eulogiez

[eulogiez]

@staseras takes the cake for exceptional clark fics

please recommend me ur fav clark kent fics/writers!! i dont care much for smut but i love me some good old hurt/comfort or fluff

my writer recs: @eulogiez ty that is all

[eulogiez]

luvvvv ur writing.. my Gawd ure my GOAT!!!

you are so kind! thank you so much this made my day haha 🤍 i want to post more regularly but i’m on and off with my consistency these days

[eulogiez]

important question but should i make a taglist if i make a some protector sequel…and if so who would potentially want to be added

[eulogiez]

highkey always crashing the hell out about the way my theme looks and the layout of each of my fics okkk bye!

[eulogiez]

ೃ༄ LOVING IS EASY — clark kent

clark is so easy to love, and he’d like to say he tries to make you think the same of yourself. maybe his efforts have been futile, because you don’t feel any less motivated to break things off one random saturday; but he’s not willing to let you go that easily. 2.9k

tags: hurt/comfort (reader experiences a small injury), sort of anxious/depressed reader (slight anxiety attack?), hints of a sucky family/upbringing, reader is kind of mean to clark at the breakup but it’s just b/c she’s insecure, i promise she loves him too, reader thinks clark baby’s too good for her

˚୨୧⋆｡ navi masterlist latest work

You’d been sitting on the idea of breaking up with Clark for months now. Actually, it had been weighing on you for months now. It felt more like an obligation.

There was no reason not to be totally enamored by Clark. He was quick-witted, unfathomably sweet, and the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. He wasn’t selfish and motivated by his own needs and desires, much like other men you’d had prior unpleasant experiences with.

That seemed to be exactly the problem. He was too good to be true and you wanted to break free of whatever spell he had you under before it was too late. You knew you had to be the one to call it quits before Clark got irrevocably attached, too.

You felt you couldn’t allow yourself to get used to it. The just-because flowers, the unprecedented notes he left on your sun visor mirror, the dates whose planning he left entirely up to himself so that you needn’t so much as lift a finger or worry your pretty little head about a singular decision after a back-breaking day’s of work. He was just so uncannily thoughtful. Almost un-humanly.

So you finally mustered up the courage, some weeks before your four-month anniversary. Sucking in a breath of air sharply, you shoot him a text one night when you felt the thought had been pressing on you too heavily.

you: Hey, Clark. Can we talk, tomorrow at mine?

clarkattack 🦈: Sure thing, honey. I’ll bring some goodies! :)

You felt an overwhelm of guilt all of a sudden. Clark was so unsuspecting, so sweetly oblivious. No doubt he thought you were just wanting to have a calm date night in. You slumped in the plush of your bed, suddenly worried if this was the right thing to do.

To say the least, the romance that blossomed between you was completely unforseen. At least to you.

It came quietly, then loudly, all of a sudden. It was buying you coffee. Then dinner. Nights out. Then nights in, cuddled up in the crook of his neck, cozied up in the warm, incandescent comfort of your quaint apartment. Like it was built for just two. Built for you. It happened faster than you could process, and in those four months, that blurred haste of time, you could never seem to process why he chose you.

Plain, average, ordinary you. He was Clark. Selfless Clark who towered over you, a pure gentle giant. Clark who knew you like a unit of his broad body, Clark who was something of a fairy tale prince. If anything, you thought he’d be a better match for his equivalently attractive, snarky-but sweet counterpart Lois Lane. You pushed back the notion of their chemistry one too many times.

You let yourself fall asleep with that all-but-pleasant idea the last thing on your mind. It would all be over tomorrow anyways.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You were unsure how to go about it. Before you knew it, before you could mentally prepare yourself for what felt like a disaster to come, a blaring ring sounded at your front door.

“Hey, Clark,” you’re opening the door with quivering hands, still feeling uneasy about it all. To make matters worse, he’s greeting you with the sweetest smile, a dimpled one on that gorgeous canvas of a face that has no sneaking suspicions of what’s to come.

“Hey honey, I brought your favorites,” he’s holding up a paper grocery bag and with the widest grin.

“Clark, you really didn’t have to do that,” you mutter embarrassingly.

“It’s really no trouble at all. You know I’d do it whether you asked or not.”

You can only nod along, any semblance of words failing you. And when you’ve made your way to the couch, he’s already made it has mission to make the couch as comfortable a place to nestle into as possible, setting up the blankets just the way you like before fluffing and perching the pillows up—he seems to have already forgotten why you invited him over in the first place. You’re clearing your throat when he flips on the TV, surfing through for something to watch already.

“So what’d you want to talk about, honey?” He says absentmindedly, scrolling through various films and TV series.

“Oh, right, um. About the TV, Clark, I really don’t think it’s a good idea that we—,”

“Oh look, honey! They’ve got The Princess Bride! Our favorite! Let me go grab the popcorn,” he exclaims, and with that, he’s making a dash for the grocery bag like a mad man. You sigh to yourself. Maybe it can wait.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You’re halfway into the movie and sitting an unusual distance from Clark. Every sideways glance makes you feel sorry for both him and yourself. A few times you ponder to yourself why you’re even doing this, why you seem to have to pull the plug on any good thing that comes to you.

But a deeper sense within you seems to know it’s too much for you, too good of a thing. That you’re sure to corrupt Clark’s goodness at some point. That at any point he could unknowingly switch up on you and shut all the goodness off.

He scoots closer to you, giving you a small peck on the forehead, then a peck on the cheek. You scoot further away and clear your throat. “I like this part,” you murmur with your eyes trained on the flatscreen. “This will all soon be but a happy memory,” Westley says after he extinguishes the fire at the hem of Buttercup’s gown.

Clark would never push you, and he has a perfected mastery at reading your body language. He stares and you for a moment after bearing in mind the way you pull away where you otherwise would have deepened into—sunk into—his kisses and gentle advances.

“You alright, honey?” He asks like he doesn’t have half a mind to know you’re not. He just wants to hear it from you. You hum a simple yes.

“I’m going to go finish up on those dishes I was washing before you came,” you inform him flatly.

You’re looking down into the empty chasm of the sink, hands on either side of it. Wondering about your verbiage when you actually go through with the freaking arrangement that you invited him over for. You’ve been through breakups before. You hated how all of them sounded when it ended.

Were you just going to be another cliché? You thought of a string of everything you could possibly say and which sad excuse you’d go through with. This just isn’t working out. We’re too different. We don’t click. I feel like we can’t communicate thoroughly. I just can’t. It’s not you, it’s me. Most of them being total lies with the exception of the last one.

“I’m coming with, I can make more popcorn,” Clark hollers from the other room. He makes a brisk entrance with your half-empty popcorn bowl that only he touched. You make quick work of a random dish you swiped from the drying rack to look busy, turning on the sink to look as if you’re rinsing it. He notices your anguish and the pained look on your face when you suddenly start scrubbing at it with a sudsy sponge.

“Honey, are you sure you’re okay? You’re scrubbing at that plate like you’ve got a vendetta against its family. Did the bowls wrong you or something?” He chuckles to himself at his own joke.

“Fine, Clark,” you say shortly.

“You haven’t touched the snacks I bought you,” he points out. The look on his face is scrawled with concern.

“Not hungry.”

“You sure?”

“Really sure.”

“I’ll make us something later after the movie, how ‘bout that?”

“That’s alright. I had a big lunch so I’ll just go to bed after.”

“Already? ‘S only six right now, should be a little after seven when we’re done.”

“Just tired.”

“Honey,” he hesitates for a moment, breath hitched and careful about what his next words will be, whether he’ll strike a nerve or if he had already. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark,” you hissed coldly, taking him aback. He doesn’t flinch at your sudden harshness. He just stands there, the same expression of concern sturdy on his face.

“You know what I invited you over for? I want to break up,” you said simply, avoiding the look of hurt his cerulean eyes are suddenly overcome with.

“What, but why—,”

“It’s just…it’s not working out.” You’re unsure what more to say. You didn’t realize you’d get this far.

“Can we talk about this?” His voice cracks a little and you have to fight a little harder not to look at him. “What exactly isn’t working out? I’m sorry if I did something—,”

“I just can’t.” Now you’re trying to fight tears welling up in your eyes.

He says something more and you turn on the garbage disposal, digging for a fork you lost in the commotion. Against all better judgment telling you not to, you look at him, hand inching towards the depths of the sink, disposal forgotten when you suddenly graze the back of your hand by the blades of it. You shriek and curse at yourself, hand newly blooming with crimson on the back of it.

“Oh my gosh, sweetheart, let me help you,” Clark’s more worried about the blood than you, it seems, his own hands making haste to coming up to your quivering one only a second after.

“Just go, Clark,” you exclaim tersely at him.

“Hey,” he says softly in spite of the threatening cut of your own severe voice. “Please just let me help you so we don’t have to go the Emergency Room. Then I’ll go, okay? As you wish.” He thinks you won’t notice his Princess Bride reference at the end. But you do. And for some reason that’s what it takes to bring you to tears, the aching gash at the back of your hand be damned. They’re hot tears that caress you when they slowly stream down your face. Tears that are hard to fight with only a singular hand.

