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d1stalker · 24 days ago

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Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s even remotely proud of, but desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately.

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, probably about the most recent trade, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months. That’s long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin. He realizes that this might not have been the smartest choice. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The lack of a response is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a definitely a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

His laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet.

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in.

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous.

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly, cautiously, and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not too fast, but enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him, and enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, his arms suddenly feeling too long on his body. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp, so one of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker.

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work.

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later.

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents.

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears.

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle. From Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky.

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building.

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it, but tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes.

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, he thinks, and now might be his only chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,”

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation, gesturing around you. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line.

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “In the News world, I called her illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

“You literally can’t get more ��there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.”

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice.

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters.

“Stay strong, brotha!”

Now alone, he groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this.

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out.

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact.

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You squint.

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything.

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens.

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips.

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest.

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first.

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him.

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin.

Clark thinks his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection.

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.” And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

---

A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #superman x reader #clark kent imagine #david corenswet #dc comics #clark kent fluff #superman fluff #dcu #superman 2025 #clark x y/n #superman drabble #clark kent fic #clark kent x you #superman x you

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d1stalker · 25 days ago

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Tomorrow 😏

Be there or be square

#😙

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d1stalker · 27 days ago

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Literally all of your fics are so creative and unique. You are the sole reason farm aus have become so popular. Also I’m so happy you are writing for Clark now!! 💙😩❤️

Hahaha I don’t know about it the farmhand claim but thank you so much!! Walking and listening to movie scores will def get the mind going 🫶🏼💕

#d1:mail

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d1stalker · 29 days ago

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“yet another bald guy is who you’re up against”

i giggled. and envisioned lex both times

That’s the only way to do it!!

#d1:mail

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d1stalker · 29 days ago

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blink twice if you need help is genuinely astonishing. you made the reader complex with a backstory, simple but direct of why she is the way she is. its forward and easy to pick up on, with every detail adding on to why she does and acts how she does.

you ate that upppp

This means so much to me! I always try to give context (albeit sometimes I fear I give too much) so thank you for acknowledging that!!

Thank you so much for such a nice message 🫶🏼

#d1:mail

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d1stalker · 1 month ago

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Blink Twice If You Need Help [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.

WARNINGS: enemies to lovers, fem!reader, canon-level violence, arguing/bickering, realizations & revelations, SMUT 18+ (oral f receiving, backshots lol, etc) WC: 12.7k - MASTERLIST - A/N: super sorry for the reupload i got the heebie jeebies

The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.

He’d been stronger than you expected—some sort of fire freak with a half-baked god complex and a plan to torch his house while the rest of his family slept inside: his wife, his children. Disgusting. Rolling your shoulder, you wince. Yeah, there will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow, but you’ve dealt with worse. You had gone a little easy on him at the start, let him kick you around a bit, burn the bottom of your mask off, and give a punch here and there. Probably filled him up with too much confidence before you struck, but hey, life isn’t always fair.

“That’s what I thought,” you mutter, resisting the urge to spit on his corpse. The air stinks of ash and scorched pavement. You step off the lawn and onto the sidewalk, already imagining the comfort of your bed. “Uggo.”

You're halfway down the block when:

“Hey!”

You freeze.

Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.

A long, long, exhale slips from between your teeth and shut your eyes against the creeping flood of irritation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you summon the voice from that online meditation webinar you half-watched last week. Breathe in. Breathe out. You try. You really do.

Your head tips back, neck stretching as you look up at the sky. The moon stares down at you, a silent witness to your misery. You don’t even believe in a higher power, but still, you beg for it to spare you from this colossal pain in the ass.

Of course.

Of course, he’s here.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

Annoyance buzzes through your veins, and you slowly—very slowly—turn around. “Oh, hey, Supes!” you chirp, voice high and bright and obviously dripping with sincerity. You even throw in a little mock-wave for good measure. “Wow, look at you! Dropping in unannounced. What a treat.”

“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”

He lands hard a few feet away from you, the pavement under his boots cracking from the force. His gaze flicks over to the lump of flesh for a brief second before settling onto you. “You killed him.”

Cue the fake, wide-eyed gasp and hand over your heart. “Really?! Are you sure it was me?” You flash him a peace sign and pivot back toward the street. “Anyway, nice chat, but I’ve got places to be and a long night ahead, sooo—”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

Suddenly, he’s right in front of you, way too close, and blocking your path forward in an (unsuccessful) attempt at intimidation. Narrowed eyes paired with a nostril flare is a guaranteed combo when it comes to being in your presence. “You don’t get to walk away after that.”

“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll.

“That’s because you—” He stops. Whatever moral high ground he was about to climb dies somewhere behind his clenched teeth. “Never mind. You can’t keep doing this. You don’t get to play god.”

Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”

You step to the side, aiming to brush past him, but unfortunately for you, Wannabe Tough Guy has different plans. Instead, his hand juts out from his side, wrapping around your throat, and the world yanks upwards faster than you can say kinky.

Wind nips at your ears as he lifts off—just a few feet, then slams you backward, spine-first, and hard, against the fence of some poor neighbour’s front lawn. Wood cracks behind your shoulders, and the impact makes you grunt as your fingers grab instinctively at his wrist.

His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”

“Erm, what about—” his grip tightens, and you know better than to try to continue speaking. So a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth. Maybe he’s blown away by the sight of your beautiful lips, or maybe he's confused as to the reason you’re smiling in the first place, but he pulls back a mere centimetre, blinks and—

You’re gone.

Air rushes in to fill the space where your body used to be, his hand snapping closed on nothing. You reappear several feet away, crouched on the roof of a garage like a smug little gargoyle. One leg dangling, the other propped beneath you. “Damn, you’re a grabby one, aren’t you?” His head whips over to the source of the sound, jaw clenching as his eyes land on your figure. “If all you wanted to do was choke me, I’m sure we could’ve chosen a better time and place.”

You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”

Blink.

And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.

—

“Ouch,” you yelp, as your hip hits the corner of your dinner table. Usually, that doesn’t happen, but what can you say, the urgent need to get as far away as possible from Superman must have hindered your stability.

Now, finally back at your apartment, your feet are killing you, and your eyelids are heavy from being awake for too long. You run to the washroom, stripping off your suit before you even enter, and jump into the shower. There's a vague plan in your head to find the time to clean your place up, but for now that’ll have to wait.

Once you’ve finished washing yourself, you put on some pyjamas and crawl into bed, turning the light off, and getting into a comfortable position. You feel yourself about to enter dreamland when your eyes shoot open.

Shit. Your mask.

Specifically, the currently singed and half-melted bundle of fabric lying on your floor thanks to a little firebug with crazy mommy-adjacent issues. Actually, the worst night ever, you think. You drag a hand down your face with a long groan, swing your legs over your bed, blink to the kitchen, and pull open the drawer where you keep your “tools”: a sad collection of scrap fabric, thick thread, and a heavy-duty needle. You really should invest in something more professional, but it’s not like you get a stipend for your line of work.

Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.

You were born like this. Blinked out of your mother’s womb right after the first push, and for a second, the doctors thought your mom just had a really big bowel movement (her words, not yours!). They say the delivery room went into full panic mode when you suddenly disappeared from the table and reappeared in the hallway, still covered in bodily substances and screaming.

When you were younger, it didn’t mean much. It was only something you used when it was convenient, like if the TV remote was too far away or if your friend was about to find you in a game of hide-and-seek. It had felt more like a trick back then. Like something small and silly and yours.

The first time it actually mattered, you were sixteen. Late afternoon, walking home from school with headphones in, when a scream cut through your music. The sight of a man lunging for a girl, covering her mouth with his hand and muttering obscene words into her ear while holding her a gunpoint awakened something in you, and without thinking, you blinked across the street, grabbing the gun from his hands.

His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died.

You blinked out of sight so fast the police never caught on, but the guilt of killing someone made you sick for weeks. You didn’t sleep. Barely ate. Couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror. But it was that, or let God-knows-what happen to that little girl. And later, only when she saw you again and thanked you, did you stop wishing you’d done it differently.

You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.

There was a time when you made the mistake of believing someone when they said they’d change for the better. Spared their life, only for them to hunt you down and stab you in the back. Literally. The scar is still there, above your left hip.

It’s jagged, long, and ugly.

It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity.

It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.

You thread the needle, slide it through the fabric of the mask, and frown. That’s what you don’t understand about that jackass. He thinks that justice always has a storybook ending. That the villain always comes around. Or that the world always rights itself if you just keep being good long enough.

