breath, then rushes out in a groan, and then a larger more violent gasp. His chest expands to take in as much air as possible.

Clark pushes out another breath. His voice is whiny and cracks in the center, in a way Superman’s had not. “HHU—Hhhh..”

Then the most glorious thing happened. Lex approaches the glass in awe.

A tear rolls down Clark’s cheek, it skates into the crevice of his nose, down his lips and drips off the bottom of his face.

It’s beautiful.

Lex steps closer to the glass, heart thudding. This is it.

Clark gasps audibly, then again, but silent this time, his face twisted, lips parted in raw anticipation. “hihHh! hHHH!”

The sensation peaks.

“HEHh’TZZSSSCHHHhOo!”

It was the most enormous, throat scraping sneeze Lex had ever seen, and the look of satisfaction never crosses Clark’s face. The glass walls tremble with the force of it, the glass of water tips, a slow splash sloshing over its lip. The clock on the nightstand shifts backward an inch from the force.

Clark doesn’t even pause. His breath catches again.

“h—dJJZSSSHT'uhh!! Oh boy, that rhH…really tiHhckles—hAHhh…HD’ZZSCHHHHh’eu!”

Another follows: deeper, rougher. It seems once he breaks the surface tension, he can’t stop. He coughs, a catastrophic swelling breath catching right on the edge of his teeth. Lex watches Superman press his mouth into the crook of his elbow with a prayer and a cinch between his eyebrows, shoulders quivering as he bends himself in half.

“h-h…Oh, geez L-Louise—MMHFSSHHhh! hD’jSZCHHHT’iu!”

Lex waves a hand. The fog machine stops. The hiss cuts off. The colorful mist halts mid-swirl, the color beginning to dilute in the air. Clark, still reeling, lifts his head slightly. His elbow glistens with spray, wet and slick from the last sneeze. His eyelashes are soaked spikes, cheeks stained rosy and marred with tear tracks. Clark surprises him again, by cupping his hands into small fists and lifts them to cover his mouth and nose like he’s trying to trap the tickle.

“h’ZTSSHh’yh!—KZSCHhh!!” Clark’s shoulders jerk inwards, as he captures the sound into his palms. The harshness of his sneeze fades with the oppressive burn of kryptonite fog. Without such an offensive presence, his sneezes are much more meek—fitting of him. The itch isn’t brutal and consuming, it was needy and flighty, dancing with just a delicate touch. It was euphoric, a gentle tease, feathery and light.

Lex watches, rapt, as Clark’s wet lashes flutter open. His face is pink and painfully human. His breath is still shaky, still uncertain. Another sneeze curls at the edge of his face. He blinks up at the ceiling, breath hitching—

And dives into his hands again.

“DzSShh…! —t’ZSSCHh!! — dZSCHht! Umb, snff-sNF! Excuse mbe—hHDZJJSSCHHHh!—uhhggnnn...”

Lex tsks under his breath. The sound is quiet, almost affectionate.

His expression shifts, still cold, but with something softer beneath. It doesn’t suit him. Sympathy looks strange on him, tenderness stretches like an ill fitted glove.

Clark is a dripping mess, an aftermath of natural disaster. Red-nosed, damp, dazed. Lost in a haze of allergic misery, too overwhelmed to remember to be polite. His hand drags across his upper lip, from knuckle to wrist, sniffling wetly. He lifts the hem of his shirt and pinches it against his enflamed septum, dabbing moisture across the fabric with frantic itchy urgency.

The microphone picks up every sound—the wet squelch of congestion, the rhythmic sniffles, the desperate rustle of cloth against irritated skin.

Lex sighs.

He crosses the observation deck and retrieves a box of tissues from a corner desk. When he reaches the door, he presses his palm to the biometric pad. The DNA scanner flashes green, and the door hisses open.

“You’re going to rub your face raw,” Lex says coolly, stepping into the terrarium.

Clark doesn’t answer. Just sits there, dazed, still sniffling, red-eyed and blinking.

Lex crouches in front of him and smacks his hand away from his nose. The damp fabric of his shirt flutters down.