“Hey, hey,” he coos at you and drags you to the living room without waiting your approval, a clean rag in hand. He’s wiping away at your tears when you sit there lamely. “I know it hurts, I’ll make it better, I promise.” He rushes to the kitchen quickly, in a moment’s notice returning with your first aid kit under the sink.

You want to tell him it’s not really the cut that hurts. You’re practically numb already, which is also of concern to you. But it’s the stupid breakup that hurts more right now and the way he seems to care so deeply for you even in your malice, that his gentle advances are utterly unfaltering.

In another scenario like this one you’d praise him for knowing where everything in your apartment is so well. Like he had the blueprint of everything memorized in that super-mind of his, pocketing a detailed visual in there. But this is an odd-case scenario where you’re being treated by the aid of your now ex-boyfriend for an almost certain E.R-worthy injury after screaming at him to leave.

You’re watching him in silence, with the steadiest hands taking your gaping one into his without so much as a wince. You wish you weren’t so painfully human in times like these, that you could heal by the sun alone and wake up fresh in the morning the way he did. He is my sun, you thought to yourself sometimes. He grabs the hydrogen peroxide hastily, pouring a cap full of it.

“Grab onto my arm when I pour this onto you. Squeeze it as tight as you want. It’ll make it hurt less,” he reassures. You give him a nod before he pours onto it, and you’re grimacing through the motions while holding onto his strong bicep for dear life.

“Attagirl, attagirl. That’s good,” he whispers while petting your hair before pulling away quickly so as to not worsen your earlier frustrations. He mutters a short sorry. “I would blow on it but I don’t wanna spread any germs.”

He grabs the Neosporin after dabbing at the excess peroxide your hand with a clean cloth. “Look, Clark, about earlier…”

“We don’t have to talk about it right now, you’re hurt.”

“I need to.”

He gives you a meaningful look, nodding before squeezing at the ointment tube carefully.

“I just, I feel like you’re too good for me.” Before you can help it, the tears are making their way back to your eyes. You curse yourself and rub at your eyes with the back of your freehand. And Clark, in all his softness, is reaching up to wipe at them again with a large thumb, collecting them on the bed of his nail. You don’t stop him.

“I’m difficult, you know? It took me well over near two months for you to get anything out of me about my family, why I am the why I am. I feel like you give me everything sometimes. The whole world. And I can hardly give anything in return,” you know he wants to interrupt you because his mouth is slack. “God, Kent. Can you let me finish?” you laugh without looking at him, instead down at your severed hand.

“I’m just a lot. I feel like I’m either too much or not enough. You’re so much prettier than me,” you cradle his soft face in your hand and he smiles a sad smile. You know it’s hurting him to not be able to immediately shut down your crazy talk. You’re practically forcing him through your whole ordeal. “You’re funny, you’re dorky in the cutest way. You’re so smart and you have the biggest heart. I just feel like, how can I compare to you sometimes, you know? I feel like I’m holding you back from your full potential. I want you to be with someone as good as you and better than me. I’m messy, broken. I’m dark,” you finish, sobbing when you do. It’s getting harder to breathe and he’s taking you in the vastness of his arms. Cooing and shushing you, rocking you back and forth.

“Hey, hey.” He says sternly, loud over your scattered breaths and hiccuped sobs for you to hear. He kisses at the back of your freshly bandaged hand. “Breathe with me, breathe with me, please, honey.” You’re letting out a few more sobs before you’re nodding off at him, and he’s counting your deep inhales and exhales. Doing it with you. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. In, out. In. Out. You finally settle down, still hiccuping slightly.

“You,” he says, giving a slow, deep kiss at your forehead, then again at your hands, “are not difficult in the slightest. Like most humans you have a fair sense of cynicism. It means more to me that you let me in no matter how long it took because the point is that you did. You let me be a part of your world. And I couldn’t be more grateful. Because I like it here. A lot,” you both laugh. “And I know I told you I would leave, but I don’t want to walk out of here not being a part of your world.”

“And I’m glad I know why you are the way you are now. You are not your experiences, though. And not all of them shaped you entirely. You didn’t let them. You came to shape your own beautiful little experiences and leave behind the pains of your past.” You liked the way that sounded. Beautiful little experiences. Clark was surely one of them.

“You are not messy, or broken, or dark,” he says firmly, as if to make sure it gets to your head. “You are my full potential. You’ve taught me what true goodness really means. And you’re perfect. You are smart. You are kind. You are the most beautiful person I know. In every way. You’re beauty personified,” This almost makes you want to break all over again. Clark just seems to have such a way with words.

“You are my sun.” He kisses your hand once, twice, three times. Then each of your fingers. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. You kiss the top of his hair while he’s still leaned down. “Can you let me be yours?”

You look at him for a moment. “I’m sorry if I ever am too much, okay? Can you just let me know if I ever am?”

“Not too much, so it’s never going to happen,” he says simply, now nuzzling your hand into his face.

You think about everything he’s said. He repeats it. Can you let me be your sun?

As you wish, you say. You win, farm boy. You lean in to kiss him. For once you feel satisfied. For once you don’t feel heavy with the weight of everything. More than sorely aware of the space you take. Right now you feel it’s just enough.

a/n: omg i hate doing these little pic layout things bc i feel like they never look good when i do them but the middle pic of david didn’t look right on its own…anyways please don’t let this i actually kind of liked it

⋆.˚ © eulogiez all rights reserved.

— comments and feedback are appreciated!

[eulogiez]

how i feel opening up tumblr to read x reader ffs at my big age

[eulogiez]

me bc i have like four fic ideas rn and i only need the will to put my keyboard to work and make them happen

[eulogiez]

Hiiii! I just stumbled upon your fics of Superman and I just want to say that I’ve enjoyed them. It’s definitely satisfying all the David!Superman fluff that I need! Looking forward to more!

thank u so much! 🤍 i love a good fluff so writing them has been sm fun, truthfully i love angst more, i’m just not as good as writing it but i love the comfort that comes with reading angst with a happy ending

[eulogiez]

kaylah you're in my top three fav tumblrs just wanted to lyk ;p (i just discovered this feature for the first time)

OHEMGEEE SOFT this is the cutest thing!!! i need access to this feature asap, i know you’re all the way up there on mine 🙏 u are my fave moot, remember me when you’re famous (you’re basically there)

[eulogiez]

nah why’d u do my man like that 😔😔😔 give him back his girl pls

LOL i’m sorry anon! stay tuned for more (maybe)! i was wanting to be accurate with the lyrics but i’m not used to angsty endings so we’ll see where it goes ;)

[eulogiez]

ೃ༄ SOME PROTECTOR — clark kent

it had months since you and clark had broken up. months of mutual heartbreak and turmoil, whether either of you knew or not. little did you know, clark had been watching you for months now, even in your distance wanting to make sure you've been okay. miraculously, superman's there when you experience a little run-in with the wrong person at the wrong time. 2.7k

“are you still picking up the pieces? am i still worried 'bout you? why, yes, i am and i always will…be some protector.”

tags: holy angst, obviously pre-established relationship, clark yearns, miscommunication whoops, brief mention of reader having a sick relative, angsty argument flashback among other flashbacks, based on my fave role model song that i listened to on loop while writing

˚୨୧⋆｡ navi masterlist latest work

The pull was slow but steady. Unlike the rough of your relationship. It was perfect until it wasn’t; towards the end, both of you were just looking to keep your heads above water while holding onto each other at the same time. You slowly deteriorated together, tangled in a mess of lies and unbreakable tension. Until there was nothing left.

You feel it again, shuffling through your little shoebox of trinkets you’d collected in the timeline of your relationship.

Your framed photo of your name written in the clouds, courtesy of Clark. The fluffy ivory lettering adorned the blue of the skyline so prettily.

There was something so intimate about it just as much as it was broadcasted for the world to see. Like he was letting all of Metropolis know that he chose you. You remembered it all.

“Can we just stay like this?” You asked, resting your head on his shoulder, cozied up together, admiring his framed work.

“Always,” he said without hesitation, stroking and kissing your hair without anything but your closeness on his mind.

It had meant everything in the world to you at the time. Time and time again, Clark reminded you why you were drawn so strongly towards him. He was utterly magnetic and he was passionate in his love as he was gentle.

Even in your breakup he never showed you any kind of resentment. No matter how much of you he lost in the end he treated you like you were still whole, still together.

“I wish you weren’t him sometimes. You know, I signed up to be with Clark when we started dating. Just to find out there was a package deal I didn’t even know you were a part of,” You laughed humorlessly. It broke you to say as much as it broke him to hear it. It was just a jumble of nonsense you spewed following the ringing silence of his absence again.

It became more than just rescheduled dates and tables for two that only you occupied, watching the clock and awaiting his arrival while the orange hues of the evening sky turned pitch black. You’d gotten a call earlier that night from the hospital about your mother being kept overnight for in-patient care. You called Clark in tears, frantic and alone, needing him there with you while you cradled your sick mother’s hands in your own until you were ushered out by insistent nurses. Only to find he had other business to attend to.

You felt like you were in a poorly prioritized queue, at the back of the line behind the rest of the world. He was Superman before he was Clark and it caused an ache of resentment within you that you couldn’t learn to bite down.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he pleaded tearfully. He was on his knees before you while you sat at the edge of your shared bed, that these days only you ever seemed to warm. “There are times I wish I didn’t have to be him either. I just want to be here, with you. Please, I’m not asking you to forgive me, but I need you to understand.”

