howiswhatawhy

[howiswhatawhy]

someone pls write farmboy!clark kent x reader who just moved in into their dead grandpa’s farm (stardew valley much?). i repeat we need more farmboy clark kent in this app.

[howiswhatawhy]

Clark Kent save me😞

[howiswhatawhy]

The lion does not concern himself with updating fics in a timely manner

[howiswhatawhy]

Superman (2025) + texts posts

[howiswhatawhy]

why is there not enough smut of first time with clark and him breaking the headboard🫦

[howiswhatawhy]

not to toot my own horn or anything but dimples are by far my favorite trait on a person

[howiswhatawhy]

things we don't say (iii) - clark kent x reader

summary: the four times clark shows up unannounced bringing food, and the one time you pay him back with his favorite beef bourguignon.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: tooth rotting fluff, loverboy!clark, clark is a simp, clark using his superpowers to stalk reader (in a loving way), reader being implied to have a sweet tooth, food as a love language. not proofread (is it ever?)

ALSO im very sorry if i made inaccurate depictions of being a nurse, im very clearly not one but i did try my best to fact check everything! feel free to correct me if im wrong<3

a/n: the inspo for overpriced choco spread was ovomaltine because why is it so good but so expensive? anyways if im being honest i feel like this is my cutest work just yet!!! as always GIVE ME UR THOUGHTS ABT CLARK KENT BCS I AM DOWN BAD.

part 1, part 2,

Clark Kent is terrible at being subtle.

You learn this quickly in the days that follow. Because suddenly, he’s everywhere. He tells you he's just patrolling the neighborhood ("Civic duty," he insists, adjusting his glasses that do nothing to hide his tells). That the cocoa appearing at your nurses' station is pure coincidence. That folding your laundry while you're at work absolutely doesn't count as breaking and entering.

And you might believe him, if he wasn't so spectacularly bad at lying.

Case in point: In the five days since you showed up the Daily Planet unannounced, Clark has somehow managed to engineer no fewer than four accidental encounters. Though you’re using the term 'accidental' very loosely.

i. saturday, 7:23pm, metropolis general park

The park bench groans as you collapse onto it, your scrubs still smelling of antiseptic and the protein bar you'd inhaled three hours ago. You just finished your 12 hours shift about 20 minutes ago and your feet still throb in time with your pulse. You should go home, should shower, should eat something that didn't come wrapped in plastic. But first, this: five minutes where no one needs you to be competent.

The sandwich tastes like salvation. You're three bites in when a shadow falls across your lap.

Clark stands there holding an iced drink. No label, just condensation rolling down the waxed paper cup. He’s already pretending to sip from it when you notice him. “Oh,” he says, lowering the cup too quickly. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You squint up at him. "Don't you have weekends off?"

"Walking tour," he says, already sitting. His knee bumps against yours. "Clark." You point northeast with your sandwich. "Your apartment's twenty blocks that way."

"New podcast about urban birdwatching." He nods solemnly, like this is a perfectly reasonable explanation. Clark hesitates, then holds his drink out. “Thirsty?”

The first sip is perfect. Not too sweet, and with that hint of real peach pulp you love. Exactly how you'd liked it back then, back when he still knew all your orders by heart. Your eyes snap to his. Clark ignores your gaze, “What?”

“This is my order.” “Is it?” He scratches the back of his neck. “Weird coincidence.”

"You never get pulp." You swirl the ice cubes. "Said it feels like drinking fruit guts.” 

He rubs the back of his neck. "Maybe I was being dramatic."

You should press him. Should ask why he's holding a drink he wouldn't touch, why there's flour dusting his collar, why his shoes are slightly charred at the soles like he'd landed too hard on asphalt. Instead, you take another sip. "Walk me home?"

Clark's smile could power the city grid. He stands, offering his arm like you're at some fancy gala instead of a park littered with pigeon feathers. "Thought you'd never ask."

As you walk, his pinky brushes yours. You don't mention how he matches his stride to your exhausted shuffle. How he carries the drink so the ice won't melt too fast. How he's been doing this since you were kids—showing up with exactly what you needed, long before you knew to ask.

ii. sunday, 1:15pm, at the grocery store just down the block

Your Sunday grocery run is sacred. One block from your apartment, same time every week, where the cashiers already know to save you the slightly bruised discount bananas. You’re stretching for a box of your favorite cereal on the top shelf when:

“Need a hand?”

A familiar warmth presses against your back as Clark’s arm brushes past your shoulder, easily retrieving the cereal. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon clinging to him makes no sense in this cramped aisle, not unless he’d just come from the nicer grocery near his building, the one with its proper bakery section.

Yet, here he was, standing in your sad neighborhood market holding a basket with exactly three items: one banana, a cinnamon roll (from said nicer store, you notice), and your exact brand of chocolate spread. The one you’d always have to argue is “worth the cost for emotional stability” to anyone that saw you buying it.