Up close, he watches Clark’s nostrils pulsate, quivering wide and trembling with every slow inhale. But the irritant is gone, and the sneeze won’t come. The tickle lingers… taunting… tickling… torturing.

Poor, pathetic thing.

Lex holds out a tissue.

Clark doesn’t move to take the tissue. His breath is panting, suspended in that pre- and post-sneeze haze—his glassy eyes half-lidded, his nostrils quivering delicately, flaring with each shallow inhale.

Lex sighs, exasperated. “Useless,” he mutters, and folds the tissue neatly over Clark’s flushed nose himself. “Blow.”

That breaks through the fog. Clark startles, eyes widening in a haze of allergic tears. His cheeks flush, blooming a deep, rosy red embarrassment that streaks all the way up to his ears.

“But—I’bm all—I’bm a mbess,” he stammers, voice thick and nasally. “I dodn’t wadnt you to see mbe like—”

“Spare me the sonnet and blow,” Lex snaps, crisply.

Clark’s blue eyes study him for signs of bluff, mercy or anything that might soften. There is nothing but calm, expectant detachment. His stillness confirms that he is serious.

So, Clark blows his nose into the tissue. Wetly. Loudly. His breath shudders as he exhales into the tissue, a long, gurgling honk that leaves his nose streaming. Lex pinches the mess away from Clark’s nostrils with precision, folds the tissue clinically, and gently wipes beneath his nose in a motion. The skin there is hot and sticky with irritated moisture.

Clark, obedient as always, places his hands beneath his thighs like a reprimanded boy. He watches Lex with an unreadable expression, unsure of the impasse they've landed in.

Lex watches him back. He is a scientist first. When will Clark understand that?

A low beep signals the door, which hisses open. A lab tech rushes in, head ducked. They collect the used tissue with gloved hands, seal it in a specimen bag, label it, and vanish again in a breath.

Clark watches them go. Then, after a pause: “You’re bei’g… kind to mbe. I don’t understand.”

Lex doesn’t look up from the sleek interface on his smart watch, where he types out a quick string of commands. “That’s the difference between us,” he says calmly. “You dedicate yourself to misunderstanding me. I’m simply a man of science. Knowledge is my greatest strength.”

He stands and joins Clark on the cot, the mattress squeaking beneath their combined weight.

“And my life’s goal is to understand you.” He adds, with a hint of private humor, “and maybe bring about the demise of Superman while I’m at it.”

Clark studies him like he’s trying to figure out which part is the joke.

Lex’s watch chimes with a message and he hums thoughtfully as he reads it.

Then, something smug shifts behind Lex’s gaze. He turns his head toward the mirrored wall as though he can see beyond it. He sees Clark’s eyes widen with dawning horror in his periphery. Clark scrambles to his feet, snatching his glasses from the nightstand and jamming them onto his face.

“Wait! Dodn’t—dodn’t do this—”

“On to Experiment Two,” Lex says, already bored. “Mix the blue and the purple kryptonite. Increase output by twenty-five percent.”

“Ndo, ndo, ndo! Lex, please! Obviously, I’bm allergic. Is that what you wadnt to hear? I’bm allergic to kryptonite— Dodn’t do this—”

But the vents slid open once more.

A new fog begins to swirl in, thicker than before, a dreamy periwinkle that pulses faintly with radioactive glow. It creeps in through the ceiling vents like smoke from a fire.

It’s even more exciting to witness up close.

Clark gasps instinctively and holds his breath, desperate not to inhale it. His chest rises and locks. Lex remains seated, one leg crossed lazily over the other, fingers folded over his knee.

Clark clamps his mouth shut. His lips press into a tense line. The fog curls and dances around his legs, around his arms and face. It’s inescapable, like he’s trapped in an allergenic bubble.

One second.

Two.

Three.

His eyebrows twitch. His nose twitches harder, disapprovingly. The bridge scrunches faintly and the nostrils begin to flutter, angry red and already starting to drip again.

He won’t last.

Lex, eager to move the process along, stands and reaches toward him. Clark is taller, an annoying fact, but it grants Lex a perfect view. Clark has a long nose, Lex observes. A very strong, prominent bridge, but delicate, reactive tear drop shaped nostrils that turn red at the slightest irritant. The tip is upturned and malleable, already flushed a sweet shade.