“I can’t tell you to stop being Superman, Clark,” you say after thoughtfully gazing at him in silence. “And I won’t. I know people need you and that’s what hurts. Because I need you too, in a different way. And I can’t have one or the other. These days it’s getting hard to love both knowing that one of your identities is the reason why the other is failing me.” You regretted it as soon as you said it but you didn’t know how else you could.

You did love him, all of him. He was the same Clark, just with his kindness made to be his civic duty when he put the suit on. “But what I can do is leave. I can’t stop you from being who you are.” In an instant, you’re on your feet with only your bag slung over your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, please,” He begged, following after you with an exceeding stride.

He followed you out into the street, frantically looking everywhere around you when you disappeared into the abyss of the rain and the bustle of the city.

No matter how badly your words stung at him, he could never hurt you back in the same way. The sting of his constant tardiness spoke for itself, anyways.

You shuddered the sorrow of the memory away. Flipping through the mementos of the box, that long ago, meant something to you. Of them being a blue jay feather.

“Clark, let me down!” You screeched at him. Your grip on him was sturdy iron on his husky bicep, clinging onto him for dear life.

“You sure, sweetie? We just got up!” He’s grinning at you idiotically like your saucer-wide eyes aren’t pleading with him for level ground. “Please,” he softly said into your ear, prying your hands away from your eyes squeezed shut to clasp them into his.

“I promise I would never let you fall. I’ll never let you go.” You know he means it when he says it. You reluctantly nod and with that you’re soaring off, shrieking into his ear.

“Look,” he whispered, afloat next to a tree after zooming around the Metropolis skyline. “Clark,” you hissed worriedly. Three infant blue jays cozied up in nest perched firmly on a branch of the tree. A singular feather was left inside, likely left from their mama bird. Carefully, Clark inched a few of his large fingers into the nest, pinching the feather in between them and cooing at the younglings so as to not disturb them.

“A little memento of our first flight,” Clark hummed, handing it over to you.

You kissed him like this, this time sharing his dumb grin. Looking at each other like you were the only two people in the whole big city, some way above the entire skyline, floating higher and higher the deeper you kissed him.

You rummaged the box once more. Past the bandages and gauze you kept for him after an especially strenuous night, patching him back up although you knew he’d be right and anew in the morning. He came to you knowing this, just because you needed you. Need you more than the sun, he said. You weren’t his kryptonite, his ailing weakness. You were the glowing sun that healed him, that put him back together overnight. You rummaged further.

This time it was a soda tab. You were taken back to that quiet movie night in, tangled in your share of blankets that you’d later discard, choosing to get lost in each other’s warmth instead. Clark had a habit of completely removing the tabs every time he cracked open a fresh drink can. Something about the tabs bothering him when he drank.

“Clark,” you giggled, taking his discarded tab into your hands. “You know what this means?”

“It’s just a soda tab, no?” He scratched his head, wondering what he was missing.

You shook your head, scooting even closer to him, “This one has a little hole at where you pulled the tab,” you pointed, holding it up for you to see. “It means you get a kiss.”

You’re pulling him in before he can process or ask anything more, leaving the movie long-forgotten. It became your thing, for him to give you his tab sheepishly after opening his cans, expecting a kiss in return.

All it really took was reminiscing over those three trinkets to send you back to a time you wanted only to leave behind, to prompt you to shut away the box by the lid, and with it all the memories you once held dear to your heart.

“Babe,” a husky male voiced called over from the next room. “You ready?”

“Yeah, in a sec,” you hesitantly called back.

You’d been dating someone new for months past your breakup with Clark now. He was sure, stable, and he was just what you needed. Though you couldn’t relieve the better sense within you that l felt that something was missing.

You felt guilty sometimes, like you only needed him to fill the empty chasm Clark left within you. Like you were using him so as to not feel alone, the way you sometimes did when you were dating Clark.

He wasn’t unfazed the way you assumed he’d be in your breakup. You’d convinced yourself that because he seemed to turned a blind eye when you were in need of help to prioritize the whole rest of the city, that he’d do just fine on his own without you.

But his days seemed both restless and endless, consumed by the painful need for you back, like he was trying to trek his way out from tar he couldn’t stop from sinking into. He’d often called Ma just to fill the ache and drone of his days, and sought her advice knowing deep down there wasn’t much to do that could help him now.

“You’ve gotta get your sweet girl back, Clark. She needs you and you need her, too. Gotta tell her how ya feel,” she advised him sternly.

“She wants nothing to do with me, Ma. And she’s right for it. I messed up. It was too hard to be there for her when I was off doing heck knows what in the city. And I know the people need me, Ma. But she needed me, too. But I couldn’t.” He rubbed at his temples thoughtfully.

“She loves you, Clark. I know it. She’ll understand. It’s not too late,” She pressed. Hopeful. Certain. He almost wanted to lie to her, to reassure her that he’d go looking for someone new. Find another. Just to convince her that he wouldn’t let this darkness eat away at him. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

And thus began Clark’s nightly patrols over your apartment. He watched you from afar, sat atop that place parallel to your own apartment allowing him a perfect view from its height of your whereabouts, each time you’d enter and exit.

At first he’d wanted to tell you exactly how he felt, his call with Ma only a few weeks following your breakup. But the courage couldn’t be mustered from deep within him.

He couldn’t forget your last conversation, and he feared that the resentment you felt was still fresh in your mind, that you wouldn’t give him so much as a moment’s explanation before you walked away from him again.

So his first cowardly attempt to approach you turned to watching your ins and outs, to and fro your apartment building, observing that you made it in safely. That was enough for him.

And surely enough, after a couple of months you were running into the lobby in a fit of giggles, swinging in by the hands of another man, hands that weren’t his. His heart sank in his broad chest. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop coming. There was some sense of incompletion from knowing he couldn’t be there to protect you if he stopped coming.

This night was like any other. You arrived half past the hour you clocked out from your shift at work. You checked your phone absentmindedly while entering the lobby, something Clark always warned you not to do. You disappeared for a short while before emerging again in more relaxed clothing, out to go pick up something to eat, he thought. This time with that man whose hands you seemed to lace yours into more and more frequently. Clark sighed to himself from his ledge on the building. Thinking, regretfully, about how it could’ve been him, on one of your nightly excursions, his hands you’d be swinging by in and out of the building.

Only, when you came back, you were alone. Must’ve left back to his place, Clark figured.

“Hey!” a clamorous voice called out to you, taking long strides in your direction.

You stopped in your tracks, turning around to see if there’d been someone you missed standing your way.

“You, miss,” he shouted, making you jump out of your skin. “What’re you doing out here all alone at night?”

“Just visiting a friend,” you lied sheepishly, unsure how to dodge his unprecedented company.

“How ‘bout you come down to my place instead?” He smiled a crooked, toothy grin that made your skin crawl. He advanced closer towards you menacingly. “I can pour you a drank and—,”

“Hey, buddy!” another voice roared over his, commanding. Familiar. “Do we have a problem?” A broad figure emerged from the shadows bordering the building’s dim side. Clark. Superman, blue suit, red trunks at all. But just your Clark, underneath it all.

“No, sir,” the stranger meekly replied, frozen in place.

“Then can you be on your way before we do have a problem?” Clark demanded, not missing a beat.

“No problem, sir,” he practically whispered them strode in the opposite direction before taking off into a run. Pathetic.

You watched the exchange in awe, then glanced each way around you to ensure you were alone.

“Clark,” you whispered, more like hissed hastily—“What’re you doing here?”

“I was…in the neighborhood,” he hesitated shyly.

“Clark, your apartment is halfway across town. It’s been quiet all night. Nothing for you to fight off,” you said, pointedly.

He stepped closer to you. His pupils were blown, his lips were parted with want, ajar with all the words he wanted to say hanging from his lips, unsure which he’d choose. He knew it was upon him to finally be honest.

“I’ve been watching you,” he scratched the back of his head, “Not like that. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. I still feel I’ve gotta protect you, you know.”

“Clark,” you said, fidgeting with your fingers. One of them gleaming with a sizable diamond hanging fit around it. Oh. “You don’t need to do that. It’s too late for all that. I’m sorry,” you said under your breath. Your last words hung in the air.

Even Clark, with all his brawn, couldn’t brace the weight of them. The confirmation that he wasn’t needed anymore—coupled with the sorry sight of your finger embellished so beautifully with that glittering ring of yours that shone so magically under the light of the setting sun.

I’m sorry, you wanted to repeat. More meaningfully this time. The first time you said it you meant it so as to say I’m sorry I never told you I forgive you. You began to really understand that it was his duty—more like his promise to the world—to come to the aid and rescue of humans in need. It wasn’t his responsibility, but the pure will of his heart to want to, to have to help them because he could. Because he was good.

That was the beauty of Clark, the beauty of Superman, that you had failed to see in the hurt of his constant unavailability. But you understood now, and there was a time after you’d already called it quits that you were willing to put it all aside. You’d wished you’d reached out. That’s what you were truly sorry for.

“Well, um. I hope you’re alright,” he said, gesturing to your ring and smiling timidly.

“I am.” You smiled a somber smile. Seeing him again seemed to open wounds you thought you’d long-closed. A pain you thought you retired. A familiar ache.