"Are you following me?" you hiss, glancing at the security cameras. Clark adjusts his glasses with his free hand, “I was in the neighborhood.” "For one banana?” You gesture to his basket. “And my favorite chocolate spread?” Clark blinks at the basket like it's betrayed him. "They were... on sale."

“What? the nicer store near your building doesn’t do sales?”

Clark’s ears go pink. He ignores your question completely and goes, “Well, since I’m already here,” he lifts the basket slightly, “any chance you’d help me finish the cinnamon roll?”

“Fine,” you sigh. “But only because you got the good kind."

So somehow, Clark finds himself walking beside you back to your apartment, cinnamon roll tucked protectively in his arm like a peace treaty. The walk home is quiet, except for the soft rustle of grocery bags and the occasional clink of jars. Clark hums something under his breath you don’t recognize, and you’re half-convinced it’s the jingle from your cereal commercial.

At your building, he waits as you fish out your keys, already shifting his basket to make room for yours. “This feels oddly domestic,” he mutters, smiling. After you find your keys, the door swings open and shut behind you. 

Somewhere between sorting bruised bananas and debating how much chocolate spread is socially acceptable to eat in one sitting, the cinnamon roll gets split down the middle, napkins forgotten. And if your favorite mug ends up in his hand by late afternoon, well—pastry diplomacy is a powerful thing.

iii. monday (technically tuesday), 3:04 am, metropolis general

The cardiac monitor's steady beep is the only sound in the unusually quiet nurses' station. You've been on your feet for eight straight hours when you notice the thermos. It sits where your clipboard should be, wrapped in that familiar blue plaid towel Martha Kent always sends with Clark's care packages.

You twist the lid off. The scent of cocoa hits you immediately. The marshmallows are the tiny store-brand ones that never fully dissolve. It's steaming hot though, and when you take a sip, it’s perfect.

Beneath the thermos sits a foil-wrapped grilled cheese, still warm enough that the cheese oozes when you press the edges. The wheat bread is slightly flattened, toasted unevenly, one corner charred. American cheese (or something vaguely in that family) clings stubbornly to the foil in melted strings.

A post-it note sticks to the foil: 

Sorry about the burnt corner

- C

The post-it’s edges curl from the sandwich’s residual heat, the handwriting is unmistakably Clark’s. Underneath the words, a lopsided doodle of a frowning toaster with smoke coming out. 

Your phone buzzes.

Clark K. (3:09 AM): Don't check the cameras by the supply closet.

You stare at the message. At the sandwich. At the clock counting down your rare moment of respite. The math doesn't lie. Clark has a morning shift at the Planet in less than five hours. He should be asleep. But the marshmallows are shaped like little stars. And the sandwich is cut diagonally, just how you like it.

You (3:09 AM): go to sleep clark

 You (3:10 AM): thank u though

Outside the window, a shadow moves between the parking lot lights. Too fast to be human, but not fast enough to escape your gaze.

iv. tuesday, 8:28 pm, your apartment

A clatter jolts you awake.

Your sleep-fogged brain registers three things in rapid succession. One, the smell of sesame oil and ginger. Two, the distinct sound of your microwave beeping. Three, a very familiar voice muttering, "No, that's not—why would you—oh come on—“

You shuffle into the kitchen to find Clark wrestling with a stack of takeout containers, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The counter looks like a buffet exploded. It’s stacked with white containers, and three sets of chopsticks (why does he need three??).

Clark sets down the container he was holding with deliberate care. "So, funny story,” He adjusts his glasses. "I may have... overestimated how much chinese takeout one person can eat." 

You stare at the feast. There are literal racks of dumplings. "And you broke in because...?"

"I didn't! I knocked first. For like... ten minutes." He rubs his neck. "Then I heard your stomach growling in your sleep and got concerned."

"That's not—" Your traitorous stomach interrupts you with an audible growl. Clark's eyes light up. “See! Your body agrees with me,” he says. “Anyway, since we’re both here…” He trails off, suddenly very interested in rearranging the napkins. 

You raise an eyebrow, amused by his awkward napkin origami. “Clark,” you drawl, crossing your arms. “Are you trying to emotionally manipulate me with all these food you’ve been bringing me?”

He looks up mid-fold and says, “Only a little.” Then, as if the food might win the argument for him, he nudges a container toward you. You glance down. Soup dumplings. The ones that always sell out by 7PM. The chopsticks are already split. The chili oil is on the side, exactly how you like it. The care in the details undoes you more than any grand gesture could.

With a sigh, you reach for the container. “If I take one bite, does that mean I’m condoning this stalker behavior?” 