You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.

Two years ago, an imbecile thought he could break into your favourite bakery and try to threaten the owner for money. You’d left him breathing as long as you could. Long enough to watch him reach for the second gun in his waistband, but the Kryptonian arrived three seconds too late to see that part.

What he saw was a dead man and a masked figure standing over him, blood on her knuckles and no badge to back her. You blinked before he could grab you, across the room, out of reach, but you didn’t realize he had superspeed. He never even asked what happened. Just started throwing punches and shouting something about being a good person. About accountability. Which was ironic, given how quickly he jumped to a conclusion.

It took two days for the bakery owner to speak out, and for the security footage to be leaked. The next time he saw you, he apologized immediately, and you had the gall to think that maybe you could get along, or even better, work together. But he shot you down, glowering down at you as he claimed he didn’t associate with ‘merciless fools’. So yeah, clearly things haven’t exactly warmed up between you.

Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do.

You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.

Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth.

—

Fuck.

Fucckkkkk.

You’re late.

You slap the light switch on as you barrel through your apartment, nearly tripping over your newly-fixed suit and the bucket of laundry you swore you’d put away two nights ago. Your shirt is halfway over your head, twisted like a noose around your neck, and your other hand is trying to shove burnt toast into your mouth.

Your hair’s a disaster, shoulders and back screaming from not only where Superman threw you into a fence last night, but that little fire idiot, too. The bruise is already blooming—deep and purple just beneath your collarbone. You catch a glimpse of it in the mirror and groan inwardly. It’s like everything bad that happens to you can somehow be traced back to Mr. Justice himself.

Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.

The Daily Planet isn’t too far of a commute, but the ancient elevator in the building must add at least 5 minutes to your overall travel time. You catch your reflection in the blurry steel doors of the machine, and wow. Not looking too good.

You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.

“Ah,” you say, like an idiot.

“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”

“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.

“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him.

“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.

A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.

Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“Dude.”

“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag.

The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”

Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”

“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”

Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”

“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”

….What?

“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”

“I—okay, that’s—”

“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.

“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”

You squint at her. “Not helpful.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” she replies, but you’ve already blocked out her voice, grabbing your notebook and heading over to Perry’s office. He doesn’t look up right away when you enter, still typing something furiously into his desktop keyboard, when he speaks.

“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”

You offer a weak smile. “If only.”

He snorts, then jerks his chin at the chair in front of his desk, gesturing you to sit down, which you do. “Hostage situation,” he says unceremoniously. “Business tower in Midtown. The CEO lost his damn mind. Locked up a boardroom full of execs, apparently waving a gun around, demanding to speak to someone who doesn’t exist.”

“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.

“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”

Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”

“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”

“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."

—

You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.

When you arrive, the scene is already in motion—Cops are clustered around the front steps, radios crackling, tape sagging between barricades. People, other reporters, are packed in tight behind the line, pressed shoulder to shoulder with their phones raised. You scan the perimeter, but there’s no sign of Clark.

Then, a shadow looms over you, and your eyes flit up to see the back of Superman as he enters through one of the windows near the top of the building. While you aren’t able to understand the word, you can hear him shouting at someone inside. After a while, he exits the window and touches down near a group of officers. You edge closer.

“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head.

“They caught him skimming company money,” he mutters. “Not just bonuses. Personal charges, hotels, sex toys. Thousands of dollars in latex and—well, I’m sure you get the point. He knows it’s public now, and he’s humiliated.”

Oof. That’s unfortunate.

Despite feeling kind of bad for the guy, whatever shit he’s currently pulling is a gross overreaction. He’s not the first executive to get caught dealing with a midlife crisis the wrong way, and he won’t be the last. If he wanted to cry in the bathroom and get quietly fired like everyone else in corporate, fine. But taking a whole boardroom hostage over some receipts is… well, extreme.

And where the fuck, is Clark? You thought he’d be here by now. You figured maybe he was talking to the police or stuck behind a barricade with the rest of the press. But now—now you’re not so sure. Maybe he already went inside. Slipped past before the building got shut down. Maybe he’s trying to talk the guy down himself. Knowing him, that is a very plausible option.

Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way.

“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”

The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”

“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“

But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.

You grind your teeth. Useless.

Is this really the state of Metropolis’ law enforcement? They aren’t doing shit. And if no one is going to do anything, then you guess you might have to. Slowly, you back away from the front of the group, walking around the street and behind a tall garbage bin, dropping to one knee and unzipping your bag. Your suit is folded neatly between your notebook and computer.

Yes, you bring your suit to work. No, you don’t care how insane that makes you look. This city doesn’t exactly give you time to run home and change. You learned that the hard way—last winter… You shudder at the memory.

After wrestling with the spandex, the suit is on, and you blink into the building, finding yourself in the lobby. Completely evacuated. You blink again—second floor, far side—and materialize in a narrow corridor lined with executive offices. The carpet muffles your boots. You hold your breath, waiting to see if you hear anything.

Nothing.

Again. This time, the third floor, west wing.

Still quiet.

Finally, after blinking around so many times you’ve lost count, you hear voices coming through the walls. One of them is trembling. The other keeps cutting in—sharper, erratic. You can’t hear every word, but you catch:

“—you lied—” “I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.” “Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”

You hear that last line, and the hallway around disappears and is replaced by the interior of the boardroom, where every head jerks in your direction. The CEO reels back, eyes going wide, gun swinging in your direction.

He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.

You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”

“No! Don’t test me!” he yells, and points his gun toward the window, shooting at it three times. Glass explodes. Someone screams. One of the hostages ducks under the conference table. Before the last shard even hits the carpet, a blur of red and blue rushes up past the blown-out window.

Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—

“What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.

You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”

The almost-bald man makes a wild noise, some combination of a groan and a sob, and turns the gun toward you. You don’t even have time to blink. Before the trigger clicks, arms close around you, and you’re all the way on the other side of the room. In Superman’s arms.

Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”

The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.”

That response warrants a middle finger, you decide, then blink back to where the CEO is, rearing your fist back and delivering a stern blow right across the face. Knuckles meet cheekbone with a satisfying crack. He yelps, folds like a lawn chair, hands scrambling to cradle his cheek as the gun skitters out of reach.

“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”

Your eyes scan the room, and you notice the fact that Clark is, in fact, not in here. Literally, where is this man? You’ll worry about that after. Quickly, you grab the two nearest people to you and blink them to the front of the building where the police are. Again, and again, and again, until the whole room is empty.

By the time you make your final appearance, the fat businessman is screaming something incoherent, sputting words of hatred and nonsense. On him—not beside, not in front— on him is Superman. He’s crushing the other below him, sitting with elbow on perched knee, head resting on his chin.

You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”

“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”

The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”

You both ignore him.

“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”

“Well,” he starts, “I don’t plan on you taking him without causing him further pain.” He stands up, hauling the CEO, who sags in defeat, upright by his collar, then flies out the window. You follow, blinking back to the garbage bin, pulling your regular clothes on and rapidly fixing your appearance.

On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”

He turns, startled, blinking behind his glasses.”I —what? No, I got stuck. My train was delayed.” He gestures vaguely behind him. “Then the cops wouldn’t let me past the barricade. I only just got here.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”

Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—

You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.

He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.

Maybe Jimmy was right, after all. Does Clark like you? The thought makes you nervous, and you lean back, staring up at him. “We should head back to the office. Might as well get a head start on the article while it’s all still fresh.”

—

“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!”

You suppress the grin tugging at your lips, doing your best to play it cool as you walk toward your desk. But the truth is—yeah. You did look cool today. The news has already flooded the internet with a dozen grainy stills of you mid-blink, captured in blurry motion. There’s one particularly good shot where you’re helping a hostage while the police are standing around looking especially stupid. And the interviews? One witness described you as “insanely efficient.” You’ll absolutely take it.

“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.”

“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”

Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”

“I dunno. Seemed like a reckless decision.” What is he talking about? He wasn’t there. He has no idea what the real situation was like. If you hadn’t laid one on him, then people could have died!

“Well, I think Superman needs to learn how to loosen up. Maybe try dealing with problems the real way for once.” That gets his attention. His head lifts slowly, and there’s something sharp and unmistakably offended in his eyes. For a fan, he sure does take things personally.

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”

Both you and Clark choke.

“Friends?” you cough.

“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.

You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.