“I’d better get going,” you said after awhile, looking at your feet.

“I understand,” his voice cracked. He watched as you went.

You looked back, somber smile still intact. “Be well, Clark,” you called out in your steps. “Take care of yourself. The world needs you.”

I need you, he wanted to say. He only nodded and returned your smile with a sheepish one, watching you disappear, winding up and away to your apartment. Ignoring the croak of his throat when he opened up to say something, and the hurt that found its way back to his chest, watching you leave for a second time, heavy with the odes and apologies he’d wished he’d said to you.

⋆.˚ © eulogiez all rights reserved.

— comments and feedback are appreciated!

[eulogiez]

does anyone else just be rereading their own fics for comfort (honestly just my last drabble)

[eulogiez]

Hii! Can you pretty please write Clark Kent x reader who always misses meals from being either busy or not wanting to get out of bed to make smth. Ik he’d be so upset when he first noticed that your first meal of the day is always late like 3 pm. So he makes meals and makes sure you eat!

Clark was aware that work wore you down like an anvil that you couldn’t quite move from upon you. This tended to cause an overlap—more like an imbalance—between your work and home life and catalyzed your bad habits of neglect towards yourself and depriving yourself of your needs. He came to find this out the hard way, one way or the other, when your groceries would go bad in the allotted time between buying them and their extensive due dates. Vegetables sat there untouched in their sad little crisper and uncracked eggs lay bare in their carton. Even when you did have the rare vacancy of time in your hands to spare to cook for yourself, you found it was much more satisfying to rest, laying idly in your bed and letting your hunger be consumed by a deep slumber or scrolling away on your phone. There was something so energy-consuming about having to get up and actually make yourself something. You figured it was never that serious anyways. When the hunger finally began to rumble and ache within you in your tiredness or laziness, you had packaged snacks available to you or whatever else was stocked in your pantry.

Clark winced when you broke into a bag of chips, absentmindedly munching away at them. It made him uneasy, the principle of choosing a bag of chips over a hearty meal when he was well…unsure whether or not he’d even seen you eat much else earlier that day. “Sweetheart, do you have any idea how processed those are? What else have you had to eat today?” He earnestly asked, already half-expecting your answer.

“Oh, Clark. Always the health nut. It’s fine,” you defend, dodging his question.

“Sweetie, it’s not fine. Look, I didn’t want to push it on you, but I know you hardly eat. Your groceries go bad quickly and even when you do make yourself something, it just sits in the fridge. I used to think you’d at least pick up something to eat after work but I know how long it takes you to commute from work and you come back too quickly after work to have stopped somewhere. You’re home at exactly the time it takes you to come to and from work. And then after you’ve showered and napped after work you’ve broken into something from the pantry.”

“Clark? You really noticed all that?” You feel embarrassed now, snacking away, unbeknownst to you that Clark was privy to your bad habits.

“Yeah, of course I did. Now can you actually eat something now that I have you here in the kitchen before you knock out or go back to bed to all that scrolling nonsense? Can I make you something?”

You almost want to snort at how unreasonably paternal he sounds right now. But you don’t want him to think you’re making fun, and truthfully, it warms your heart how much he cares, how much he notices. At the same time, you don’t want him to worry, to exert much more spent effort into you than he already has. You hesitate.

“Clark, I love you and I appreciate it. I promise, I’m fine,” you say firmly and fold the back bag up to reseal it with a clip before shutting the pantry door.

“But sweetie—,”

“Clark, I’m going to bed. We can talk about this some other time when my head isn’t pounding thinking about working all over again in the morning.” You yawn and say with a tone of finality.

Clark feels an overwhelming sense of guilt to not have connected the dots earlier. He was unsure for long you had this wayward routine of doing things, that you only really seemed to eat whole meals in his presence, in your shared togetherness, one hand holding a utensil and the other nursing yours while you talked thoroughly about your day and whatever was ailing your mind. Of course he’d never mind taking care of you, but he wished you took it upon yourself to take care of yourself. He was overridden with a pang of worry for you at the thought. He just had to be the one to abet you in the right direction, astray from this path of neglect and hunger—intentional or not.

It started small. Little packaged meals in containers, simple things so you’d feel less bad about full-fledged intricately-made five course meals, but still something well-crafted and made with love to show that he cared. Monday it’d be a pasta, Tuesday tilapia, Wednesday wraps filled with your favorite dressings and protein, with rice and vegetables, Thursdays burrito bowls, each fixing neatly separated in their respective compartments within the tupperware; rice, beans, protein and condiments, and on Friday, a sandwich that closely resembled your go-to order at a deli stop that you and Clark discovered on one of your first casual dates. Each container with a little note. “For my favorite person,” “Enjoy, Sweetheart,” “Made your favorite,” “Hope you like this,” and “Thinking of you, always.” He’d even stocked a snack box each day, with a different fruit, vegetable, cheese, and cracker in a compartment, stuffed to its brim. Sweet as it was, you felt bad that each time you opened the fridge now, you expected something, and Clark never failed to deliver. You finally thought to mention it to him that day, while he was sweeping away at the tiled floor of the kitchen.

“Clark, what’s with the lunches and snacks?” you demanded with a quirked brow, a hand on your hip. Not accusatory, but curious, though you awfully looked that way.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie,” he whistled to himself, only looking down at the floor he was brushing away at.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, unconvinced.

He turned away allegedly to sweep back the floor he missed, only to smile at the ground when he wasn’t facing you.

Saturday, you’d worked overtime. When you came back, a hot dish of your favorite meal awaited you, along with your favorite drink poured into a wine glass, a neatly folded napkin and cutlery placed on either side of the plate. The sight made you gasp. A note folded up into a tent read with neat handwriting, “Sweetheart, you deserve all this and more.” You dropped your belongings and keys off onto the counter and rushed to the bedroom, only to find Clark fast asleep. You smiled down at him from within the doorframe, then reluctantly ate alone. Truth be told, Clark preferred the element of surprise rather than waiting up on you to see it. He wanted you to know he didn’t expect anything, not praise or any service in exchange for his goodness and special care for you. He knew in his heart you appreciated it.

Clark awoke early the next morning to cook something up for you the way he had been. His large arms outstretched above his head before he looked down to see you steadfast in slumber. He smiled, wishing he could stay here like this with you the way he always did when he awoke. After a while of sitting and watching you he turned to leave the bed, and you nestled up in the warmth of blankets.

“Clark,” you murmured tiredly with a hand latched around his burly arm. Startled by the motion, he turned back to you then sat firmly in place.

“Yes, my love?”

You rubbed your eyes then sat up, groggy in your ministrations and fighting sleep. You yawned then finally cleared your throat, giving him your earnest attention.

“Honey, I love you and it means a lot to me, but you don’t have to cook for me. I’m grown,” you laughed, “And you’re waking up early just to do this. Taking the time out of your day. Real time you could be using to sleep or get ready for you to go to work.”

“Sweetheart, listen to me,” he said, reluctantly letting you finish. God knows he wanted to interrupt you somewhere around the middle and tell you that none of it mattered to him, nothing so long as he made sure you were taken care of. “Fifteen minutes a day is nothing to me, knowing that for the full day you’re being fed and nourished. I only feel bad that I didn’t notice you’d been doing this sooner. I’d much rather take that time than sit with the knowledge that I let you starve yourself—,”

“I don’t starve myself.”

He gives you a look.

“Let me do this for you,” he takes your hands in his. “Actually I’m not asking you. I’m telling you that I will do this for you, that I want to. I signed up for a lifetime with you, of caring for you. You work yourself down too much and even when you can make yourself something, I know you’re too tired to. I’ll keep doing this no matter how long it takes you to accept it,” he finished sternly, with a slow, gentle, kiss to the forehead. You look at him for a moment, marveling at him in the silence.

“Okay,” You say finally, but somewhat reluctantly.

“Okay?” He said, uncertain of your acceptance.

“Okay,” you repeat, groaning into a pillow next to you.

“Okay,” he says again, taking the pillow from your hand to discard it, then planting a kiss into your lips and smiling into it.

“Thank you for taking care of me like this,” you mean it and don’t fight further, resisting the need to insist to him he doesn’t have to. “I love you.”

He doesn’t need to say it back, you just know, when he takes your hand, still in his, kissing each one of your knuckles, finally planting one on the back of it delicately.

tyty for this request anon it felt very self-indulgent writing this bc i tend to do this constantly LOL. i tried my best to make this g/n and was fighting the urge to write “favorite girl” instead of “favorite person.” unfortunately it took me a little time to get to this request in between classes and editing my recent fic but hope u enjoy!

[eulogiez]

ೃ༄ HIDE AND SEEK — clark kent

superman has a knack for saving you—much to the dismay of clark, who’s in a reluctant bet with you that you won’t be able to put your sleuthing skills to the test and uncover the identity of superman. 6.9k

tags: heavily unedited please bear with me, i can’t stay away from clark x friend!co-worker!reader, fluff, clark is anxious because your detective skills are just too good, reader is lowk swooned by superman (in denial) but who wouldn’t be, maybe you could call coincidence an unofficial prequel to this (minus the end), slight angst, some depictions of violence + appearance of g*ns

˚୨୧⋆｡ navi masterlist latest work

Maybe it was force of habit for Clark to constantly be watching you—and to think you were the one into investigative journalism.