Clark beams, already plucking the plumpest shrimp from his garlic noodles and depositing them in your box. “Just eat, sunshine.”

Outside, a car alarm wails. The microwave finally stops protesting. And in your too-small kitchen, with takeout containers covering every surface, something fragile and precious slots back into place.

v. wednesday, 5:10 pm, the daily planet

You don’t usually make stops before a night shift. Metropolis General demands your full attention and then some, and you like to keep the hours before it clean, undisturbed. But you find yourself standing at the Daily Planet’s front desk anyway, fiddling with the strap of your work bag.

“Hi, um, sorry,” you tell the receptionist — a different one from your last visit. “I’m looking for Clark Kent?” She looks up with a polite smile. “Oh! You can head right in. He’s on the fifth floor, newsroom. Desk with all the plants, you can’t miss him.”

You thank her under your breath and make your way to the elevators. The ride is short. When the doors slide open, you’re hit with the same hum you remember, the murmur of voices, clacking keyboards, and the occasional ring of a desk phone. It’s exactly how it was the last time you came.

You spot Clark at his desk, bent over a mess of notes, glasses slipping low on his nose. His tie’s loosened, sleeves rolled up, and he’s frozen mid-type, like he somehow sensed you the moment the elevator doors opened. Then he looks up.

His whole face lights up. “You’re here,” he says, standing so fast his chair rolls back into the desk behind him with a thud. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Surprise,” you say, grinning as you set your insulated bag down on the corner of his desk. “Payback for the last four days. Homemade beef bourguignon. Your favorite.”

His expression shifts—surprise, delight, and something warmer, softer, just under the surface—before he smooths it into a smile.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Sunshine.”

The voice comes from a woman leaning against the next desk over, nursing a coffee like she’s been watching this unfold since you stepped off the elevator. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a knowing smirk. She doesn’t bother hiding her amusement.

Across from her, a guy with a camera around his neck nearly drops it. “No way,” he says, staring. “You’re real.”

You blink. “Uh… hi. Sorry, have we met?”

“Lois,” the woman says, holding out a hand. “Lane. And that’s Jimmy.” 

“Jimmy Olsen,” the guy adds with a quick wave, half-hidden behind a camera strap. You shake their hands, still trying to find your footing. Just as you open your mouth to introduce yourself, Jimmy beats you to it.

“You’re the Sunshine,” he grins. "I've got, like, twelve candids of this guy smiling at his phone when—"

“weshouldreallyeatthisbeforeitgetscold,” Clark cuts in quicky, the tips of his ears pink. He shoots Jimmy a quick look, then turns back at you. “Thank you. This is… really nice.”

Lois mouths really nice? to Jimmy, miming an exaggerated swoon.

Clark ignores them, his attention laser-focused on you. “Walk you to work?” he asks, already grabbing his jacket with one hand while the other hovers near your back, not quite touching but close enough that Jimmy makes kissy faces behind his camera.

As Clark guides you gently towards the exit, you turn and give Lois and Jimmy a warm smile. "It was nice meeting you both." 

"Likewise, Sunshine," Lois says with a wink. Jimmy gives you an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

The elevator doors close on their laughter, leaving you alone with Clark in the sudden quiet. He exhales, long-suffering, but can't hide the way his thumb brushes against yours when he takes the insulated bag from you. 

"Sorry about them," he murmurs, holding the lobby door open with his shoulder. The late afternoon sun catches in his glasses when he looks down at you. "But... thank you. For coming. For this." He lifts the bag slightly. You bump your shoulder against his arm. "I like them. And you're welcome."

His fingers find yours as you step out onto the sun-warmed sidewalk, swinging gently between you like the most natural thing in the world. Somewhere behind you, muffled through glass, you're almost certain you hear Jimmy's distant whoop of victory. But right now, with Clark's hand warm in yours and the city stretching golden before you, you find you don't mind at all.

[howiswhatawhy]

guys im blanking out.. what is paris known for again?

[howiswhatawhy]

things we don't say (ii) - clark kent x reader

Summary: Girl (you) go boy's (Clark's) apartment. Girl & boy eat. Girl & boy talk.

Word count: ~2k

Warnings: HEART TO HEART TALK, reconciling kinda, tension, Clark being Clark (awkward and shy and precious), Clark being an implied stalker if you squint(he means well), still slow burn. Not proof read.

A/n: This is my version of the 12 minutes clois living room scene. Honestly I'm not the best with dialogue heavy stuff so bear with me here. I can't can't can't wait to add krypto to this.

As always please interact<3, I'm always looking for a chance to talk about the movie whenever I can, I know my friends are so tired of me bringing up this movie.

part 1, part 3

Clark’s place is quite spacey, cozy in a way that you'd expected. There are books stacked on the coffee table, a quilt Martha must have sent draped over the couch, and a faint smell of coffee and cinnamon.