From below, he studies the elegant slope of Clark’s nose, the flush at the tip, the way it flares and writhes under the influence of the airborne kryptonite.

He presses his knuckle to the underside, nudging it softly.

Nothing. Too much congestion. Maybe he’s applying too much pressure.

The lack of reaction is unsatisfactory for Lex. Lex frowns, adjusts tactics. He switches to the pad of his index finger and begins to trace gentle, teasing circles across the irritated tip. It’s a featherlight touch, massaging the very tip of his nose.

That does it.

Clark loses his breath, inhaling sharply at the tickle. The second he breathes in, the kryptonite wafts into his system, causing his nostrils to tremble immediately. They flare up and wide, fluttering away from one another. His mouth drops open, silently his chest jumps with four staccato breaths.

Clark freezes and Lex does too, his finger gently placed against Clark’s nose.

Then, in a blur of motion, Clark reaches forward, grabs Lex by the waist, and pulls him flush to his chest, twisting them both so Lex is shielded by Clark’s body. His hitch is wild and loud as he whips his head away from Lex. He sneezes with all of his power over his shoulder.

“IHRRSSSSCCHHHHOO!!!”

It’s a sneeze of seismic force. The nightstand topples on to its side, the water glass shatters, the photo frame skitters across the floor and hits Lex’s dress shoe. The glass cracks beneath his heel.

Lex grins.

“Well,” he breathes, giddy. “It looks like someone can’t control their powers when they sneeze.”

Clark isn’t listening. The tickle fumes and seethes, wrecking havoc on his sinuses. His sinuses are on fire. Clark’s grip on Lex’s waist slackens and begins to attack his nose, furiously crushing the heel of his palm into the side of his nose. The tears are back, streaming from Clark’s crystal blue eyes.

His mouth gapes open, eyes screwed shut before he snaps forward, sneezing violently into the open air. It knocks his glasses askew. “HHIDGZSSSHH’uh!!”

He doesn’t even finish the first sneeze before the next gasp wracks his frame.

“HH’NGXSHT—GUh! G-Gosh I’bm—! HHH’MMFFSHh!”

Lex, watching with the calm of a researcher and the rapture of a man in love, presses the voice note button on his watch. Clark sneezes as the underscore, his curls flying into his eyes.

“Subject exhibits violent expulsion reflex. Pressure from the diaphragm suggests loss of control over bodily strength during the act of sneezing. Reactions to combined kryptonite vapor are heightened resulting in tears, impaired breathing, and multiple consecutive sneezes with increasing force. Remarkable.”

Clark shudders. “L-Lex, I can’t stop—” he pleads, eyes wide and watery, cupping his hand over his face from nose to chin. “MMFFZSSSHHHH! HhFFZZSSHHHT!! HD’ISSSCHHHH—OOHh!!”

The evidence of his fantastic performance is painted inside his hands. Spray, tears, all glistening signs of his body’s great betrayal. Wind stirs around the room, leaving the blankets on the cot fluttering. Lex plucks a tissue from the box and tucks it into Clark’s hands to clean himself up, not unkindly.

Lex waves a hand toward the glass, and the vent shuts with a soft hiss. The mist fades slowly, color bleeding from the room.

Clark blinks through the fog, winded and panting, dazed with allergic misery. His face is slick—red and raw, nose twitching, glistening. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe.

His shoulders jerk.

“Hh—tZSH!”

Lex, already anticipating it, lifts a hand and covers Clark’s nose with his palm. Spray coats the center of Lex’s palm. “hh’ih-iH-iHhZSSSHh-u! hKZSSSHHHh! —KSH’ih!”

Clark grimaces.

Lex cups his cheek with the other hand. “There we are,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

He pulls a fresh tissue from the box and uses it to wipe his hand clean without a grimace.

“I…I totally just sdneezed on you,” Clark muses, sounding defeated and apologetic. “I’bm so sorry.”

It’s endearing, hilariously misplaced because Lex is causing all his sneezing. Still, he sighs.