Because—friends? Team? Bitch, you did all the work. You blinked into a hostage situation, took out the guy with your own two hands, and personally evacuated every single employee while Superman lounged on the CEO like he was a couch.

“I mean,” the young photojournalist adds, totally oblivious to the palpable tension growing in the room, “she got him disarmed, Superman backed her up, they split the work—come on, it was awesome! The people loved it. Like a buddy cop thing.”

“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”

“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought.

“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.

Horror washes over you. Did he just compare Blink and Superman to you and Clark? Impossible. Two completely different dynamics. Clark is so sweet, so honest and pure, while Supes is the exact opposite. You bet that if you died, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.

—

You’re pacing in tight, erratic circles in the middle of an empty street, arms crossed so tight your elbows hurt. Your brain is still buffering, trying to catch up to the audacity of the words you’ve just heard.

“You want me to… what?!”

“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”

Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”

You stop pacing and glare at him, squinting. “So what, you want me to just teleport into some dark alien cave full of who-the-hell-knows-what, get zapped by a cosmic laser or whatever, and hope I make it out alive?”

“I’ll be close by, but yes.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”

There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.

You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”

You scowl. You hate him.

Breathe in, breathe out. It takes every fibre of your being not to launch yourself at him just to make a point. You try to quiet the relentless chorus in your head yelling don’t do this!! You don’t know what you’re getting into!! This is a trap!! You don’t do Superman—

“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”

He nods. “Fine by me.”

And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy.

“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing). “Supes!”

He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”

His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”

A moment of silence.

“Are you deaf? I said get–”

“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”

Why did you even agree to this? You want to punch your past self from a minute ago. And of course, he’s just floating there, his cape flowing even though there isn’t any wind. What you’d do to rip it off and strangle him with it. “I don’t do piggybacks,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

Reluctantly, you reach out and grip his arms. Damn, they’re broad. And solid. “God, what is this suit made out of? Reinforced stone?” The words are a grumble, as you try to find the least awkward way to climb onto a man who is literally four feet off the ground.

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.

“Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him. “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.”

A bit more uncomfortable shifting around, and you’re finally settled in, arms circling his neck, legs locking tightly around his waist. It feels weirdly... secure. Not comfortable, because nothing about this situation is, but you don’t feel like you’re in any immediate danger. Then, he shoots up into the night sky.

Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh.

Below you, the city melts away. Skyscrapers give way to overpasses and industrial warehouses. Roads spiderweb and narrow, then vanish altogether. It’s kind of beautiful. The wind whips all around you, whistling in your ears and clouds touch the tip of your head. You unwrap one of your arms from his neck and lift it, your fingers slicing through the haze.

It makes you laugh.

Not even on purpose, either. It just bubbles out of you, light and startled and real. Superman tilts his head slightly to look at you. “Didn’t think you’d be enjoying this as much as you are,” he says, his voice raised just enough to carry back over the rushing wind.

You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle.

Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?

It wasn’t even sarcastic. It was almost warm sounding. You edge forward a bit, stealing a the side of his face. Lo and behold, the corners of his mouth are twitched up into a smile. An actual smile. It’s honest. And—

Nope.

You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head.

Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips.

“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.

You're still recovering—trying to act unbothered but probably clinging a little too tightly—when he finally slows, levelling out again as the world comes into sharper focus. The glow of the city has faded behind you, and what’s ahead now is darker, flatter. No buildings, no people. Just a wide stretch of dense woods and brush, carved through with an old road that leads to… nothing.

He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”

“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.

“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise.

“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”

“You’ll have to try to visualize it,” he responds. “Think… underground. Caves, maybe. Something old. Damp. Stone walls.” Ah, so you need to think of a dungeon. This shouldn’t be too bad. In and out. When you get down there, you’ll report what you see back to him. Wait a second.

“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time.

“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”

With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”

Blink.

—

You land with a soft thump, boots hitting something hard and so unnaturally smooth, you almost slip right on your ass, and your eyes snap open. Immediately, you have to squint against the assault of sterile, clinical light. Fluorescent panels line the ceiling in perfect symmetry, humming faintly above you.

It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.

The walls are tiled in what looks like seamless ceramic, with occasional chrome panels embedded at shoulder height—sensors? Cameras? You're not sure. Everything smells faintly of disinfectant as well. Sort of like that one science lab from high school.

Each step forward is careful, and you keep close to the wall as you inch farther and farther through the hallway. As you slip around a corner, you pause. In front of you lies a heavy metal door. Pretty important looking, you think. There’s no handle, only an ID scanner to the right.

Are you really about to do this? What if it was all a set-up? Maybe Supes really does hate you that much, and this was his grand plan to finally get rid of you once and for all. With one more breath, your eyes rake over your surroundings, and then you blink again.

What you’re met with takes the breath right out of your lungs. Rows and rows of sealed containers, stretchers, lockboxes. Shelves lined with glowing canisters and devices you don’t recognize. You walk slowly through it, taking it all in. Your fingertips trail close to some kind of armoured gauntlet suspended in a gel-like field. To your left, a preserved alien body floats in a tank, and the sight makes your stomach turn.

What the fuck?

So Superman was right. They are hoarding alien tech. But now what? How is he going to put a stop to this? You're lost in your thoughts when something catches your eye, and your heart drops upon the realization of what it is. In a crate, no bigger than a carry-on suitcase, sits a cluster of jagged green shards. Kryptonite. And it’s half covered by some packing foam like a school fair project. Your palms begin to sweat, like big time. If something goes sideways, and Superman comes down here, it’s over. “Shit,” you curse under your breath.

You take a step back, about to blink the hell out, when your shoulder bumps into something. A jar of slimy, neon-pink goo. It tips, teeters, and falls, shattering at your feet. Overhead, the lights flicker once. Then a dull, mechanical thunk reverberates through the walls. Suddenly, all the lights in the room turn red, and the sound of a siren starts echoing off the walls.

“Nonononono,” you panic. You brace, visualizing the hallway outside, but you don’t blink. Or more like, you can’t blink. Your heart rate spikes up and your breathing starts to resemble hyperventilating more. A sick feeling makes its home in the pits of your stomach, the urge to vomit hitting you.

You’re so screwed. You need to figure out an exit strategy before Superman realizes something is wrong and comes for you (one of the small voices in the back of your head is screaming: that’s not a bad idea!!! but you squash that thought). Think. Think. Think

There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—

The door slams open, and somehow, yet another bald guy is who you’re up against. He smirks when he sees you. “Well, well, well,” he says, spreading his arms in mock welcome. “Didn’t expect to catch a little stray tonight.”

You glower at him.

He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?”

“What the hell did you do?” You growl.

He stops in front of one of the specimen tanks—a preserved alien organ suspended in viscous green liquid—and smiles faintly at his own reflection. “This chamber,” he begins, tone lilting with theatricality, “is engineered to neutralize enhanced bioelectric signatures.” He turns his head slightly, gaze slicing back to you. “Metahuman nervous systems, energy fluctuations, the whole shebang, as they say.”

“Wide vocabulary you got there.” The sarcasm in your voice makes his nostrils flare. Menacingly, he starts walking forward, forcing you to backpedal further and further into the room. With every foot of ground he gains, his smile (if you could even call it that) grows.

“Which one should I choose for you, hm?” he muses aloud, admiring his collection. “Something poetic, perhaps. The restraint collar from Kahndaq? One of the Null Pods from Sector 68? Oh—maybe the Tamarin siphon ring. Cruel, but effective.”

Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”

But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?”

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.

“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”

Your breathing gets heavy again, speeding up faster and faster as his bony fingers reach up and tug off the only things protecting your identity. You flinch as the cool air hits your skin and bare your teeth. “You’re a psycho.”

The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”

You don’t have time to react. In one heaving motion, he throws you across the room like you weigh nothing. Your body slams into a rack of weaponry, metal and glass crashing down around you in a deafening cacophony. Sharp edges bite through the suit at your back. Something heavy thuds beside your ribs.

There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.

A vicious kick pounds into your stomach, and your body spazzes with a sputtering gasp. Your fingers scrabble at the smooth tile, trying to brace for the next blow. “You creatures are the reason this planet is weak,” he spits above you. Another kick. You wheeze, coughing, tasting metal.

“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”

Another.

You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”

Another.

“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”

Fucking hell, just doesn’t stop, does he?