As you glance around, something on the bookshelf makes you pause. A small framed photo. Of younger you and Clark. You both are smiling, sunburnt and windblown, crammed into the same hoodie after some long-forgotten summer storm. You blink. “You have a picture of us?” Clark looks up from the kitchen, almost sheepish. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just.. I had the frame lying around and I didn’t know what to put there. Then I remembered that Ma insisted that I bring the photo album with me when I moved. You know, the big one with the faded blue cover? She stuffed it full of old pictures before I left Smallville—there’s like, five of just you and me eating watermelon on the porch—anyway, that one fell out when I was unpacking, and I guess I just… kept it.”

He’s rambling now, voice picking up speed, and his cheeks a tiny shade of rosé. He stopped chopping the carrots a while ago, knife resting forgotten on the cutting board, hands gesturing aimlessly as he talks.

“I wasn’t, like, planning to display it or anything. I mean, I thought it was a good picture—well, not a good picture, I look like I got hit by a lawnmower, and you’re sunburnt, and the picture’s pretty blurry, but it just… made me smile. And the frame was there. And I figured, you know, until I find something better—”

He stops himself. His cheeks have turned full red, eyes flicking toward you, then quickly away.

“Anyway. It’s just a photo. I can put it away if it’s weird.”

You tilt your head slightly, amused by his demeanor. It’s not like you found it weird in the first place. If anything, you found it very sweet. You’d never admit this to him, but you still have a locked album filled with photos of you and him from years ago saved in your phone, and you open it at least once a week. You had deliberately moved those data from your old phone to your new one that you bought just three months ago, when you moved to metropolis.

You blink slowly, then smile. “You know, you could’ve just said you missed me.”

Clark looks at you, eyes wide. “I—what? No, I mean—well, yes, but—not like—”

“I miss you too, Clark.” You cut him off. “More than you could ever imagine.” And nothing you said could be more true. He’s grinning from ear to ear now, the kind of grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look exactly like the kid you used to build pillow forts with and sneak extra pie slices to when Martha wasn’t looking.

“Yeah, I think I miss you more,” he finally admits. You look into his eyes, in search for the truth. A moment passes, then another. Clark clears his throat and shifts back into action, the emotional fog lifting just slightly as he focuses on the chopping board. You take your seat by the counter, watching as he works.

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to you, “carrots are in. Now the potatoes, garlic, bay leaves…”

The stew is warm and filling. You’re not sure if it’s actually good, or if you just miss Clark’s cooking. Either way you try to eat it slowly, perhaps in part because you don’t want this moment to end. But it does, faster than you realize.

If you weren’t so hungry, you’d have drawn it out longer. Savored it. Stretched the meal into something that could’ve passed for forever, just to stay here, in the same room as him, where the silence feels less like distance and more like something lived-in.

“You finished?” Clark asks, as he gently takes the bowl from your hands. His fingers brush yours as he does. You nod. He stands and moves toward the sink, and you follow him into the living room without thinking.

“Come sit.” He gestures to the worn couch, the quilt Martha sent draped over the back. You settle in, the couch soft beneath you. Clark shifts beside you, elbow resting on the back cushion, eyes watching you more than the room. For a while, neither of you say anything. It’s not silence so much as it is calm. 

Then, you draw in a breath. “Hey, do you remember that day on the playground?” He looks over, brow knitting. “Which one?” 

You glance down at your hands, fingers lightly picking at a loose thread in the quilt. “The one where those older kids wouldn’t leave me alone. I think I was eight? They took my backpack and dumped all my stuff on the gravel.”

Clark shifts beside you. “Right,” he says slowly, the memory coming back to him. “I think I ran faster than I meant to.”

You look over at him. “You definitely did. You were halfway across the field before anyone even saw what was happening.”

He lets out a small breath through his nose. “I remember that. They didn’t see me coming either.”

“You were so mad,” you say. “Didn’t even stop to say anything. Just yanked my backpack out of one of their hands and pushed them to the ground.”

Clark rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw red, I guess.”

“You didn’t,” you say. “Not really. But you didn’t even get hurt, and I still cried the whole walk home.”There’s a pause. You keep your eyes on the quilt.

“I couldn’t explain it back then,” you admit. “But I think I know why now.” There’s a quiet intensity in his gaze now, he’s waiting for you to say your next words. “I wasn’t crying because of them,” you say. “Or the mess they made. I think I was crying because it was you. Because even when I knew you’d be okay, I couldn’t turn off the fear.”

You exhale slowly, fingers resting against the faded stitching. “It’s not about whether you’re strong enough. It’s that you went into it, and I was stuck watching.” Clark shifts, but stays silent. “I hated that part,” you admit. “That I couldn’t do anything. That I had no control. That if something had gone wrong, I would’ve just had to stand there and let it.”