“Don’t apologize,” Lex grumbles. His watch is freckled in the crossfire of Clark’s spray. “It’s fine.” He taps the face of his watch, pulling up the data feed and begins another voice note. “Subject exhibits reduced sneeze force once the irritant is removed from the vicinity. A fit of softer— Actually, replace ‘softer’— the term is misleading. Sneezes remain aggressive in decibel and physical output but demonstrate a higher refractory arc, also a higher frequency interval. Strong implication that the subject suffers from human-style allergic triggers. Possible cross reactivity with ragweed, dust mites, etcetera. Investigate common allergens. ”

Clark watches him, blinking blearily through swollen lashes, his hair a mess of dark curls and sweat. After a long beat, a mischievous smile tilts his lips.

“You’re ndot going to bless mbe?”

Lex’s fingers freeze mid-air. He glances up from his watch, startled. “No.”

Clark sniffles, itching his nostril with his thumb. His eyes are big and pouty, wet. “Why ndot?”

Lex swallows, hard. The air is thick with kryptonite residue and something else he doesn’t have a name for. Something awful and unwelcome stirs heavily in his gut. It’s the cousin to rage, and friends with lust.

“I’m a scientist,” Lex snaps, attitude forever his armor. “Not a priest, Clark.”

Clark sniffs, still rubbing his nose with the side of his thumb. He knows exactly what he’s doing now, Lex can tell. He has to know how disarming he looks when he’s flushed and flushed out, all watery eyes, pink nose and trembling shoulders.

“C’mbon Lex,” he croons. “After all this fuss about mby biology? I’bm starti’g to think you don’t appreciate this.”

Lex’s mouth tights. There’s a tick in his jaw, a crack in the wall he so painstakingly built. “That concludes today’s observations.” Lex croaks, stiff.

Clark smiles like he won something.

Lex tosses the box of tissues onto the cot besides him with a little too much force. “Clean yourself up. Tomorrow we will test new variables. Maybe I’ll see what happens when you ingest it.”

Clark huffs and mutters solemnly. “Should I bring wine?”

He doesn’t dignify it with a response. He turns on his heel and strides out, sharp and fast so he can outrun the heat crawling up his neck.

Outside the pod, in the observation desk, slams his hands atop the desk, grounding himself, jaw locked.

He shouldn’t have gotten close, Clark is a bigger evil than Superman. It leaves him low and bitter.

Well played, pet. Well played.

#delicious #mmm #ck #superman #fics

90 notes · View notes

bewitchedfeathers · 27 days ago

Text

Recovery (in more ways than one)

This took me six months to write yeesh! Hopefully it’s worth it <3

-PLS DONT REBLOG TO NON-KINK BLOGS!!-

***

All it takes is a single sneeze for Bucky to realize he’s getting sick. Whether it’s because of his super enhanced sensory system or the fact that he’s always been really in touch with his own body, he isn’t sure. Regardless, he can just immediately tell when his normal sneezes turn into his “I’m fighting something off” sneezes- even at the very first stages of a cold. There’s a few main differences between the two, namely harshness, volume, amount and how relieved he feels afterwards. One of the biggest tells for him, however, is control; whether he’s able to hold back or completely stifle a sneeze- especially when he’s in public- gives it away pretty much 100% of the time.

Therefore, the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from sneezing loud enough in the middle of Tony’s presentation (a whopping heH’dtshhiYIEW!! of a sneeze) that the people around him felt inclined to turn their heads and mumble a blessing really raises a flag.

In that moment, Bucky feels his face heat up.

“Sorry, ‘scuse me,” he mutters then sinks further into his chair, trying to make himself invisible as he sniffles quietly. An all too familiar fuzzy sensation begins to settle in his head, and Bucky knows for certain that he’s in for a long week.

***

Sure enough, two days after the first sneeze, Bucky wakes up in full blown coldish misery.

He can’t breathe at all out of his right nostril, and the very little air he can get through his left tickles his nose so much that he’s practically sneezing with every inhale. His sore throat and pounding head do not appreciate the constant sneezes, and to make matters worse, a painful cough is already well underway.