He memorized the upturn of your lips, like the curvatures of white crescent moons when you grinned, familiarized himself with the air of your scent without even having to turn to see you whenever you entered the Daily Planet. He noticed when you swapped your high stilettos for low platforms, the novelty of their clack unknown to him. No doubt those hurt your feet, he thought to himself. He knew you hummed to yourself when you were consumed by your own thoughts. Nothing got past Clark Kent. He especially knew when you—

“Kent. Clark Kent?” you chirp, snapping your fingers. “Earth to Smallville,” you chortle up at his stupified face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs absentmindedly. “Tired,” he adds, attempting to play it off.

Somewhere between your ramble about sensationalism as an unreliable and unethical method of journalism and your outrage at the busted copier, he’d gotten lost looking at your lips. He really did care about what you had to say, but he couldn’t help but marvel at you so much as he did your words.

“Anyways, as I was saying,” you continued, clearing your throat, then skimming the newspaper pages on your lap with a smooth finger. “When asked about flying easily drivable distances, the hero said that with the exception of his metahuman abilities, he sways strongly towards the notion that cars be considered instead,” you finished, raising a brow.

“What does that even mean? Really out of ideas so much so that you started asking Superman about his thoughts on aerobic transportation?” You chuckled, setting the papers down on your desk.

“Sure I did,” Clark squeaks in response, “He said he can smell all the smog up there, the guy practically inhales it when he’s up there all day,” He said, wrinkling his nose, making you laugh. Empathetic Clark. He said it almost as if he’d experienced it himself.

“He’ll really talk about anything with you, won���t he?” You inquired absently, taking a sip of coffee from your mug.

“Not everything. Whatever he has time for typically. He’s pretty generous with his time,” Clark says defensively, taken aback by your query.

“Funny you say so, because I wouldn’t know. I never seem to find the guy,” you say with a wistful sigh, slumping back into your chair.

“He’s busy. I’m sure you’ll come upon him sometime,” he replies optimistically, swiveling towards his computer screen to hide his reddening face.

“You know Clark, you seem interested in utterly every little detail about Superman besides his identity,” you note, taking a deeper swig of your coffee to shake your own tiredness away.

This observation only makes him redder. He’s wiping at his hot face when he says, “I dunno. Figured I’d protect the man’s discretion. You don’t know what people could do with that information.”

“You’d never tell a soul though. He should know that. Anyways, don’t you wanna know who your big bad role model is under the cape?” You’re looking at him intently now, studying his face curiously.

He only shrugs and sighs, “I guess I only really care that he’s looking out for us, ya know? Maybe one day he’ll show himself if he wants to,” he says finally, typing nonsense away on his keyboard.

You’re unconvinced and unsatisfied with his disinterest on the subject. That prompts you to say, “You know, I bet I could figure out who he is.”

“What?” Clark says rather hastily, taking you aback.

“It can’t be that hard, right? There seems to be a certain pattern with superheroes. Or a certain quirk about them that you can pick out that might lead you towards his identity. That’s how it is in the comics, anyways.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” Clark remarks disapprovingly.

“What? You don’t think I can?” you quirk an eyebrow.

“No no, I’m not saying that—,”

“You can say it, Clark.”

“Well, I don’t mean—,”

“Fine, you’re on,” you smirk when he’s finally turned to face you. “I bet you that I can figure out his identity. Maybe the only reason no one knows is because no one’s cared enough to want to figure it out. Maybe the secret was right under our noses all along.”

He sighs in defeat, and you don’t miss his seeming worry about the whole ideal.

“Clark,” you say, scooting closer towards him, prompting him to freeze in his chair. “I swear to you that if—when, I figure out his identity,” you correct yourself, “It will only be between us. It’s only for us, I just want to prove myself to you. Besides, he’s a handsome guy, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if his identity was in the hands of an admirer,” you quip and turn back to your desk.

At the last comment he’s entirely beet-red now, and he has to excuse himself to the men’s room to soothe the heat away.

When he’s rinsing away at his cheeks, he’s feeling a sudden remorse of all the things he didn't get to say. You don’t need to prove yourself to me, you’re perfect. He really did love all your work. And he couldn’t help but worry about this knowledge making its way into your desperate hands, of having his identity known by the most important person in his life. Knowing this would undoubtedly make you a target if the wrong person figured it out as well.

He’s dabbing a dry cloth to his damp face after quite literally trying to wash his worry away. He would just have to make sure you never found out his identity.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You’re still thoughtful about how you want to go about cracking the code, if it’s really as close in reach a possibility as you think it is. You’re deep in some sketchy alleyway, pondering it. He’s barefaced, so surely someone must have encountered him in his workplace, on the street, at school. Somewhere. No mask or helmet concealing his wondrously cerulean blue eyes or the little curl that embellished his otherwise slicked back hair, or the dimples that indented either side of his picturesque smile. Your own frustrated sigh interrupts your thoughts.

You’re Google-mapping someplace on your way to a blind date only to be halted in your tracks by a dead-end. It’s with some guy Lois set you up with, someone she meet at a punk rock band venue who worked their production and lights. You already had an uneasy feeling about him, he seemed to have odd taste in first-date rendezvous if you were out in the absolute trenches of Metropolis that even the street rats seemed unkeen on exploring. I swear he’s so cool and nice, you’re definitely very different but I’m sure you’ll like him, you remember her reassuring.

Lois was truthfully uncertain about setting you up with him, knowing there was something very evidently going on with you and Clark, whether you knew it or not. And you did seem to know it, you just didn’t want to misread Clark’s kindness as advances towards you. You brushed down every possibility and you accepted that you wouldn’t be together unless he asserted how he felt about you—if he felt a certain way about you.

And so here you were, in the seeming very outskirts of suburbia, if it were possible in Metropolis. You exhale in defeat, dialing the guy’s number—who you also happened to never have heard from throughout the day in hours past prior to your scheduled date. The thump of footsteps down the otherwise quiet alley stop you in your hasty motion, and the air catches in your chest. The squeak of a little mouse afoot some space before you makes you jump and shriek in place, your heart racing with a hand to your chest, aiding your breaths to calm yourself down. So much for this alley being rat-free.

Shaking off your sudden fright, you return to your phone, not missing the continued pace of thumping footsteps towards your way, turning on your heel in exasperation to find out what the hell could be the source of the sound this time. This time you’re met with a sight that you swear makes your soul leave your body.

A leather-clad man in a black mask covering all but his beady brown eyes is muffling your slack mouth with a gloved hand all of a sudden, the other wielding a gleaming silver pistol to your head. If is wasn’t you in this situation, frozen and horror-stricken in place, maybe you’d be able to laugh at the irony of it all, at how Wild West this all was.

“Eyes down, hands up!” He practically yells at you, making you jump while nodding furiously. As if the gun weren’t enough of a fear tactic.

All you can do it is continue to nod frantically.

“You’re coming with me,” he demands, yanking at your purse forcefully.

You let him take everything, pathetically, without so much of a fight, not like you could. You can’t help but think to yourself how tragic of a situation this is. That you’re probably going to die and never see anyone you love ever again, not before missing a probably terrible date that could’ve been, no less. He’s walking you down the alleyway with a hand planted firmly on your back while you’re trembling.

It’s a miracle you can still walk. You’re coming up on a sidewalk where a white van is parked when you hear a grunt and a thud behind this time much larger than the pounce of footsteps. You turn to see no other than Superman and the masked man collapsed, lying dead in the ground. You gasp and clap your hand to your mouth in utter surprise.

Superman’s panting only for a moment, charged by his super-strength and still sturdy as ever. You lean down to meet within eye-length of the guy on the floor, wincing. He’s been sucker-punched, or kicked to his weak legs, or whatever else Superman might have done to knock him in line with the concrete.

“He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Superman’s voice booms over your thoughts. “Not really my thing. He should be out though, for a good few hours,” He says, chuckling through his declaration.

“I uh…wow. Thank you,” you reply meekly. You couldn’t come up with more elaborate appraisal in your astonishment.

He seems to get this somehow. He doesn’t look at you expectantly or stand still anticipating more out of you. “You don’t have to thank me,” he reassures sincerely. His mouth is slack, like he’s yet to say more, but falls short when the man’s hand comes clutching Superman’s boot; apparently he was faking unconscious. You let out a startled gasp before Superman throws his booted foot out, flinging the man off, to which he responds with a futile attempt at a punch to the chest that Superman catches with ease.

He’s sighing an annoyed sigh to himself when he resorts to throwing him over his shoulder like a burlap potato sack. “Some of these guys don’t know when to quit,” he mutters. You laugh at the ridiculous scene in front of you. The guy’s demanding to be let down. “Off to the slammer you go, buddy.” He walks over to your side then gestures for you to follow.

“How’d you know I was out here?” You’re in utter awe of Superman’s perfect timing.

“I didn’t. But believe it or not, dark alleyways are ideal scenes for predation,” Superman responds knowingly. “What’re you doing all alone out here?”

“Oh, it’s stupid,” you say sheepishly. “I was on my way to go out with this guy,” your words falter when you realize how lame you sound.

You swear he almost looks disappointed for a second when he recollects himself and scoffs, “Some company. He should know what kind of activities are festering around this part of the city.” He sounds so theatrical, you almost want to laugh. You can’t help but notice how pristine he looks, how majestic.