“I guess… what I’m trying to say is, I can never stop worrying about you.” 

You tried it a lot of times. To push your worries down. It’s going to be fine. He’s more than strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. When has he ever not made it out? is what you keep telling yourself, and all of them are true as it can be. But the logic never held for long.

You couldn’t not worry about him when you were younger, not with him throwing himself into every situation that wasn’t his to fix. Standing up to bullies, or whatever it was. Sometimes it was older kids starting fights. Other times it was full-grown adults yelling in the middle of the street. A guy trying to rob the gas station. Someone breaking into a neighbor’s truck. It didn’t matter if it seemed reckless. If he got hurt (even though he rarely did). Or if it scared the hell out of you. He’d come back and say, “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

Then you thought you would stop worrying after he moved to Metropolis. Whatever it was he was going to get himself into, you wouldn’t be there to watch it. Wouldn’t have to see the way he threw himself into things without thinking, wouldn’t have to stand there helpless, heart in your throat.

So it was going to be fine. Right? Oh, how wrong you were. 

Because the silence was worse. When the calls came less and less, you had to deal with not knowing. Not hearing from him for days. A dropped call in the middle of a sentence. A voice that sounded more tired every time he did answer. You’d check the news without meaning to. Scan headlines you didn’t want to read. Every building collapse or explosion downtown, your first thought was always him.

Even when you stopped talking, you couldn’t stop worrying. You told yourself you had no right to anymore. That he had his own life, his own world now, and you weren’t part of it. But it didn’t matter. The instinct was still there. Just like it was in his genes to care, to throw himself into danger without thinking twice. It was in yours to look for him in every headline, every siren, every space where he might’ve been.

You don’t say anything after that. Just sit with it. You weren’t expecting a response, not really. Clark rubs the back of his neck, the way he always does when he knows he’s messed something up but isn’t sure how to fix it.

“I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to make you worry,” he says after some time. “I figured if I kept my head down, didn’t tell you much, maybe you wouldn’t have to carry any of it.”

You let out a breath. “That’s not how it works.”

“I know that now,” he mutters. You glance over. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight. You can almost see the gears turning in his head.

“I wasn’t trying to shut you out,” he adds. “I just thought… the less you knew, the easier it’d be.”

“For who?” you ask.

That gets him. His mouth opens like he’s got something to say, then closes again. He swallows. “Yeah. Fair.”

You shake your head. “You do this thing where you act like if you just carry it all yourself, nobody else gets hurt.” Clark presses his lips together, but he doesn’t argue. He just nods, once, like he’s been told. 

“I’m not mad,” you sigh. “Just… you’re not invisible, Clark. Not to me.” 

He looks down at his hands. “I wasn’t trying to be." You glance at him. “You kind of were.” He doesn’t argue that.

“I just didn’t want to turn it into your problem,” he says after a moment. “Guess that was stupid.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It was.”

Clark huffs quietly through his nose. “Didn’t mean to screw it up. I just didn’t want you stuck worrying about me all the time.” You shrug. “You’re about 2 decades too late for that.” He shifts closer to you. “Can’t help it.” You sigh and lightly brush your fingers over his knuckles. “I know.” 

The two of you stay like that for a while. Not saying anything. Just sitting there, hands resting together, barely touching. His thumb shifts under your palm. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you. 

You glance at the clock on his wall. Nearly midnight. Clark follows your gaze. He sighs. “It’s late,” he says. 

“I should head back,” you stand slowly, easing your hands from his. He’s already rising with you. “I’ll walk you.”

You give him a look. “You don’t have to. I actually live really close by.”

“I know,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “But that alley off Monroe gets sketchy after dark.” You pause. “How do you know I walk that way?”

He hesitates for a second. “You mentioned it once." You narrow your eyes. “No, I didn’t.” Clark avoids your gaze, shrugs a little too casually. “Maybe I just guessed.”

“Clark.”

He grabs his keys, already opening the door. “Let’s go.”

part 3

[howiswhatawhy]

that clois kiss changed my life

[howiswhatawhy]

you know what as an avid lover of playlists i absolutely eat up james gunn movies every. damn. time. you bet your ass im making his playlists my personality for a whole month after i see his movies. hell i might even make a playlist loosely based on the vibes of his playlist (i alr did this for clark kent).

[howiswhatawhy]

things we don't say (i) - clark kent x reader

Summary: Clark Kent was always there throughout your life. So when he wasn’t, it became hard to un-know him. After years of quiet distance, missed calls, and unspoken truths, his public reveal as Superman confirms what you always feared.

Word count: 3k

tags: ex childhood bestfriends to lover, slow burn, hurt/comfort, emotionally constipated losers in love, yearner x yearner, absolute idiots in love.