As he blearily stumbles through his morning routine in his little living quarters in The Tower, he can’t help but feel anxious about the day ahead. The thing is, he knows people are still getting used to him. It wasn’t even that long ago when people knew him as The Winter Soldier and not Bucky Barnes (hell, he didn’t even see himself as Bucky for a while, and every so often he still needs some reminding). That being said, he’s very aware of his presence and spends a great deal trying to be as low profile as possible- whether it’s for his own sake or for others- and being sick with a cold isn’t exactly subtle. He’d rather just hole himself up in his room until he’s healthy, but that’s not really a possibility. He doesn’t have much in his apartment, not even coffee and god he really, really needs some coffee.

So, Bucky hauls his ass into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, ties his hair into a shitty ponytail and steps into his sneakers with laces already tied, and does the whole thing while coughing and sneezing like he’s auditioning for the lead role in a DayQuil commercial.

He’s just about to shuffle his way to the door when a particularly nasty coughing fit makes him grasp onto his dresser for dear life.

A sudden electronic ping sound fills the room as the tablet screen built into the wall lights up blue and orange.

“Detecting acute respiratory distress and elevated temperatures,” JARVIS says. “Sergeant Barnes, would you like me to alert the med bay?”

“Doh— ugh, degative. I’b fide,” Bucky attempts to tell the disembodied voice, but he doesn’t know if he’s even intelligible. He just needs to catch his breath first, then maybe clear out his sinuses.

“Shall I contact Captain Rogers?” JARVIS suggests.

“Doh,” Bucky repeats. “He’s on a bission. Doesn’dt deed di… distractions. Heh- heh’DSSCHH’iiieww!!”

Although he’s aware how gross it is, Bucky lets himself sneeze out into the open, full force and unrestrained. It is his own room, after all, and holy shit did he need that. His nose feels all warm and satisfied, like a pesky itch has finally been scratched, if only temporarily.

“Oh, sdf, god…” Bucky moans, nostrils streaming. He grabs onto his tissue box, pulls out whatever’s left and passionately blows his nose. When he’s all done, he straightens up with a sigh. “Guh, fu’gg mbe…”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin, having forgotten about JARVIS.

“What?”

“Would you like some more tissues?”

He sheepishly looks between the empty box on his dresser and the soggy clump clutched in his hand.

“…yes, please.”

***

Finally, coffee. Probably the only thing worth dragging his sick and mucus-filled body away from the comfort and privacy of his own room. Thankfully, he’s managed to avoid running into anyone on his way to the kitchen area, which- again, thankfully- is completely empty.

Bucky sniffles repeatedly while scooping coffee grounds into the silver coffee press, feeling chills climb up his back. He shivers and shakes, causing him to accidentally spill brown coffee dust onto the white marble countertop.

“Shit,” he swears.

He bends down to grab some wipes from under the sink. When he stands back up, he immediately turns away from the coffee press and coughs harshly into his arm, his chest crackling with congestion.

“Oof, that doesn’t sound good.”

Bucky whips around and finds Natasha leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed. If he wasn’t so brain-fogged and if his ears weren’t so stuffed up he would’ve for sure heard her approaching. This damn cold.

Bucky waves her off, swallowing hard with a wince. “It’s dothing,” he says then cringes at his voice.

“Hm, not sure I’m buying that,” Natasha says. She joins Bucky at the kitchen counter and studies his face with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “I thought super soldiers couldn’t get sick.”

Bucky just shrugs. “Yeah, well, guess Hydra’s serum wasn’t a perfect copy.”

“Guess not.” Nat takes a beat, eyes briefly flickering to the mess of loose coffee grounds on the counter. “Go sit down. I’ll finish making the coffee— that wasn’t a question,” she adds when Bucky opens his mouth to object.

Only, Bucky doesn’t move. Instead, he stares hazily past her shoulder, mouth ajar.

Natasha frowns, confused. “Bucky? Are you—”

Suddenly, the former Winter Soldier snaps forward, metal knuckles pressed firmly under his nose.

“ngk’tiew!!”