Blood builds up in your throat, and you don’t have the strength to swallow it, so you spit it out. It lands on his shoe. A thick, dark smear along the polished leather. The bald devil stares down at it, and then, with a grunt, he wrenches you up off the floor. His fist is twisting the front of your suit so tightly, his knuckles are white.

“Filthy little—”

But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.

Two red boots plant themselves at the doorway, and fuck, the personification of power has arrived. There he is, standing strong, with his arms crossed over his chest. When he sees the other man in the room, he rolls his shoulders back. “Lex. I should have known.”

His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,

And his expression shatters.

It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.

You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”

Within five steps into the room, you see it hit him. His momentum falters. His spine stiffens. A shudder travels down his limbs, and he drops. First to one knee, then the other, crumpling with a muffled cry as the Kryptonite takes hold.

At this point, you’re thrashing around in Lex’s grip, limbs flailing, but he just smirks. “Aww, boohoo. He came for you, didn’t he? And now look.” His hand opens, and you fall back down to the ground. “This is just too easy.” He licks his lips like a predator smelling blood. “You know what? I’m hungry.”

He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”

The heavy door slams shut behind him with a reverberating boom. Left in the suffocating silence, you grit your teeth and force yourself up, your muscles screaming in protest. Crawling forward on bruised hands and knees, you make your way toward the fallen hero, whose skin is already paling, veins darkening to that sickly green.

Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”

His eyes flutter open, struggling to focus. When they meet yours, you're met with the same pain you saw earlier, when he first saw your face. Between ragged breaths, he mumbles, voice cracked and strained, “Of course… it’s you.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”

Carefully, you slide your hands under his arms, trying to maneuver him into a sitting position. His weight is nearly dead, and because of his sheer size, moving him is almost out of the equation entirely. You need to think fast. You try to roll him over again, but you notice there’s tension in his cape, holding him back. Tracing your eyes along the red fabric, you find the source and realize it’s because the door has been shut on it. A sudden, sharp idea hits you: if you can wedge the door open and slip out of the room, then you can blink the two of you out of this nightmare. That’s it!

However, you won’t be able to carry out this plan alone. The thought of making Superman do anything in this state (surprisingly) pains you, but you know it’s the only way you’ll succeed. “Hey,” you say, pulling his attention from his agonizing torture to you, “I know you’re weak, I know you’re tired, but I have a plan.”

He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”

You help him move onto his hands and knees. His muscles tremble beneath your touch, and for a second, you’re filled with fear that it won’t work, but just this once, you decide to trust him. You move beside the door. “Okay. Now.”

Grunts begin to fill the thick, stale air. His pallid hands dig and scrape at the floor, fingers splaying out wide as he tries to get leverage. It’s taking every last drop of strength he can muster just to push forward, even just an inch. You watch, heart pounding, as his cape, trapped and taut, starts to inch forward bit by bit. Every second feels like a minute, but then, a shudder in the red fabric, and the door creaks open, a small, narrow gap appearing.

Seizing the moment, your fingers dive into the tiny crack now visible between the door and the frame. The cold metal bites into your skin as you wedge your nails inside and pull. At first, the door protests, heavy and reluctant, but it moves. Achingly, painfully slow, the seam splits wider as you throw your weight into it. Your fingers slip, then catch again. You can feel the tendons in your arms screaming, your ribs straining, until finally, finally, the gap is wide enough to breathe. Wide enough to escape.

You stumble through it first, chest heaving, blinking hard against the lights outside the containment room. Turning around, you snatch a fistful of Superman’s cape, dragging him out of the room behind you with all of your remaining strength. One foot is braced against the doorframe for support while you yank with everything you’ve got, your teeth clenched so tight your jaw throbs. “Come on, big guy,” you grunt. “You’re not dying in a fucking science exhibit.”

Then at last, his body crosses the threshold. The fabric slips through your fingers in a whisper of red as you collapse backward, landing in a boneless sprawl beside him. Limbs splayed, chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic bursts. You spread yourself out like a pancake on the tile, and whisper the first thought that comes to mind:

“Holy shit.”

Rolling over after a few more moments, you grab the man's hand and blink the two of you out of there, into your apartment. The two of you land on the worn carpet of your room. With cautious movements, you manage to get Superman’s limp form onto your bed. How gallant of you.

You step back, wiping the sweat from your brow, and start toward the living room couch, but abruptly, a hand shoots out from the bed and clamps gently on your wrist, making you stop. Despite still being weak, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Stay,” he murmurs hoarsely.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”

“Please,” there’s no room for you to say no. Whatever it is, he needs comfort right now, and you just happen to be in the wrong place at the right time. The tension drains from your shoulders, and you relent.

“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”

So you shuffle to the bathroom, washing the grime and sweat off your skin. The water feels shockingly good against your nerve endings. When you finally return, you slip under the covers beside him, where he’s already asleep. His face is less pale and sunken in, but you can see the traces of kryptonite poisoning that remain in his veins.

Your eyes finally start to flutter closed, exhaustion tugging you under like a tide. The weight of the night, the adrenaline, the fear—it all begins to fade into the background as your breath evens out, slow and steady.

Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.

You crack one eye open and glance sideways.

Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.

First Clark, now Superman. Is there something wrong with the way you smell? A slow shake of your head betrays your disbelief as you look down at yourself. Do all men have a smelling kink? Insane. If neither of you were exhausted and practically dead, you’d probably question it more, but for now, the fatigue wins, and you fall asleep.

—

The next morning, when you wake up, the bed is empty. Good, you think, letting your muscles melt into the mattress. He’s gone; you can move on with your day and pretend the traumatic events of last night never happened.

And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.

Okay—maybe obsessed is a strong word. And if you asked Jimmy or Lois, they might shrug and say it’s not all that different than usual. But you know better, because you're obsessed with him, so you’ve gotten really, really good at reading his body language; hyper-analyzing the tiniest tilt of his head, the twitch of a smile, the angle of his hands when he types. You’ve built an entire thesis on the way he looks at people, and when you say he is staring, you mean it.

It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.

“Ooh girl, he is whipped for you,” she’d whispered during a luncheon, sipping her cocktail with a smirk. “I swear to God, if he looks at you one more time like that, I’m gonna propose for him.”

You’re not sure what could have warranted this change in him, but you won’t tell him to stop. So, when you’re at your desk and he’s sitting extra close to you, you don’t complain. You’re listening to him tell you about one of his favourite punk rock bands when a bone-rattling blast shakes the building.

Smoke and debris fill the air as a hairless figure saunters his way in. Lex Luthor. Through the dust, his eyes find yours and a manic grin spreads on his face. Clark sucks in a sharp breath beside you as terror floods your features.

“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.”

He claps his hands together once, like a game show host introducing the final round. “Now, I know what you’re thinking—‘Lex, what could you possibly want with a bunch of reporters and interns and sad little copywriters?’” He clicks his tongue, then points a finger in the air, mock-epiphany lighting up his face. “Well, I’ll tell you!”

People are beginning to scream. Others rush for the elevators, but the power’s been cut—emergency lights flicker uselessly as thick gray smoke rolls through the room. I have some news for you all,” he says, eyes still staring right at you. Your stomach churns.

Please no. Please don’t.

You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.

“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”

“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it.

Clink.

Boom.

The desk explodes in a shower of wood and flame, the blast knocking over nearby chairs, and a new wave of smoke is emitted from the blast. Someone cries out. A man falls hard beside the printer station, clutching his arm.

“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”

He raises his voice over the screams beginning to grow. “Let’s make this simple. If she doesn’t come forward in five minutes, I’ll blow this building sky-high. With all of you inside.” Raising his wrist, he presses start on a timer.

You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”

You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.

Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”

“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.

“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.

“I need you to trust me.”

Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”

His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”

“You–,” Your thoughts are going a thousand miles an hour. Everything is happening so fast, Lex is about to destroy the building, your identity is going to be revealed—, “What are you talking about?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”

“But–”

“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.

“I—okay, okay, I will—”

The moment he takes off his glasses, a thunderclap goes off in your mind. You can’t explain it, but something about the man in front of you changes, and you're now face-to-face with Superman. You blink—literally—and your powers stutter-react, popping you five feet away across the office. “You’re…”

Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds.

Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”

This is your only chance.

Hesitantly, you grab them, then slowly lift them and slip them onto your face. Clark’s eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat, there is no recognition clouding them. He blinks, steps back as if seeing you for the first time.

“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room.

Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.

“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.

“Ten... nine... eight…”

Just as he nears one, Superman slams into the window, barreling straight toward the bald man and knocking him clean off his feet, distracting him long enough to postpone the destruction of the building.

“Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”

The room clears fast. You spot Jimmy and Lois as they sprint toward the doors, and Cat as she follows, heels off and barefoot. But you stay, watching as Clark and Lex duke it out, the latter being no match for the from Krypton. He’s easily overpowered and tied to a chair with a twist mess of steel piping.

You reach up and peel the glasses of your face, just as Lex’s head rolls lazily to the side and he spots you. His bloodied lip curls into a smirk the moment recognition dawns on him. “Oh,” he drawls. “Always gotta get Superman to save you, huh?”

In a blink, you’re in front of him. “I’ll kill you,” you snarl, your hand rising. But, before you can land a strike, you feel a firm grasp on your wrist. Behind you, Clark stands, restraining you softly.

“You can’t.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”

“You know why.” He responds.

With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”

Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”

That makes you lunge at him so fast that this time, you successfully slam your foot into his chest, sending him back into a filing cabinet, and making him grunt loudly. You’re ready to beat the living daylights out of him, when Clark intercepts you fully, body-checking you away from the human with just enough force to stop, but not enough to hurt you.

“Enough.” And that’s an order.

“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”

The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”

Before you get the opportunity to say something snarky, Clark is already moving, pivoting and driving a punch square into his opponent's jaw. He slumps, finally unconscious. Then your coworker straightens up, hand flexing, glancing back at you. “He’ll go to a black site,” he says. “He won’t ever touch anyone again.”

You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.

—

How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!

Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past year, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.

This is Clark you're talking about.

Clark, who corrects your grammar when you’re tired. Clark, who listens to your rants like it’s the highlight of his day. Clark, who says corny jokes he knows no one else finds funny but you. Clark, who is Superman.

You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.

You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is.

“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts.

God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move.

“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”

His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”

“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”

“We’re the same person,” he responds.

“Bullshit.”

Clark’s lips form into a tight line, before: “It’s the same for me! You think it’s been easy, knowing that the reason I show up to work every day is the same reason I’m going to go grey early?”

You still. “Don’t you dare—“

“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”

“Do you even know how I felt seeing Lex threaten you in that room? I saw red,” He begins crowding in on you, voice low. “I didn’t even think it was possible for me to feel defensive over Blink, but the minute I realized it was you, it made sense.” He’s so close to you now, having you pushed up against the wall.

Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””

He freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”

But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking.

And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft.

It’s a disaster of teeth and breath and months of buried need clawing its way to the surface. His hands come up—one curling into your waist, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll blink away if he doesn’t hold tight enough. You gasp into his mouth and he swallows it like a dying man.

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer towards you, matching the force of his kiss with your own. He deepens it further, tongue sliding over yours with a groan that vibrates in your chest, and you whimper — actually whimper — as you wrap a leg around his thigh, and feel his hand move from your neck down to your ass, rubbing it softly before giving it a firm squeeze.

His lips move like he’s trying to memorize you, like he could spend the rest of his life tracing the shape of you with tongue and teeth. It’s dizzying. Devastating. As if you’re falling off a rooftop and being caught an inch from the pavement.

When you finally break apart, you’re gasping for air, and your hands are still curled in the cotton at his chest—without the anchor, you might actually collapse. His forehead presses to yours, and he murmurs, “Tell me to stop. That you don’t want this.”

You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”

His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.

The room shifts around you with a ripple, and your back hits your mattress. He lands half on top of you, blinking down in dazed surprise. Then he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh that vibrates against your ribs.

“Did you just—.”

“I did.”

“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“

You groan over the rest of his confession, chest stuttering in funny patterns. “I kept telling myself I was a bastard,” he says. “Like I was betraying something that wasn’t even mine to begin with. I should’ve known,” he adds, lifting his head, staring down at you. “Of course it was you. It could only be you. There’s nobody else.”

Heat travels from your chest down to your core, and your thighs clench involuntarily. “Oh, Clark,” you moan. His breath catches at the sound of his name on your lips—low, aching, wanting. You can feel him trembling slightly where his hands bracket your shoulders, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Tilting your neck up, you give him a small peck on the nose. “I admire what you stand for, Supes,” you admit, not missing the shiver that runs through his body when hearing you call him that. “The whole world does. But not when you show up in my business, trying to change me in a way I don’t need changed.”

Clark says nothing, just lets out a breath—and then he leans back slightly, eyes searching your face, before reaching for the hem of your shirt, drawing it upwards. He waits for you to nod before lifting it over your head and casting it aside. When you turn slightly, and his eyes lower to your skin, you see the moment his gaze finds the scar on your back.

“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”

You feel his hands travel up and down your sides, the warmth of his palms on your bare skin. “I don’t kill because I enjoy doing it,” you say. “I kill because sometimes one life gone is better than two. Or ten. Or a hundred.”

He kisses your collarbone, then his mouth trails lower, dragging along the curve of your neck. “I know it’s not the way you go about things,” you finish. “But I don’t have the same capabilities as you.”

Raising his head at that, Clark’s lips brush your cheeks. “I didn't like what you did because I never understood why,” he says softly. "but I never saw you as my enemy, we fight for the same good."

Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.

Something hot and heavy takes over you, and it manifests by clawing at his still-clothed body. He pulls back just enough to strip his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. Holy shit. You knew, on some level, that he was built like a Roman statue. When you had to climb on his back, you felt it. But seeing it? An entirely different experience.

His chest rises and falls, muscles flexing with each breath, and your gaze rakes over the sculpted lines of him, down to the sharp cut of his abdomen and the softness in his eyes that shouldn’t coexist with a body like that. “That’s unfair,” you mutter, half under your breath, voice gone hoarse.

He smiles like he knows exactly what you’re talking about—and he probably does—but he doesn’t get long to enjoy the moment, because you push him back. He lands against the mattress with a soft grunt, eyes wide as you climb on top of him, straddling his waist and landing on something hard.

You lean down, one hand braced beside his head, the other skimming down the hard line of his chest, and capture his lips again, while his hands grip your hips. Shifting your weight slightly, you roll your hips forward in a slow, teasing grind.

The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.

“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch.

His jaw clenches, eyelids drooping down. “Don’t tease,” he warns—but his voice is wrecked and his hips are already arching up into you. You do it again, dragging your hips down harder, grinding against the hardness of him through both your clothes. He curses, head tipping back against the mattress, Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans deep in his chest.

“Gah,” he hisses. His hands are no longer just holding but moving, guiding the motion of your hips over his in rhythm with his own, the friction dizzying, maddening. You feel one inch lower, slipping below your pants, grabbing your bare ass. “You’re killing me.”

“I don’t think you’re exactly suffering,” you giggle. Clark’s grip tightens, and suddenly he sits up, chest pressed flush against yours as he kisses you hard, biting at your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp. “No,” his words dying as he reconnects your lips. “I am suffering. You have no idea what you do to me.”

You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”

He obeys and god, if you weren’t drooling before then you are now. He’s scrumptious. The bed dips again as he rejoins you, his fingers trailing lightly over your skin, teasing along the waistband of your pants. Then, he slips a finger beneath the fabric and hooks it there, giving a subtle, inviting tug.

“It’s only fair,” he breathes. Using that same finger, he applies a bit more force, dragging your pants, underwear, and himself down your body all at the same time, to the edge of the bed. Then, he spreads your legs apart and pulls you closer, nestling himself perfectly between your legs. As his face dips lower, his nose brushes against your skin, and he inhales deeply, eyes shutting.

“Let me taste you,” he begs.

Except, you don’t—can’t—respond in words. Instead, your fingers thread through his dark hair, and being the smart man he is, Clark takes that as the go-ahead. He dives in, gliding his tongue up your cunt, nipping and sucking like a man eating his last meal. The slick, desperate sounds only serve to make you wetter.

“Oh, god, Clark,” you moan. His hands slide from your thighs to your stomach, splaying wide as he presses down, pinning you to the mattress. You writhe beneath him, gasping as his tongue goes even deeper, your hands tangling tighter in his hair.

“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you.

Then his nose nudges your clit, and you nearly lose it, hands flying from his head onto the ones that are splayed across your abdomen and lacing your fingers together, needing something to anchor you in place as your mind turns to mush.

The intimacy of the action has his gaze lift up to meet yours from his position, and you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your whole existence. It’s almost too much, and soon, you start to feel a familiar tightness. Not wanting the pleasure to end, you start to unravel your fingers from his, pressing gently against his forehead.