A/n: thank you @sharknutz for bringing up the sunshine nickname. You have officially ruined any other nicknames for me. I originally wanted to wait until I finish writing this fic from start to finish but I just can't contain myself. Hoping I'll post p2 soon! (im already writing it.) Also please interact with me<3 I have no one to talk to about my deep deep deep love for clark kent. Not proofread.

part 2, part 3

You can’t recall a time when you didn’t know Clark Kent. For as long as you remember, in every memory that you have, he’s never too far away. He was there when you were 5, having picnics with your stuffed animals in the backyard, pouring imaginary tea and calling your teddy “sir”. He was there when you were 7, hiding under blankets during thunderstorms, whispering stories to help you forget about the thunder. 

He was there again when you were 10, standing at the bottom of the hill when you jumped off the shed roof with your arms stretched out like wings. You’d seen Clark fly, just for a second, when he thought no one was watching. And you wanted to impress him. You wanted to be special, too. Instead, you scraped your knees and knocked the air out of your lungs. He ran to you, panicked, asking if you were okay over and over, then scolding you for being reckless, his voice shaking. And he was still there when you were 18, crying in all your tangled thoughts and stubborn silences, and he promised he’d come back often and call everyday. And you believed him. Told him you’d move to Metropolis right after graduation. That you’d follow him. 

Clark was always there throughout your life. So when he wasn’t, it was hard unknowing him. 

At first, he kept his promise and called every night. Even with the noise of Metropolis in the background, he made time. He’d tell you about classes, the weird people on the subway, how he missed the stars out in Smallville. You’d talk for hours sometimes, until one of you (more often you than him) fell asleep on the line.

But promises aren’t made of steel, not even his. A skipped night here. A shorter call there. “Sorry, something came up.” “Long day.” “I’ll call tomorrow, I promise.” He always meant it. You could hear it in his voice. But sometimes, the phone just didn’t ring.

You tried not to take it personally. You told yourself he was just busy. There’s always something to be busy about in Metropolis: internships, papers, roommates. Maybe there’s even someone new in his life. God, you hoped that’s not it. But even if it was, it’d be okay. That’s normal. That’s expected.

But sometimes, you caught something in his voice. A hesitation. You knew Clark better than anyone, but you just couldn’t figure out what he’s hiding from you. And once, he ended a call mid-sentence. No goodbye. Just gone. You didn’t hear from him for three days. When he called again, his voice was tight and tired, like he hadn’t slept. He didn’t explain. You didn’t have the guts to ask.

But later that same night, you saw something on the news. A building caught on fire in downtown Metropolis. The anchors kept saying it was a miracle no one had died. That someone had gotten people out before the fire department arrived. But no one saw who. You thought about Clark. You never said it out loud. Never asked him directly. But deep down, you already knew.

Clark Kent was still trying to save the world. He just hadn’t figured out how to carry it yet.

Days turned into weeks, and the calls grew fewer and farther between. When you did hear from him, his voice was heavier. It was no longer the familiar warmth you remembered, but clipped, exhausted, almost guarded. You knew he was out there, doing things no one else could, saving people in ways no one else even knew about. But every time you thought about reaching out, about asking if he needed you, your heart clenched.

You couldn’t, and wouldn’t, add to the weight he was already carrying. So you stayed silent.

Sometimes when missing him felt too heavy, you slept over at the Kent’s. Martha would make tea without asking, and Jonathan would leave the porch light on like he was expecting both of you home. His room hadn’t changed. You’d lie on his bed, stare at the ceiling, and pretend he might walk through the door any minute, tired but smiling.

You told yourself it was better this way. That he needed space. That he was doing something important. That maybe, someday, he’d find his way back to you. You told yourself you can’t be selfish. You needed him, but so does the whole world. 

So you let others have him. The people in danger. The strangers in burning buildings. The ones crying out in the dark. You gave your Clark to them without complaint, without question, like it was the only thing you could do. Because how could you be the one to ask him to stop? To come home? To choose you, when he was out there saving lives?

But just because he broke his promise, doesn’t mean you broke yours. You moved to Metropolis, just like you said you would. You weren’t sure if it was for you, or if you were just being stubborn. Maybe part of you still wanted to keep the promise, even if he didn’t. You didn’t reach out. You couldn’t. It had been a year and a half since the last real conversation, and reaching out now felt... wrong. Heavy. Like you’d be asking for a version of him that no longer existed. So you built a life. A small apartment, a job as a nurse at Metropolis General. A routine that’s enough to keep you grounded. You learned your way around the city. Made some work friends. Bought groceries on Sundays. 

Then one morning, during a rare quiet moment between shifts, you glanced up at the TV mounted in the break room. The newsroom was buzzing with something unusual. The screen showed a figure standing tall against the Metropolis skyline. Red and blue, cape fluttering in the wind. The voice was steady, calm, filled with a strength you’d never heard before. 