He surely doesn’t look fit for this scene, the dank and dirty walls of the alley all but complement his guise of perfection. You study his look for a second after remembering what you promised to Clark earlier for any tells, anything that could be indicative of who he is at all. No luck figuring this guy out. Not yet.

“Look,” he says, snapping you out of your thoughts. “I can fly you down to the station for the police to take your statement on this guy and you can press charges or whatever you want on him,” He suggests, and it seems apparently so that he really wants you to take him up on it.

“Honestly, I just want to go home, and I really want nothing to do with this guy anymore.”

You can tell he wants to probe but he also knows his place. You’re strangers, after all. You suddenly eel silly when you remember Clark’s article on Superman’s aviation from earlier when he mentions flying.

“Okay, if you promise you’re okay. It’s your call,” he throws his hands up in defeat. He looks comedic with the masked man still lugging over his shoulder, finally unconscious from an earlier ministration of Superman’s.

“I promise,” you say softly. “Thank you again, Superman.” You feel weirdly and inexplicably…safe around him. You brush it off as the obvious, he’s Metropolis’s coined one and only superhero. Why wouldn’t you feel safe around him? But it feels like something deeper itching at the surface. It feels like he’s an old friend.

“Okay,” Superman replies finally, though he wants to push it.

You let him at least watch you get driven on your way after hailing a cab home. Unbeknownst to you, after some explanation down at the police station and surrendering the culprit’s gun, Superman flies over your route home, and observes you atop a roof parallel to your apartment while you make your way up to your floor.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You’re fresh out of the shower, a towel wrapped around you and hair still drenched, phone in hand and looking through the messages you missed in the last couple of hours. You scroll down and freeze when you spot a message from your blind date in your old notifications.

My bad about missing the date! Got caught up with the band and forgot it was Friday.

Jerk, you scoff aloud and let out a series of curses to yourself while you throw on an oversized shirt to sleep in.

Dismissing the message, you write to Clark instead while climbing into bed.

You won’t believe who I met today.

⊹₊⟡⋆

“Whoa, did Superman kill someone? What is this?” Lois demands, taking a slurp of her sugar-swarmed coffee.

Her eyes are perusing your conspiracy board-like setup perched on your desk. A picture of Superman is pinned above post-its of scribbled notes, random landscapes, and question marks scrawled upon the coarse cork. You’re observing over it thoughtfully too, chewing on a red cap with the pen you used to annotate it balanced behind your earlobe.

“No it’s for um…personal purposes,” you say shortly, eyes shifting to Clark who’s just entered the newsroom.

“Hey,” he says, looking a mess, hair more mussed than usual and sticking up every which way. Dark little bags hang beneath his half-lidded eyes. He hadn’t left that rooftop until after knowing you had gone asleep, then was stopped in his tracks on his way home by an exterrestrial beast that had stopped the subway line past midnight. “What’s all this I hear about you meeting Superman?” He’s unsure how to play off the interaction so he figured the best way to go about it was feigned surprise and authentic interest.

“Oh, right,” you’re suddenly perking up and rambling about the whole engagement, about Superman’s miraculous appearance and reluctantly about your failed date. This time, as Clark, he’s guising his disappointment about you’re endeavors on a date that wasn’t with him.

“So, how close do you think you are to figuring him out?” he’s trying his best to even out his voice to mask his nervousness.

“Not very close at all, I can admit that. But look,” you say, redirecting his attention to your corkboard, much to his heightened anxiety—“I feel like this could get me closer. I have eyes on every place he’s been the last week, so I figured I could pinpoint the proximity of his home from all these scenes, you know? Or at least the other places he frequents in his regular life, because I don’t want to be that invasive, you know. Of course he has superhuman senses about when and where the danger is, but there has to be a common theme about where he frequents. If I could just average the longitudes and latitudes of the locations…” you trail off, considering your train of thought again and chewing your pen cap. Maybe you were missing something, or seeing something wrong, matter of fact.

Clark’s nodding along absentmindedly when a lightbulb seems to go off in his head. He knows what he has to do. He has to throw you off your trail, somehow. And he had no idea yet how to go about it.

⊹₊⟡⋆

There’s a dewey freshness to the air in Metropolis this morning. There’s an uncanny serenity to accompany it, complementing the stillness and irregular silence. You’re on your way to work, nursing a sleeved coffee cup with your phone in your other hand. Lois is on call rambling about a family emergency that she had to call in sick from work for, and you’re attentively consoling her, present in your walk to the Planet. “That sucks Lois, I wish I could be there for you. Just know we’re all thinking of you and missing you,” you earnestly coo after allowing her a moment of catharsis. You make your way past the appliance store where several television sets are assembled atop and around one another—all projecting the same thing on their screens through the store’s large window display.

It’s Superman, picking up several civilians up from potholes in the asphalt of the city’s ground where a monster, seemingly made of lava, is erupting from underneath. In swift motions he’s moving them to safe ground like it requires no effort at all. It’s happening on Main Street, only a block away from where you’re standing. “I’m so sorry Lois, I’ve gotta go.” She’s humming into your phone before you promptly hang up. In long strides, you’re heading towards the action, like a simpleton idiot, which you acknowledge when you’re finally there, marveling up at the scene. Superman’s aimlessly blowing his arctic breath at the lava thing—whatever it was, and you’re standing there in utter awe.

An overrun crowd of people are shrieking around you, running for your lives. And you’re standing there. “Look out!” he’s shouting when a pothole erupts from a mere foot away from you and you’re screaming your head off like a dummy, regretting everything all of a sudden. And like clockwork, he’s swooping you in due time while the lava seeps into the ground you were occupying only moments before, missing you by a millisecond.

His grip on you is iron clad. “Didn’t want to meet you again, not like this, Miss,” he says disapprovingly, shaking his head while setting you down on unscathed ground. He’d settled the calamity-yielding lava to a magma after letting out a great big breath while flying you outward. He’s completely neglecting the cheers and hollers of spectators surrounding you.

“I just keep getting lucky I guess,” you say with a humorless laugh, still shaken after your close call with death. Again. He looks severely bothered, not joining in your laughter. “This time you were a mark away from something worse than third-degree burns, who knows what. What were you thinking?” His hands are on his hips. He looks awfully paternal like this.

You think about how insane and dense you’d sound if you were to say you knowingly entered the scene just to watch him. You resort to a more reasonable excuse. “I thought someone I know was out here. I had to know,” you said sounding sure of yourself. It was only a half-lie. You know that Clark took a similar route to work when he wasn’t late. For all you knew, he could’ve been not far off from your vicinity within the scene. Superman lets out a sigh, still appearing bothered by your thoughtless. “I understand your concern. But please, just stay safe if you can help it. I know you can help it, you seem like a very smart girl,” He adds, it seems, without any further thought about it. Like he knows. “Investigative journalism, right?” You freeze when he only adds to your inferences about you—or were they inferences?

“Um…yeah,” you reply, dumbfounded. You seem more uncertain about the truth than about your previous half-lie.

“I’ve read some of your stuff. Great by the way. Just be careful,” He warns, giving you a stern look before flying off without any further elaboration. You’re awestruck, again. His warning leaves you even more dazed. You didn’t know what he could possibly mean and why he’d tie it to your work. You can only stand there, pondering, frozen.

⊹₊⟡⋆

“Clark,” you say groaning into one of his throw pillows embellishing the couch, “You know I hate when you’re right. But I actually don’t think I can crack his identity,” You sigh to yourself, flipping over and discarding the pillow to look up at the ceiling. You asked to come over to his apartment after the long, droning day. You yourself didn’t know why. You just knew you needed it.

“For the record, I never said you couldn’t. I just said you shouldn’t,” he says with a sympathetic smile.

“I guess you’re right. I guess it’s for the best,” You don’t even believe yourself when you say it. “But you know,” You add with a deep breath, “It sounds humiliating to say,” You murmur lowly, covering your hands with your eyes. “I know I told you Superman’s identity was only for us and I meant it. I still do. But when I moved to Metropolis for journalism, I really believed I could do something great, something big,” You sigh to yourself in wonder, in reminiscence. “If that makes sense, I dunno.” You flip to your side, facing away from him in your embarrassment. “I guess I thought I could do this for me. That I was capable. Of uncovering someday huge. You must know, right, Clark? You have to know. You didn’t move all the way from Smallville for nothing, right? You’re always doing something big. No wonder Superman loves you.”

Clark hesitates, only for a moment. Then he strokes your hair. This makes you jolt a little bit before he’s pulling away only slightly, thinking he’s startled you, only for you inch closer into him, sinking into his touch. Melting into it. Your eyes are half-lidded, exhausted. His touch only consoles you and lulls you into a sleep that for so long you had been craving. “Everything you do is big,” he says, unaware that you’d already dozed off before he’s leaned over to see your drooping eyelids shut and your breaths slowed to a steady tempo.

He wants to take off these stupid Hypno glasses and reveal himself to you sometimes. He wants to shed himself of every superficial layer of himself until he’s utterly vulnerable so that you might be the one to familiarize yourself with every part of him. At the end of the day, when he’s shed of his superstrength, laser vision, and all—he’s nothing more akin to a just man, a man who’s only real weakness has ever been you. A vessel fed and all-consumed by your presence, powered solely by you. He can only watch you sleep now and say nothing, entranced by the lull and rhythm of your soundless sleep.