He understands, mouth leaving your pussy with a final kiss before he drapes his body over yours, chest to chest, his weight grounding you. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, hot and throbbing. You know for a fact that had you not been so wrecked with need, you’d have taken him in your mouth. Another time.

“Can I–,” he begins to ask.

“Yes, yes please,” you babble. Then he’s reaching down between you, lining himself up. When you feel him press against you, you clutch at his biceps, holding onto something—anything—as your body adjusts around him. He’s thick, and it feels like too much and not enough all at once. You feel every inch of him, and still, somehow, want more.

His name on your lips is all it takes.

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. Then he pulls back, just enough to make you whimper at the loss, before sinking back into you with a slow, shuddering thrust. His hips meet yours with a firm slap, and he groans—loudly—head dropping to the crook of your neck.

“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s moving again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.

Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.

Clark’s eyes are locked on yours, heavy-lidded and wild, mouth open, panting hard. And like he can’t wait another second, he lowers his head and crushes his mouth to yours in a fierce, possessive kiss. “I’ve been dreaming about this body since the first time I saw you.” his mouth hovers over yours. “Especially in that suit.”

Then he’s moving. He slides his hands down your sides and under you, shifting your body until you’re on all fours, back arched and waiting. From behind you, he kneads your ass, spreading your cheeks apart, squeezing firmly. The rough heat of his palms sets your skin on fire. You can hear him pump himself for a moment before he leans in close, breath hot against your ear as he slides the head of his cock slowly, deliberately over your folds.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

You��re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”

He presses in, bottoming out in a single thrust, and you jerk forward, clutching at the bedsheets. The angle from this position makes you cry out, breath catching as a delicious ache curls tight in your belly. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room—the sharp slap of his thighs, the wet glide of his cock sliding in and out.

“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—

“Supes, you’re—”

A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”

You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.

“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”

He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”

You cry out at the pet name, at the sound of his voice so wrecked and undone. His hand sneaks around you, fingers beginning to work your clit. Your whole body tenses, back arching even more as the pleasure slams into you—sudden and overwhelming and sharp around the edges. You clench around him as you come, pulsing hard, and he feels it. Moans it.

“Jesus fuck,” he chokes, and his rhythm falls apart entirely. You’re almost certain that was the first time you’ve ever heard him curse like that. He thrusts through it, chasing his own release, and when it hits him, he’s unable to stop the whine that comes out, his whole body seizing as he spills into you.

Your body collapses, boneless and trembling, onto the mattress. Every muscle sings with exhaustion and satisfaction, your skin flushed. You’re still catching your breath when you feel him drop on top of you with a heavy exhale. He stays inside you, burying his face in your hair as his chest rises and falls against your back.

“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder.

You hum something like a yes, too soft and dazed to speak. He shifts a little, propping himself on one elbow, the movement enough to make you twitch from overstimulation. But then his hand is brushing your hair away from your face, careful and tender, so he can lean in and kiss the curve of your cheek. Then the line of your jaw. The hollow beneath your ear.

He keeps going, trailing kisses over your sweat-damp skin. You turn your head to meet him, and your lips lock in a long, languid kiss. He tastes like everything you want to keep. Like warmth and strength and something that feels suspiciously close to love. And not just for Clark, but for the other guy, too. Because he’s right. They are the same person.

Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.

“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper.

His brow furrows, confused. “What?”

You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”

----

A/N: thank you for reading! i really enjoyed writing it :)

#in case you missed it #icymi

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d1stalker · 1 month ago

Text

Blink Twice If You Need Help [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: To some, your relationship with Superman could best be described as unique, but to you, it’s more like stay-away-from-me-and-mind-your-own-damn-business.

The body at your feet twitches once, then twice, before going still.

You're halfway down the block when:

“Hey!”

You freeze.

Well. That’s certainly one way to ruin your night.

Of course.

Of course, he’s here.

“What do you think you're doing?!”

“ I thought you were in… what was it? Valdoro? Valstresia? Somewhere conveniently far away from Metropolis?”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

“But you let me last time. Remember? That thing at the docks? Three dead traffickers and not a single thank-you card in sight.” You can see him physically hold back an eye roll.

Laughter bursts out of you. “Oh my god, you’re so right: you’re doing such a great job of that for me!”

His face is right there, inches from yours. “I don’t kill,” he seethes (did he just spit on you??), “because that is never the right thing to do.”

You’re gone.

You swear you can see a new vein pop out on his forehead, but you don’t care, so just as he’s opening his mouth, you lift two fingers in a lazy salute. “See you later, Supes!”

Blink.

And just like that, you’ve disappeared again.

—

Shit. Your mask.

Then you blink into the hallway, pick up your mask from the ground, and walk back to the kitchen table to start the slow process of repairing what got ruined.

His beady eyes drifted over to you, and a chill-inducing smile took over his face. In a panic, you shot him. You didn’t even realize you knew how to shoot a gun, but you did. And he died.

You've learned since then. Learned to move faster, smarter. Learned not to hesitate. You don’t always kill, but sometimes there isn’t any other option.

It’s jagged, long, and ugly.

It’s the reason you wear a suit now, the reason you hide your identity.

It’s a reminder stitched into your skin: mercy is a risk. One you don’t take anymore.

You remember when you met him for the first time, too. Well—"met" is generous. He nearly broke three of your ribs before you could get a single word out.

Superman doesn’t like you. You’re not sure he ever will. It’s almost as if he has made it his mission to try to make you feel bad for doing what you do.

You think he hates that you get results. That your methods work. When you go after someone, they don’t crawl out of the rubble—or break out of prison—to try again the next week.

Pulling the thread out, you knot the end and clip it with your teeth.

—

Fuck.

Fucckkkkk.

You’re late.

Soon, you’re out the door with your bag half-zipped and your phone buzzing with six unread texts from Perry. “Motherfucker,” you mutter, sprinting toward the metro station.

You swipe at your cheek and adjust your shirt just as the elevator chimes. The doors groan open, and oh—Clark is standing right there.

“Ah,” you say, like an idiot.

“Morning,” he says bashfully, already stepping aside so you can squeeze past. “I was just heading out—uh, Midtown. New report. You coming?”

“Yeah—well, eventually. I’ve gotta, um. Set up. Convince Perry not to fire me. That whole song and dance,” you manage to get out, flustered, and dying inside.

“Good luck,” he smiles. You make sure to give his arm a little pat (reassurance purposes, only. Definitely not to feel up his arms under his shirt), as you slip past him.

“Catch you later,” he says, before stepping into the now-empty elevator and closing the doors.

A lovesick sigh leaves your lips. You’re so doomed.

Over at your desk, Jimmy is already swivelling in his chair like he’s been waiting all morning for your arrival. He rolls over, his coffee sloshing dangerously in its cup.

“Dude.”

“Not now, Jimmy,” you say, shrugging off your bag.

The redhead ignores you completely. “You have to ask him out.”

Sputtering, “I’m sorry?”

“Clark. He’s literally head over heels for you. It’s kind of painful to witness.”

Are the sticky notes on your desk brighter all of a sudden? Or are you just staring at them intently to avoid blushing? “I don’t need you feeding into my delusion right now.”

“I’m not feeding into anything. I saw him smell the air after you left yesterday.”

….What?

“He thought no one was looking,” he adds, like that somehow makes it better. “But his eyes were closed and there was a small smile on his face and everything.”

“I—okay, that’s—”

“Very romantic,” he finishes. Fortunately, you’re spared the effort of coming up with a coherent response by a voice calling across the bullpen.

“He’s probably pouting right now without his partner-in-crime,” Lois says, not even looking up from her monitor. “Hurry up and get out there before he starts calling one of crying.”

You squint at her. “Not helpful.”

“Well, well. Thought you might’ve quit on us.”

You offer a weak smile. “If only.”

“Superman already on site?” you ask, scribbling down notes, despite already knowing full well the answer.

“Probably,” the man in front of you grunts. “Radio chatter says he was spotted flying over a few minutes ago. You can try to get an interview, but don’t hold your breath.”

Like hell you’re willingly going to interview Superman. That would be some form of self-induced torture and you are not a masochist. “Nah. Clark can do that.”

“Nod a bad idea,” he says dryly. “He is oddly good at getting some quotes from the big guy.”

“Alright then,” you puff, “I’ll head over now."

—

You get off the metro three blocks south. Walk the rest.

“—said if anyone tries to breach, he’ll start shooting,” he says. One of the cops asks something low, and the caped man just shakes his head.