“I am Superman,” he said. The words echoed through the room and through your chest. And you swear you feel the echo of it deep in your chest. The way his voice, calm and sure, cuts through the static. It’s a voice you’ve known all your life. It’s him. No question.

But now the world is seeing what you already knew:

He isn’t like anyone else.

The rest of your shift passes in a daze. Everyone’s talking about it. Patients, doctors, people passing by on the street, they all talk so loud. The words come fast and sharp, overlapping each other.

You can’t bother to listen to them. Not when your heart is pounding in your ears and your knees feel like they might give out any second now. He can’t seriously be doing this. Not when the threats keep showing up nonstop, now more than ever. Not when each one is more dangerous than the last, like the universe is testing how much he can take before he finally breaks.

You knew Clark was good. Always trying to help. Always doing what he could. He’s capable. He’s strong. You’ve seen that.

But that was pulling people out of a burning building. Guiding a lost kid back to their parents. Climbing a tree to rescue someone’s cat.

Not… whatever this is.

You’re not even sure what to call it. What do you call creatures that crash from the sky like meteors, tearing through concrete with claws? Or things that speak in sounds that rattle your bones? How do you fight lasers, or collapsing cities, or things that don’t bleed? You don’t know. And you’re not sure if he knows, either. What you know is he’s out there, putting himself in danger, over and over again. And with him coming out like this, he’s basically screaming for those things to come and get him. Well maybe that’s fine for him. Maybe he can handle it, that it’s no sweat for him. You don’t know how strong he is. He might be stronger than you can even begin to understand. 

But he’s still Clark. The Clark that used to run to you whenever he felt out of place. Your Clark, if you can still even call him that. 

So the next steps you take are a bit of a blur. You don’t remember leaving the hospital. One minute you’re taking off your scrubs, and the next, you’re on the subway. The screech of the tracks is nothing compared to the noise in your head. You don’t even realize where you’re going until you’re standing in front of the revolving glass doors of the Daily Planet.

This is a bad idea. You know that. You haven’t spoken to him in over a year. You don’t even know if he wants to see you. But you don’t have time to think it through.

Martha’s voice echoes in your mind then, warm and full of pride, from that quiet night you stopped by for tea.

“He’s doing great, sweetheart. You should see the pieces he’s been writing at the Planet! He even had one front page last month. Above the fold!”

You step inside, and the receptionist looks up. “Can I help you?” You weren’t expecting her to speak. For some reason, you thought you’d just… slip through. Like maybe if you didn’t look directly at anyone, no one would look at you.

“Uh…” Your voice comes out thin. You clear your throat. “I’m looking for Clark Kent.” She blinks at you. “Is he expecting you?” You shake your head. “No.” There’s a pause while she types something. You can hear every click of the keys. It suddenly dawns on you that all of this is very silly. What are you supposed to say to him? Hey, I know we haven’t talked in a while but—

“He just went out. Might be for a story—” She frowns a little. “Looks like he badged in a few minutes ago. Try the newsroom. Fifth floor.” You nod, mumble a thank you. Your mouth feels dry.

The elevator’s to your left. You make yourself walk toward it. You hit the button and try not to look like you’re about to crawl out of your own skin. Too late to turn around now.

It’s hectic inside, that’s the first thing you noticed. Phones ringing, printers whirring, the low buzz of conversation layered with the occasional bark of an editor trying to chase down a quote. But you can still hear his voice. Calmer than it should be, considering everything. 

He’s talking to someone, just behind one of the taller cubicle walls to your right. You don’t mean to listen, but your body leans toward the sound before your brain catches up. “…No, I’ve got time. Just send me what you’ve got and I’ll take a look.” The other person says something you can’t quite catch. Then a quiet laugh, soft enough that it doesn’t match the world-ending images still burned into your memory. You follow the sound. Slowly. Carefully. 

And then there he is. Tall as ever. Talking to someone else you can’t bring yourself to care about. His back is facing you, but you’re sure it’s him. “Clark…?” At the sound of your voice, he turns around sharply. There’s something different about his face. He’s wearing glasses, which is new, but there’s also something else that’s different that you can’t quite put your finger to. He freezes when he sees you. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Not like you gave him enough time to talk anyway. “Please tell me it wasn’t you.” The words hang in the air like you shouted them, even though you barely whispered. Clark doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, eyes wide now. Not with shock, but with something closer to alarm. You see it the second it registers. Not just what you said, but where you said it.

He moves. Not fast enough to draw attention, but faster than anyone else around him. He steps in, closes the space between you in two strides, and gently, but firmly, takes your arm. “Not here,” he says, voice low, barely audible over the hum of the newsroom. You let him lead you past desks and columns. He doesn’t look back, but his hand stays steady on your arm, not pulling exactly, just enough to keep you close. No one stops you. No one even seems to notice.