⊹₊⟡⋆

“Illusion,” you say suddenly to Clark, which makes him quirk a brow. “That has to be it.”

“What exactly are we talking about again?”

“Superman…he’s working with illusion somehow. No doubt another effect of being a metahuman,” You think aloud to yourself. It had been days since you brought up the Superman ordeal again. Clark was convinced you’d dropped it.

“You…could be right,” He says, wincing at himself. He knows he should be leading you astray. But your late-night confession at his apartment about how you wanted to make a journalism breakthrough couldn’t help but pang him in the heart with a sense of guilt. He wanted you to have this, in some capacity. At least a slight sense of closeness to the truth.

“Yeah, I mean, when you really think about it, he has to be warping his appearance somehow. Because no way is there a guy out there who people would believe is just a doppelgänger of him. He’d really have to sell it. He has to be changing the way he looks someway. I just don’t know how,” You say quietly with a thoughtful look into Clark’s eyes.

You could never stare too long at him without feeling shy. The plush of his lips and the mess of his curls had a way of turning you to mush in your seat and prompting within you an absentminded sigh of admiration that you’d disguise as a cough whenever Clark asked you if something was the matter. There was something especially attractive about the way he’d listen to your nonsense about Superman’s identity lately. You felt he’d entertain any idea you had, like if you’d suggested prancing into the Daily Planet one day wearing only a trash bag. Clark was supportive through and through, all in all.

You start scribbling down notes about Superman’s possible methods of illusion, drawing and penciling your thoughts in a frenzy. It’s Clark’s turn to watch you in the heat of your thoughts, and for once he doesn’t seem to care or retaliate about the danger of your investigation.

“What do you think?” Clark asks nervously, genuinely wanting some reception of your thoughts.

“I think you're insane, Clark. But…it’s nice.”

He’s taken you to the rooftop where he watched you go home that night until your breaths turned steady and sound, when he knew you were finally deep in slumber. It was a rather nice rooftop, adorned in shrubbery and flowers among the ledges. It was also very high, hence your brawny grip on Clark’s muscular arm that you wouldn’t dare release.

“Alright, alright, let’s sit down,” he lets you keep your grip all the way down to the ground where he’s laid out a mat to fit the two of you. He’s cooked some fancy-looking pasta and brought out a tin tub filled with your favorite drinks on ice. It all seems very date-like. You’re not complaining. Maybe this is the start of you and Clark finally going somewhere, being something.

You’re watching him prepare everything in his gentlemanly fashion, setting aside your napkins and cutlery to serve you the dish and pouring your drink into a wine glass with a flex of his muscular arms. You feel a jittery warmth within you, a little flutter in your chest watching him. You’re so transfixed that you almost miss when Clark hands you your class and tips his towards you to clink in a little cheers. He’s smiling like there’s nowhere he’d rather be but here.

“Clark, this is really all so sweet. It means a lot that you did all this,” you can’t conceal the utter adoration in your voice or shy away from it by teasing him.

“You deserve all of it. I had to let you know,” he replies earnestly. This Clark isn’t the shy Clark you know who hardly knows the right thing to say around you, who shifts his eyes to the ground when you’ve turned him red. This is a different Clark, who’s sure of himself, who knows himself around you. You smile back, and this time it’s you who’s flustered, unsure what to say.

The conversation shifts to Daily Planet chaos, new articles in the making, compliments on Clark’s cooking and preparation strung between rants, and just like clockwork, Superman.

“You know what. I think we’re on the same page now, Clark. What’s it to us who Superman is so long as he’s looking out for us, y’know,” you say with a sip of your drink.

“I think that’s definitely a good approach to have,” Clark says, trying his best to conceal his relief.

“Maybe someday though,” you say wistfully, going to refill your own glass before you’re stopped by Clark who does it for you. The smile you give him in exchange makes his heart soar.

He sets your glass aside after refilling it. He thinks to himself, that this is it. It’s time to take a leap of faith. To hell—or to heck—he’d probably say, with the consequences.

“You know, I was thinking a lot about what you said. A little while ago when you fell asleep on my couch. About doing something big. And I was really listening. And I just wanted to say, in my book you’re always doing something big. Your writing is some of the best in the paper. And you might not think so, but it really beats Superman’s thoughts on aerobic transportation,” This makes you laugh, but you let him keep going. “You always have something real to say, something transformative. There’s real heart and care in what you write, in what you have to say. I think it’s beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he says finally. He doesn’t feel remorseful about it, he doesn’t catch his words with his hands, and to your surprise, his complexion stays even. Your jaw is slack, a chasm of all the words you want to say but can’t.

“Wow, Clark. I really don’t know what to say,” is all you can muster out.

He’s looking at you thoughtfully, then at the tip of your nose, then your lips. He doesn’t await more of a response. Before you can get out anything more, his lips are pressed to yours gently. It’s soft as if to make certain that you’re okay with it before you’re nodding and descending into the heat of it. Slow and steady, then deep and strong. Like him. It’s all you've ever wanted, to be here like this. With him. You’ve endured terrible blind dates and flaky men all to end up with the only man you’ve ever really wanted to be with in this way.

It’s just like Clark to talk into the kiss. “I really like you,” “You’re so pretty,” “You’re perfect,” “Needed you, just like this,” a string of doting lines that you’re smiling into, and then a shrew of apologies, “I’m sorry if I ruined your investigation,” “Just wanted you to be safe.” This makes you pull away. His voice isn’t Clark when he says it. It’s booming, it’s assertive. It’s an entirely different character. An awfully familiar one. “Just want you to be safe. Be safe.”

You stop and stare at him for a second. You’re marveling more so at your own stupid oblivion than at his face when something clicks in your brain.

“Clark, I…I think I have to go,” you say, scrambling for your purse before leaving for the staircase that winds down to level ground.

He’s calling out a desperate, “Wait!” while you’re already away on your feet, leaving him dumbfounded and heartbroken.

⊹₊⟡⋆

You decide to take the subway to work today. A change of pace in the chaos, you think to yourself. It’s a cramped fit, and you’re suddenly wishing you’d walked. You’re holding on to a pole maintaining your balance for the few bumps on the otherwise smooth ride. You come to a sudden stop that makes you jolt where you’re standing and almost topple over. From what you can tell in your window-view, you’re far from your stop. There’s a commotion erupting around you, a frenzy of voices buzzing over the sound of the hiss of the subway’s sudden stop.

“Quiet!” A voice booms over the noise. Everything goes dim. At the front of the bus with a gun to the driver’s head is a hooded figure, among several armed others barricading the narrow exit. No effing way, you think to yourself. This couldn’t be your second time in two weeks held at gunpoint. “No one’s leaving this bus.”

A deafening alarm goes off on several cell phones around you—an alert from the Metropolis Police Department warning of hostage situations in the area related to a robust bank heist occurring only a few blocks away from you. Great time to be hearing news like this. Not when you were the one reporting it, but when you were tangled up in the incident as a victim. The hooded figures are hollering at passengers at the forefront of the bus to drop their phones. Right as you open yours to message Clark. You’re hopeful, even still. You know he’ll show up, he always does.

Everyone falls silent other than the cries of the hijackers. “Stay put!” an anonymous voice squawks with its accomplices. A slamming sound hits the sealed bus door. Then a hasty blur of blue shunts its way through and the lights turn on again. In all his glory again, it’s Superman. You’d think a kick to the knees would send the delinquents to the floor, like he’d seen him do once before. But they’re lurching onto him, egged on more than anything at his advances.

Superman isn’t doing so much is grunting, until one of the hooded culprits shoots laser eyes at him. Kryptonians thieves? You think to yourself. The crowd of busgoers are yelling out, fleeing to the back of the bus. Superman’s trying to beat laser with laser, burning his own heat into him. At the same time, he sends a jab to the villain’s broad chest, sending him flying, and Judo-throws another to the ground.

They’re strong, but their brawn doesn’t seem to parallel Superman’s. A few are knocked unconscious, but a remaining bunch of thieves won’t go down with a fight. You suddenly have an idea. Your mind reverts to a time when Clark—whose identity is no longer unbeknownst to you, told you he had a major sensitive to high and overwhelming pitch frequencies. “Superman, cover your ears!” you yell, catching him by surprise. His eyes widen and the pupils of his sapphire blue eyes dilate when he sees you.

You’re opening the sound of the police alarm again, on max volume, high like the scream of a banshee. The figures around them fall to their knees, giving him the chance to knock them asleep.

The bus is in an uproar of praise for Superman as they make their exit off the bus. You stay back when the crowd is left to all but a few stragglers wanting a chance to interact with him before making their way off, too. “Watch your step,” he reminds them, standing before the doors with his hands on his hips. He freezes when he sees you.

“It seems you find it real difficult staying out of messy business, Miss,” he says with the charm and depth of that powerful voice of his.

“What can I say? I guess I’m just unlucky,” you say with a coy smile. There’s a new, additional layer of heightening charm to him, knowing he’s Clark. You almost want to say so. You stop yourself.

“Very smart thing you thought of, with the alarm,” he points out in admiration. “Wouldn’t have thought of it myself in the moment.”