Oof. That’s unfortunate.

Your stomach knots. If he’s in there…. Worry floods your body as you frantically rush up to the police tape, elbowing people out of the way.

“Please let me in,” you plead, holding your badge out. “I’m a reporter. Daily Planet. And my friend might be in there too.”

The cop glances at your ID and offers a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No can do, ma’am. It’s blocked off for a reason.”

“Can’t you check?” you press. “He might’ve—“

But he’s already speaking into his walkie-talkie, turning away and completely ignoring you.

You grind your teeth. Useless.

Nothing.

Again. This time, the third floor, west wing.

Still quiet.

“—you lied—” “I didn’t s-sir. They’re public documents.” “Shut up. One more word and I’ll shoot up this entire—”

He’s balding, red in the face, sweat-soaked through the pits of his button-down. His tie’s half off, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in three days.

“How’d you get in here?!” he screeches.

You don’t react. “I’ll tell you if you put the gun down.”

Superman hovers just outside, wind in his cape. Then—

“What are you doing here?” he blurts when his eyes lock on you.

You don’t turn, still eyeing down the CEO. “What’s it look like, dimwit? I’m stopping this guy from killing people.”

There’s a pause. You can hear the irritation in his breath as he grits, “I was trying to de-escalate the situation.”

“Yeah, well,” you say, flatly. “He re-escalated it.”

Practically throwing yourself out of his grasp, you land on the ground with an oof. Then, “you really gotta start asking for consent before you touch me with your grubby paws.”

The Kryptonian stares, mouth gaping at your reaction. “I just saved your life.”

“Keep him distracted,” you snap at the gaping metahuman without looking. “I’m getting the hostages out.”

You glance between them, then gesture lazily toward the crumpled man on the floor. “So. What’re we doing with him?”

“We aren’t going to kill him, that’s for sure.”

The CEO whimpers. “Honestly, I’d rather be dead at this point—”

You both ignore him.

“Great idea,” you deadpan. “murder was not on the menu today anyway, I’ll have you know.”

On your way back, you spot Clark standing back near the press huddle, and you march straight toward him. “Where were you?” you hiss. “I thought you were inside.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, after a brief staring contest, you let out a long exhale. “I was worried about you. Scared you had snuck in or something.”

Clark’s eyes soften, and then, without much warning, he pulls you into his chest, giving you a small hug. “Don’t worry about me,” he murmurs near your ear and—

You lift your brows slightly against his frame, registering the way his nose seems to dip almost imperceptibly against your hair. He pulls back a moment later, far too casual.

He did not. (He did). He definitely sniffed you.

—

“Damn,” Jimmy exclaims when he sees the two of you walk in. “Did you see Blink today? She was insane. Like—bam, bam, bam—outta nowhere!”

“Yeah,” Clark says beside you, loosening his tie as he heads toward his desk. “It was pretty cool.”

“But also kind of impulsive,” he continues, unable to help himself. “I heard she punched the guy in the face while he still had the gun in his hands.”

Your smile drops. “Huh? It worked, no?”

“Oh, really?”

“Okay, but,” Jimmy cuts in, “You have to admit it was pretty cool seeing them work together as a team. Who knew they were friends!”

Both you and Clark choke.

“Friends?” you cough.

“Team?” he echoes, like the word physically pained him.

You stare at Jimmy. Then at Clark. Then back at Jimmy.

“Right,” the words are slow as they leave your lips, which have morphed into a tight line. “Buddy cop.”

“It’s pretty much equivalent to what you and Clark are like, too, now that I think about it,” he ponders, deep in thought.

“Anyway, I gotta run, I forgot to take my lunch break earlier.” Then he’s gone, like he didn’t just deliver a blow to your brain.

Nothing—and you’re serious—nothing could convince you to work with Superman.

—

“You want me to… what?!”

“Look, you weren’t exactly my first choice either, but no one in the Justice Gang nor I, can sneak into places the way you can.”

Oh, you are so going to kill him. “All you need to do is blink into an underground facility. I’ve pinged unusual alien tech, and can’t let it get used.”

“I’ll be close by, but yes.”

A strangled noise leaves you as you throw your hands up into the air. “Fuck.”

There’s a pause. Superman says nothing.

You chew your lip. Pace another half-circle. You don’t owe him anything. But… “If I do this, will you finally get off my ass?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I wouldn’t say I’m on your…ass,” he gets out eventually, with the awkward cadence of someone unfamiliar with swearing, which he is. “But sure.”

You scowl. You hate him.

“This is a one-time thing, Supes.”

He nods. “Fine by me.”

And he takes off, lifting into the air and gesturing with two fingers, like keep up. You gawk at his retreating form in disbelief. This fucking guy.

“Hey!” you yell, cupping your hands around your mouth (this is so embarrassing). “Supes!”

He slows just enough to look over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “I can’t blink into somewhere I’ve never seen, dumbass!” you shout. “I need a visual!”

His face flushes, and for once, he has a different expression on his face that isn't the usual glower. Hovering back over to you, “Get on.”

A moment of silence.

“Are you deaf? I said get–”

“I know what you said!,” You snap, exasperated. “I’m just trying to convince myself that I misheard it, is all.”

“Are you going to complain the whole time?” he asks, craning his neck back slightly to look at you. You snort, bracing your palms on his shoulders.

“Honestly? That wasn’t even a complaint. It was more of an observation.” Your legs swing around him. “I was alluding to the fact that you’re built as fuck.”

Your stomach swoops with the sudden vertical motion, and you reflexively tighten your hold around his neck. One of his hands drops for a second to steady you by your thigh. Oh.

It makes you laugh.

You hum, still grinning, your cheek brushing lightly against his shoulder. “The view’s beautiful,” you admit. “And I feel… free. I hate to admit this but I’m almost jealous of you.”

There’s a pause, followed by a quiet chuckle.

Did he… did he just laugh? At something you said?

Nope.

You shut the door on that thought so fast it might as well slam in your head.

Think Clark thoughts. Think glasses and coffee, and ties. Out of nowhere, Superman dips.

“Ah—!” you yelp, gripping his shoulder so hard your nails are probably leaving marks through his suit, and he laughs again. Leaning down to his ear, “You did that on purpose!”

“Maybe,” he calls back, grinning now, actually grinning like this is fun. And it kind of is.

He hovers above a clearing. “There,” he says, nodding toward the line of trees. “Through there is the access point.”

“Where?” Squinting your eyes and leaning forward isn’t getting you anywhere.

“There.” He points again. Same spot. Same nothing. You glance sideways at him. He’s probably using his X-Ray vision, you surmise.

“So I just… blink into some random hole in the ground?”

“How are we going to communicate?” If you don’t have telepathy, then it would be impossible to talk to him in real-time.

“I’ll be tracking you,” he says, adjusting his position slightly in the air. “I can see through most of the ground. If anything happens, I’ll come for you.”

With a roll of your shoulders, and a crack of your neck, your grip on the man loosens, and you let go. “See you soon.”

Blink.

—

It’s definitely not the wet dungeon you were envisioning.

What the fuck?

There’s an unlimited supply of weapons here; there must be something you can—

You glower at him.

He continues, “You’re lucky, you know. Most don’t make it this far. But I’m curious—how does it feel, knowing your powers are useless the moment they matter most?”

“What the hell did you do?” You growl.

Something between a snarl and a bark rips from your throat. “Get away from me!”

But it does nothing. The man only cackles evilly as his approach narrows. “Or what?,” He taunts, his voice syrupy with derision. “What are you gonna do?”

He speaks to you like you’re a dog. A rabid thing that’s already leashed and muzzled.

“I wonder,” his gaze drags over your face, lingering at the line of your jaw. “What kind of beauty is hiding under that mask?”

The mask falls from his fingers onto the floor. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m not weak.”

There’s no time to breathe before he’s on you again.

“No one learns to fight for themselves anymore.”

Another.

You try to crawl, eyes swimming, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t know anything—”

Another.

“You’re parasites. Symbols of dependency. You make them soft,” he hisses. “And it disgusts me.”

Fucking hell, just doesn’t stop, does he?

“Filthy little—”

But the insult doesn’t finish. Because something explodes in the hallway.

His gaze sweeps from Baldy—Lex—to you. Your face. Your maskless face,

And his expression shatters.

It’s anguish, like something has broken open in him, raw and violent. Yet, just as quickly as it came, the grief gives way to rage. His whole body tightens, and in a roar of movement, he lunges.