Natasha raises her brows. “Oh, you’re going to—”

“h’ngktt! h’mpftsh!!”

“—sneeze. Again?” She asks as Bucky takes heavy, measured breaths, his nostrils twitching like crazy.

Bucky nods his head, then continues the movement into one last expulsion. “ih’ddsst’chiew!! Snnff! Oh, god.”

Natasha chuckles as she watches Bucky gruffly wipe his nose with his sleeve. “Будь здоров! Bless you.”

“Спасибо,” he mutters while looking at the tiles on the kitchen floor. His nose feels as big as a strawberry and is probably just as red.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Natasha asks, although she already knows his answer.

“D- sdfff! No, thank you.” Bucky emphasizes the “n” so as to avoid sounding as miserably congested as he actually is. “Just the coffee. snfSNF!! Please.”

“You got it,” she grins. “And don’t stifle your sneezes. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Cheeks almost certainly as red as his nose, Bucky sheepishly nods before going to sit at the kitchen table. So much for being quiet and inconspicuous.

***

“So,” Sam says. “I hear you’ve got the plague.”

Bucky glances up from tying his boots. “Guess word travels fast.”

“Round here it does,” Sam shrugs. He retrieves a roll of boxing tape from his gym bag and begins wrapping his right hand. “But to be fair, I did hear you coughing from the hallway.”

“Great,” Bucky mutters, then straightens up with a soupy sniffle.

For some reason, Bucky had felt that it would’ve been more inconvenient to take a rain check on training with Sam than to show up exhausted, pale, sick and miserable. Was it a dumb decision? Absolutely. Unfortunately, by the time he’d considered getting up and leaving the combat studio, Sam had already dropped himself down onto the wooden bench across from him. There was nothing he could do but get on with it and hope for the best.

Sam rips off the end of the tape with his teeth before getting a closer look at the soldier’s face. He clearly doesn’t like what he sees, considering the way his eyes soften and eyebrows scrunch closer.

“Are you… feeling okay enough to spar?” Sam asks before lifting the back of his hand to Bucky’s clammy forehead.

Bucky recoils and pushes Sam’s hand away. “I’b fide, Sam. I’b… I…” he trails off, distracted by a sudden quivering of his nostrils. “huh- huH’EHSSCHH!!”

“Jeez. Bless you,” Sam frowns. He gets up from his bench and moves to sit right next to Bucky. “You know, I’m sure Banner would be able to develop some ‘super’ cold meds for you, or whatever. The guy’s sorta a genius.”

“Didn’dt he turn himself into a green mbonster?” Bucky asks, jaded, while scrubbing his nose with his forearm.

Sam raises his eyebrows and puts on an incredulous expression. “Hey, being a genius doesn’t mean you can’t make mistakes.”

Bucky considers Sam’s point for a moment while the latter finishes wrapping tape around his other hand. When he’s done, he nudges Bucky’s shoulder with a grin.

“C’mon, let’s go warm up.”

They both start out strong with stretches, jumping jacks, pushups and sit-ups, with Bucky only needing to pause a few times to blow his nose or drink some water when he gets hit with a bout of coughing.

However after an hour, his symptoms take a turn for the worse; a pulsing headache has grown increasingly hard to ignore, matching the rate at which his sinuses have become astronomically stuffed up. His nose and ears itch like crazy and his brain feels sluggish. But it’s only after failing to block- and in turn receiving- three straight punches to the face that Bucky finally taps out.

“Time… time out,” Bucky says, breathing heavily. He puts his hands on his knees and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Shit, Buck, are you okay?” Sam asks.

“I’b… snfffk! I’b okay,” he answers, though his voice sounds unsure. He pinches the space between his eyes and waits for the room to stop spinning. “Mby head’s just swimming. SnfSNF!”

Sam goes to Bucky’s side and lays a supportive hand on his back. “It’s alright, Buck. Let’s just call it a day, ‘kay?”

Bucky straightens up and nods. Suddenly, his face scrunches up, making him look like he’s about to--

“huh’gxxt!!”

The sneeze comes over him quickly, only giving him just enough time to turn away from Sam and loosely press his nose into his shoulder.