“I just figured, what else weakens Kryptonians besides Kryptonite? And I guess the answer was quite literally in the palm of my hand,” you remark simply.

He only nods. You’ve never seen him this bashful. He looks like Clark more now than ever, and you wonder how you never could’ve seen him before, what about his glasses and the depths of his untamed curls made him seem so different. As it turns out, his comic book-like quirk, similar to many other heroes, was being a total dork in his regular life.

“Can I walk you wherever you’re off to, Miss?” He suggests hopefully. You take a thoughtful pause for a moment. You shouldn’t, you think.

“Thank you, it’s alright, though.” Your voice is flat and devoid of any emotion. He looks afraid to push, and you know he wants to, like he did the first time. He only nods because he knows he doesn’t have to ask again if you’re sure.

“Okay then,” he says simply. You nod and walk on your way. He can’t say it doesn’t hurt to see you leave again.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Can we talk? The message stays mixed in your flurry of notifications. Unanswered. Delivered two hours ago. From Clark, of course. You know you can’t leave his texts without a reply like this. You finally unlock it with a sigh, typing briskly.

Yes. No emojis, no indication of a time, no anything.

Rooftop okay? Eight o’clock? Or would you prefer level ground? He replies in mere seconds like he always does.

Rooftop is fine.

⊹₊⟡⋆

Clark gets there before you, it’s just like him. You can’t detach from the stare as soon as your gaze on him is hooked, and neither can he. You’re still a short way from the ledge and fighting the need to look. He seems to know this, because why wouldn’t he, and steps closer to seal the distance. You step at the same time. There’s only silence and the stare you can’t help but hold.

“I’m sorry if it’s odd timing,” he says, cutting through the chill and tension of the silence. “I know you have a lot going on, and the whole hostage thing…that’s why I didn’t want to hold it against you, your distance and your silence towards me…at work and everything,” He says, noticeably avoiding mentioning your first rooftop rendezvous. It hurts him too much to say, until he does. “I just had to know. Why’ve you been avoiding me? Did I do or say something wrong that night?” His voice cracks and you’re suddenly hurt by his hurt.

Only a moment after, before you can stop yourself, you’re hollering it out. “You’re him!”

He’s stunned at your revelation. He doesn’t really need to ask when you add, “You’re Superman, Clark. And I don’t get why you didn’t say, why you didn’t trust me with this. And I thought this was what you wanted, that I avoid you when I find out, because you never wanted me to find out!”

He lets the silence sink in for a moment before he forces his response. “I didn’t want you to get hurt over this. I was afraid of what might happen to you if someone found out. What they might do with that information.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, wanting it to click in your brain.

“I just wish you told me that,” you whisper. “No one has to know. We can make sure of it. I knew and I never mentioned it, at the metro earlier. Clark I love you, but you don’t have to keep protecting me. We can protect this part of you together.” It doesn’t really occur to you that you just confessed years’ worth of pent up adoration for him. And you don’t seem to care. Everything drones out and falters when Clark hears I love you. That’s all he seems to care about. He musters a simple nod. Letting you have the last word. You inch towards his broad frame, holding him in an embrace, his chin resting on your head. The kiss you share this time is one of longing. More true than it was the first time. His lips linger there even when he pulls away, tingling in memory of their place on yours, already memorializing the plush of them.

“I’m sorry, Clark. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I didn’t want to ignore you. I meant it when I said I thought that was what you wanted—,”

“Shhh,” he says, kissing you gentler before adding, “I could never want that. I want this. I want you,” he says, pressing his lips to your forehead in a long pause before pulling away. “You’re right, we can protect this part of me together.” You’re nodding off into him, into the way his arms outstretch around your lower frame, wanting to be consumed whole into his touch. You’re both faced towards the melting hues of oranges and purples together in a serene setting sun. A traffic line of cars and bustling people and honking horns are a mess of an uproar beneath you. But you don’t look down this time, only at him. I love you, he murmurs into your hair in time with the race of your heart.

⋆.˚ © eulogiez all rights reserved.

— comments and feedback are appreciated!

[eulogiez]

˚୨୧⋆｡ domestic!clark kent is really just the ideal boyfriend in his natural habitat, walking among you, nesting in your home.

domestic!clark who rubs your feet, or temples—or what have you, he’s rubbing at whatever is aching or ailing you after work, even if you don’t ask for it. it’s like instinct.

“clark, what are you—,” you say discarding the book you’re reading at your side when you notice a grinning clark inching towards you on his stomach, massaging the skin of your heels and the balls of your feet—even the muscles of your calves, rubbing lotion into them.

“wanna take care of you, honey,” he responds with a tone of finality. you let out a sigh of relief, finally letting him work his magic and relaxing into it.

domestic!clark wraps his strong arms around your middle while you’re tending to a pot on the stovetop, absentmindedly stirring away. you’d realized he wouldn’t be home for awhile, his absence dragging past hours at the planet, and even later when you realized he had other superman-ly business to attend to.

“mmm, honey. smells delicious,” he says gently, nuzzling his nose into your hair, then into the side of your face while you’re fight back a smile. “want to take care of you, though,” he says assertively, grabbing onto the backs of your thighs and lifting up on to the counter with a lack of any effort at all.

“clark,” you say, extending forward for the ladle he’s holding over your head, out of your reach. “you’ve had a long day, let me cook for you,” you retaliate with futile struggle. you’re fighting laughter while he’s already churning away, whistling to himself. you’re bickering for the ladle to no avail, you know it’s a battle you won’t win. even in his tiredness, he wants to be the one at your beck and call, the one to serve you a warm meal to come home to after a long day of cranking elbow grease out of you.

domestic!clark, who’s taken it upon himself to learn more about you without ever really having to ask at all. he’s subconsciously picked up where you like your keys hung in a cozy, cooped-up day of domesticity, knows all the quirks of your home, where to be sure to dust and sweep and vacuum under and over. he knows your routinely manner of doing things so that there’s little for you to even have to do in the morning—breakfast is already made, the outfit you picked out for the day off its hanger and folded neatly at the foot of your bed. he finds there’s romance in knowing you.

“clark, honey? have you seen the dryer sheets? was gonna put them in the little dispenser but i can’t find them anywhere in the bag…” you’re shuffling through the grocery bag while calling out at him from the other room.

“already refilled it, sweetheart,” he says dismissively; it had been long done in addition to a plethora of other chores he’d set out to compete for the day.

“awe, didn’t know you knew where i put them,” you say in the doorframe, and he’s meeting you there to plant a little kiss on your forehead.

“yes honey, i know everything,” he says it more with a tone of certainty and wisdom than with arrogance. he is nothing if not humble. for some reason the small service he’d done for you only makes you want to kiss him harder, better, so you tilt your head up to kiss his lips right as he’s diving down to kiss your nose. he’s startled by the sudden motion, laughing into the kiss while you’re sinking deeper and deeper into each other.

domestic!clark lets you cut his hair when he’s in need of grooming. there’s something about his kryptonian blood that makes it so that his hair grows at an alarming rate without regular tending. he only lets you do it because he likes that it gives you some preference over his length. he likes his hair how you like his hair.

“andddd all done,” you chirp, swiveling the large barber chair towards the mirror in your bathroom that barely fits his burly figure. he’s smiling cheesily at himself and at you. your hands are on either side of him, then frame his face above the ridiculous smock he’s wearing to capture all his loose and fallen hair.

“looks great honey, thank you,” he says, dotingly kissing your cheek after admiring himself for a moment. you’re more swooned by it than him, you’re in constant awe of how handsome he is.

domestic!clark is a maniac with the thermostat. he’s much more durable when it comes to drastic changes in weather or temperature, he quite literally has thick skin, and well, his fortress is inhabited in subzero temperatures. he seems much more aware of this fact than you.

“you hot, honey? cold? need me to adjust the temperature in here, or give you a blanket or sweater of mine?” he’s practically harassing you as soon as you enter his apartment.

“it’s fine, clark! i promise you,” you reply with a chortle, and he turns red, smiling from ear to ear. you change your mind later and lie just so you can steal a sweater from him and to give him the satisfaction that he’s got you all taken care of.

domestic!clark who buys your new favorite songs on vinyl or cd to amplify the dulcet tunes all throughout your apartment. you don’t even know that he knows about your new musical finds and favorites.

“clark! how’d you find this song out? i only just heard about it and added it to my downloads the other day…” you declare over the song’s melody, humming it to yourself.

“lucky guess, just something i figured you liked,” he shrugs before kissing your temple. you raise a brow, unconvinced. the truth is, he tapped into your apartment with his super-hearing when he was out on a patrol in day’s past.

a/n: this might be the last thing i drop before my first day EVER of college tmr LOL pray. might try to drop something bigger tonight for u lovelies, we’ll see though! stay tuned ;)

[eulogiez]

RAHHH thank u for 100 followers i’ve had this acc for two ish weeks and haven’t been as consistent as i could’ve been lol so i couldn’t be more grateful ! wanting to celebrate but i really need to get my creative juices flowing to crank out more ideas

[eulogiez]

lol i start college NEXT WEEK and actually have no idea what i’m doing i’ve consumed over ten combined hours of david corenswet media and wrote fanfiction this week i am royally COOKED. future bio major I BEG TO DIFFER.