You scream. “No—wait! There’s—”

He turns on his heel, stomping towards the entrance, and leaving you in his wake. “I’m gonna eat. See you later!”

Your voice is shaky, “Supes,” you place a trembling hand on his chest as you give him a nudge. “Get your ass up, we have to find a way out of here.”

“Shhh, don’t speak,” you whisper urgently. “Save your energy.”

He groans and grimaces, as if already anticipating your next words. “You need to use everything you’ve got—every bit of strength—and crawl away from this door. As hard as you can.”

“Holy shit.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.”...What? Did the Kryptonite get to you or..?”

“Okay, okay. I’m staying, but I need to clean up first. ”

Just as you surrender to sleep, a faint, unmistakable sniff.

You crack one eye open and glance sideways.

Superman’s head is tilted slightly, his nose buried against the pillow next to you. He’s... sniffing it? You blink, baffled.

—

And that’s exactly what you do. A week goes by, no Superman, no Lex jumpscares, nothing. Your life goes back to normal, except for one noticeable difference. Clark is obsessed with you.

It’s gotten to the point that even Cat took notice.

“Good afternoon, you Daily Planet peasants,” he calls out in a disgustingly cheerful manner. “Hope no one had lunch plans.”

Please no. Please don’t.

You would consider yourself a rather fearless person, but if anyone figures out your real identity, the implications of what that means for you or the people you care about terrify you.

“One of your employees is hiding a big, big secret.” His voice pitches up like he’s teasing a child. “So big, in fact, that if it got out, I imagine it would be very upsetting for them”

“Now, I wonder... what would happen if I revealed it for them?” He stops beside one of the desks and hums thoughtfully. Then, he tosses something small and round onto it.

Clink.

Boom.

“Oops,” the psycho gasps, blinking wide-eyed. “Butterfingers.”

You’re rooted to your seat, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. Suddenly, a warm, rough hand clamps around yours, pulling you up without waiting for permission. “Come with me.”

You stumble, barely steady on your feet, and let Clark drag you through the frenzy, weaving past panic-stricken coworkers, until he pushes open the door to an empty office and slams it behind you.

Each breath you take is ragged, uneven, your chest quivering. You clutch his hand like a lifeline. “Clark,” you rasp. “I need to go back out there. He’s here for me—”

“I know,” he interrupts, calmly. You shake your head, desparate.

“No, No, you don’t get it I’m—” But he puts an arm on your shoulder, silencing you.

“I need you to trust me.”

Confusion fills your mind, your face twisting. “Trust you? What—what do you mean?”

His grip tightens on your hand. “Do you trust me?”

“I’ll explain later,” he says, another explosion rocking the building.“But for now, listen to me.”

You swallow hard and nod. “Good.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “I’m going to take off my glasses. You have to put them on—right away. Promise me.”

“But–”

“Promise me.” He shuts down any chance of debate, his tone final.

“I—okay, okay, I will—”

Superman—Clark—takes a steady step forward, arm reaching out with his glasses on one of his palms. “You said you’d trust me,” he reminds.

Through the translucent windows, you see a burst of light. Then Lex’s voice, “Two minutes!”

This is your only chance.

“Okay,” he says at last, “Now you need to leave this room.”

Your mouth opens to speak, but for the first time in your life, you’re truly speechless. All you can do is simply nod wordlessly and step back into the main room.

Lex’s gaze sweeps the area, but when it passes over you, he doesn’t react. A triumphant smile forms as he’s convinced himself you’re too much of a coward to yourself.

“Well,” he purrs. “Let’s not waste any more time.” He lifts one hand and starts to count, drawing out each syllable.

“Ten... nine... eight…”

“Everybody out!” he booms. “Now!”

“You can’t.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell not?”

“You know why.” He responds.

With a bitter scoff, you rip your arm free.” If we let him go, he’s going to keep doing this. You think a prison will hold him?”

Lex leans forward in his restraints, licking blood off his teeth. “Your girl’s got a point,” he wheezes. “I won’t stop until every last metahuman is wiped off the face of the planet.”

“Enough.” And that’s an order.

“You heard him!” you argue. “He’s going to kill us and everyone else!”

The man you’re talking about lets out a choked giggle from his place by the cabinet. “Oooh,” he pants. “Front row seats to a divorce.”

You don’t answer—you have nothing to say. Rather, you just wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, and vanish.

—

How the fuck are Clark and Superman the same person?!

Superman, the man who has had it out for you for the past two years, is the same cutie who brings you coffee to work? You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes like that might somehow undo what you’ve seen. Your stomach is still twisted in knots, brain pulsing with the whiplash of the last hour. You don’t know whether you want to scream or cry or throw something heavy against the wall. Preferably all three, in quick succession.

This is Clark you're talking about.

You’re halfway through pacing a trench into your floor when there’s a knock at the door.

You don’t even bother with the peephole. You already know who it is.

“Take off the glasses,” you say flatly when Clark enters. He does. And just like before, something shifts.

God damnit. You shove him. Hard. But, like you figured would happen, he doesn’t move.

“How could you?!” you rage. “How could you put me in this position?!”

His brows pinch, his eyes flicker. “I—”

“Surely you know,” you’re laying all your cards on the table. “You have to know the way I feel about you—and the way I feel about him—is different.”

“We’re the same person,” he responds.

“Bullshit.”

You still. “Don’t you dare—“

“You think this has been easy for me? You flirt with me as Clark but want to strangle me as Superman like you’re not driving me insane?”

Your heart’s in your throat. “Yeah? Well maybe I should’ve clocked you as Supes when you started sniffing my pillow in your sleep!””

He freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Jimmy told me,” you laugh to yourself. “Said you liked the way I smelled, and I just—Gah, I didn’t know it was that serious—”

But you don’t get the rest of the sentence out, because Clark dips his head and kisses you like a dam breaking.

And It’s not sweet. It’s not soft.

You gulp, still panting, lips swollen and fingertips trembling where they grip the fabric of his shirt. “...I can’t. I do.”

His eyes darken instantly, and he’s on you again. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he walks you backward, blindly, lips never leaving yours—and then you blink.

“Did you just—.”

“I did.”

“God,” he mutters, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down the line of your throat. “I felt so guilty,” he confesses between kisses. “Liking you... and yet Blink, she—“

“The people I’ve dealt with in the past… They’ve never given me a choice.”

Your eyes roll gently, because there have definitely been times when you felt like his enemy. But when his mouth finds the tip of your ear, you bite your tongue.

The sound that rips from his throat is completely involuntary.

“Oh?,” you notice, pulling back an inch.

You tug at the waistband of his pants. “Take these off, then.”

“Let me taste you,” he begs.

“You—you taste so good,” he hums, his lips vibrating against you.

“Can I–,” he begins to ask.

His name on your lips is all it takes.

“Ah,” he gasps. “You feel—you're so tight. So warm. I can't—”

He breaks off with a ragged moan as you clench around him, and then he’s starts back up again, steady but more desperate now, every roll of his hips deeper than the last. Each thrust drags a new sound out of him— breathless moans, half-formed words that melt into your skin.

Your head falls back against the pillow as he fucks into you, and you can barely keep your eyes open, but when you do, you catch a glimpse of him above you.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

You’re literally so horny you might explode. “Clark if you don’t put it in right now—”

“You’re so perfect,” he says, and you want to keep this moment between you, to tell him how much you want him, but your brain can only rewind to when you called him—

“Supes, you’re—”

A sinful sound interrupts you. “Do not say that,” he pleads, his thrusts faltering just slightly, “or I’m going to cum right here, right now.”

You shiver at the threat, biting your lip to hold back your grin. Oh, this is going to be useful. “But you’re making me feel so good…Supes,” you add quickly at the end.

“Ah! I said don’t—oh my God,” his hips stutter and he picks up the pace. “I’m not going to last much longer. Are you close?”

“Yes,” you gasp, breath ragged, body trembling. “I… oh my God, you fill me up so well—”

He practically whimpers, “Baby I’m gonna–”

“You okay?” he asks, muffled by your shoulder.

Only Clark would ask you if you trusted him before doing something reckless, and only Superman would do that reckless thing, sacrificing his identity to keep you safe.

“There’s nobody else, either,” you whisper.

His brow furrows, confused. “What?”

You offer him a tired little smile. “Only you could be Superman.”

----

A/N: thank you for reading! feedback is greatly appreciated :)

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