“Bless you,” Sam says.

“Th-thank—” Bucky starts, but another sneeze bursts from his nose before he can even get the word out. “hUh’pdtsshh!!” He hastily swipes at his drippy nostrils, suddenly conscious of the fact that a lot more sneezes are on the way. “Sorry, Sam. I deed to- hih’hih— shit, I g-gotta- huh—!”

“It’s alright, man, do what you gotta do.”

Bucky nods, trying to keep himself together until he can put at least a little distance between himself and Sam. He stumbles across the studio toward the rack of folded towels and snatches a small one off the counter. He turns his back to Sam and holds the cloth at the ready before letting his nose go completely ballistic.

“hEH’ddszzh!! Ugh… hih’hih… hIH’DSSCHH!” Bucky lifts his head with a gruff exhale, his eyes teary and nose trembling. Despite the fact that the first two sneezes had come out harsh and vocal- even with being muffled into a towel- his nose still feels as itchy as ever. “God— tsh- g’dtsh- gxxt- h’gxxt!!”

This fucking cold. He really should’ve just gone back to his room after getting his coffee, and he definitely should’ve just canceled his session with Sam despite it being at the last minute. Sneezing all over the place is arguably much, much worse than flaking out on plans.

“Ah’TCHuhh!! ‘TSHiissh!! Oh… guh— HEh’tsh- tsh- chh- chh- ‘tchiiiew! Ouch, fuck.”

The feeling of a hand landing on his shoulder catches him off guard. He blearily looks up to Sam giving him a sympathetic yet concerned look.

“Buck…” Sam starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Hih… h-hold on…” he says, shakily raising the towel to his face as one final sneeze crests. He rears back with a gasp then pitches forward, doubling over at the waist. “hiH’DTISSHHyiew!!”

Sam winces at the sick sounding sneeze and subsequent nose blow Bucky unleashes into the battered cloth.

“I really think you should go get some rest, Buck. We’ll pick up again when you’re feeling better, alright?”

After some snuffling and stuffy groans, Bucky sheepishly lifts his head, a bashful expression painted across his face. “Okay, yeah… I deed’a go lie dowd.”

***

Almost as soon as Bucky crawls into bed, he’s out like a light. He probably could’ve slept for 24 hours if something hadn’t caught his attention and pulled him from his sleep.

As he opens his eyes, he realizes his head feels heavy as hell. When he sits up, his upper body overshoots the trajectory, causing him to loll to the right like a boat in troubled waters. He props himself up with his arm and steadies his body back to equilibrium. It takes him a second to remember what caused him to wake up in the first place until a sound outside his bedroom door snaps him out of his brain fog.

Bucky stealthily slips a knife from his pillow case before getting out of bed. He silently creeps across the hardwood floor and slowly opens the door…

…only to find Steve putzing around his living room.

“Sdeve?” He croaks. Is he actually awake or still dreaming?

The captain pauses halfway through putting a book onto a shelf and turns his head. He notices the knife clutched in Bucky’s hand, grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and immediately adjusts his body language. He drops his arm, stands up straight and softens his demeanor, keeping his arms at his sides with palms facing up to show that he’s not a threat.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says gently. “It’s all right, it’s just me.”

Bucky relaxes with a stuffy sigh. He sets his knife on his dresser and completely emerges from the bedroom. Wordlessly, he makes a beeline straight into Steve’s arms.

Steve lets out an “oof” as Bucky crashes into his chest before wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Hey baby, hi,” he says softly, cheek smooshed against Bucky’s fever-warm forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky coughs roughly into Steve’s shirt, his whole frame shaking from the force.

“Better,” he chokes out, “with you here.”

“Honey, you sound terrible,” Steve says just in time for Bucky to let out a desperate, helpless sneeze aimed into his shoulder.

“hehh-ETCHHiissh!! Ugh… sddffk! Sorry.”

Steve rubs Bucky’s back. “Bless you, baby… aw, you’re really sick, hm?”

“Guess I’ve been healthier…” Bucky admits, sounding a tad apologetic, as if he had any control over his immune system or the germs he’s been exposed to. A sudden harsh, phlegmy coughing fit comes over him.

“Sam and Natasha really weren’t exaggerating…” Steve tsks to himself while continuing to rub Bucky’s back. “Let’s get you back into bed, alright?”

He nods, still coughing, and lets Steve guide him back into his bedroom and under the covers.

“Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?” Steve asks once he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “A cold towel? Some tea?”

“Just want you,” Bucky says, eyes glassy and fatigued from fever. Suddenly his nose twitches, causing him to hitch softly yet helplessly at his boyfriend. “A-and maybe some tih- hih- h’GXXTJCH!”

“Tissues, got it,” Steve chuckles fondly, finding his boyfriend endearing even when he uses his blanket as a snot rag.

***

Later, after Bucky’s gotten some sleep (Steve definitely indulged in a little shuteye himself), the two super soldiers eat dinner together. They sit on Bucky’s couch surrounded by a growing collection of tissues and sip on ramen while catching each other up on the last week of their lives.

“D’othing really eventful- sdfff!” Bucky grabs another tissue, pinches his nose and drags it in a forward motion, collecting the moisture dripping from his nostrils and clinging to his septum. The steam from the soup is making his nose extra runny. “Boring meetings and- sngfff! Ugh. Drowning in mucus.” Keeping his tissue handy, he takes a spoonful of soup and swallows with a slight wince. “How about you?”

“Hm, let’s see,” Steve ponders. “Met a few aliens, almost broke a few of my ribs, stopped some bad guys.”

“So the usual,” Bucky says.

“I guess so,” Steve laughs and shrugs. “But this time I was lucky enough to be sent on an extra special mission,” he adds, eyes sparkling in the way they do whenever he says something cheeky.

“Mm?” Bucky hums curiously.

“Once we caught word that a certain someone was down with a nasty flu, I was sent on the first flight home.”

Bucky pauses in the middle of bringing another spoonful of soup to his mouth. Furrowing his brows, he returns the spoon to his bowl and gives Steve a concerned look.

“What?” His brain feels hot like an overheated computer as his thoughts scramble to make sense out of what he’s hearing.

Steve reaches over to cup Bucky’s cheek against his palm, looking at him like a lovesick puppy. “Sam and Natasha made damn sure I’d be back to look after you, make sure you’re okay ‘n all that. Best mission I’ve ever received.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, genuinely perplexed.

Steve snorts. “Because they care about you, Buck.”

Error404 not found. Bucky mumbles an ‘oh’ and fixes his gaze on his soup bowl.

Huh. That’s… wow. He didn’t even consider that as a possibility. To be honest, he’d half expected Steve to come back from his mission, sit him down and explain to him as gently as possible that the people in The Tower have found him and his cold to be an imposition on them. Realizing that he’s not only not been a menacing inconvenience to everyone around him, but that he actually has people looking out for him and caring for him… fuck… he’s going to blame his fever for the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says softly, setting aside both his and Bucky’s bowl on the coffee table. He uses his thumb to wipe a tear from Bucky’s flushed cheek. “Come here.”

Bucky sniffles, helpless against the wave of emotions pouring over him and his vulnerable state. His nose feels all warm and buzzy as the urge to cry manifests into actual tears, and he knows he’s going to start sneezing again while Steve pulls him in for a hug.

“Steve…” he murmurs shakily, his nostrils quivering with that maddening, ticklish headcold-induced craving for a big, messy sneeze.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby,” Steve says, cradling Bucky’s head against his chest. “You can sneeze.”

It’s as if Bucky’s nose reacts full force once given the go ahead. His whole body shivers as he takes a single deep inhale, then—

“huh’EIIISHHHOO!!!”

He curls into Steve cotton t-shirt, feeling wet in every sense of the word. He lets out a pleasured moan and immediately feels his face heat up with embarrassment.

“‘m sorry,” Bucky apologizes and buries his nose deeper into Steve’s shirt. “Felt good…”

“You’re alright,” Steve says warmly. “Bless you.”

He rubs the sick guy’s back until muffled, congested breaths become stuffy, content snores.

“You’re alright, Buck.”

#fics #bb #marv

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