He stops in front of a door that’s unmarked, tucked between two filing cabinets. You barely catch a glimpse of fluorescent-lit shelves inside before he opens it and nudges you through. Storage room. The door clicks shut behind you. And his arm doesn’t let go of yours.

“Sunshine,” he says, voice unsure, “what are you doing here?” You scoffed. Sunshine. How can he still call you that? Like nothing changed. You want to ask him that, ask him where has he been the past 19 months? Where did he go? Did he not trust you enough to share his burden? There’s a million and one questions that you want to ask him. But a more important issue lies.

“You need to tell me right now that the man in the news wasn’t you.” You pull your hand away from his. He sighs. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the floor. “I…” His voice catches, then falters. 

“Please,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Please tell me that you aren’t putting yourself in danger like that.” You reach out, grabbing his hands, desperate for him to understand. “Please.” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. It’s obvious that it’s him from the start. 

He pulls his hands gently from yours but stays close, his eyes steady on yours. “I know you’re scared,” he says, voice low but firm. “But I’m stronger than you think. Stronger than those things out there.” He pauses, his thumb reaching up to wipe a tear you didn’t know was there. His voice softens, but the strength behind it doesn’t waver, “You don’t have to worry about me.” You blink, trying to hold back the flood, but it’s no use. Your chest tightens, and for a moment, you just stand there, caught between a kind of relief and disbelief. You wonder: Is he fucking dense? Or just immensely stupid? How can he even say that? How on Gods’ green earth does he expect you not to worry???

At the sight of your seemingly unstoppable tears, his expression shifts. Subtle, but immediate. His shoulders go tense, his mouth parts like he’s going to respond, but nothing comes out.

“Wait—no, why are you—” he stammers, eyes darting between yours, searching, scrambling. “Did I say something wrong? Please don’t cry.” His hands lift, like he wants to touch you again but suddenly doesn’t know how.

“I just—I'm trying to tell you that I can handle it. That I’m okay. Please believe me.” You shake your head, tears hot now. You’re not even sure if you’re angry or terrified, probably both. Your hands are trembling before you even realize you’re reaching for him. And then you’re there, stepping into him, closing that last bit of space, pressing your face into his chest. His shirt’s soft but still smells faintly like smoke and city air and him. You clutch it in your fists like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

He freezes for a second, and then his arms wrap around you. Carefully at first, then tighter. You cry into him, full-body, silent sobs that shake your shoulders. And you both stay like that for a while, until your sobs die down, leaving only the sound of his breathing and the faint hum of the building outside the door.

His hand moves slowly, smoothing over your back in careful circles. You don’t know if it’s to comfort you or calm himself. When he finally pulls back, his hands don’t leave you completely. One stays at your waist, the other hovers just above your arm. “Are you…” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows, and when he tries again, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

You don’t answer right away. His eyes flicker nervously, searching yours for any sign. “I didn’t know if I should’ve said something sooner. I didn’t know if you even—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “But I missed you,” he admits, almost like it hurts. “Every day.”

You’re not sure how to answer to that. The way he said it sounded like he meant it. But your mind is too tired to think because of all the crying that you just did. “Sorry,” you sniffled. He looks at you confused. You gesture weakly at the damp patch spreading across his chest, “about your shirt.”

His brows lift slightly, it takes him a second to even register what you mean. Then he glances down, sees the mess you’ve made of it, and looks back up with a barely-there smile, eyes warm and aching. “I don’t care about the shirt,” he says, so quietly it almost doesn’t reach you. “I care about you.” The words land with a softness that makes your chest ache all over again.

He reaches up, not to wipe your tears this time, but just to cradle your cheek in his hand. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he adds, voice soft. “You never have to be sorry with me.” You wipe at your face, palm clumsy and damp. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble, breath hitching a little. “I just…” You trail off. The silence stretches. “I’m hungry,” you say finally. “And I miss you. So much”

Clark blinks at you. You don’t meet his eyes, just stare at the buttons on his shirt. “Can you cook me that beef stew thing you used to make?” you ask. “The one with the cumin.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath this entire time. “Okay,” his smile is so bright it might actually blind you. “Let’s get out of here.” 

No one notices when you leave. The newsroom is still humming, phones ringing, people darting around, chasing deadlines. Clark, as you realized, is quite good at being invisible, especially given how big he is. 

Outside, the sky has turned dark, and the walk back to (what you guess is) his apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city moves around you—horns blaring, people chattering, the distant hum of helicopters circling the skyline—but between the two of you, there’s only the occasional brush of his arm against yours.

part 2

[howiswhatawhy]

im cooking something up… and you best believe im going to deliver that slow burn. i cant lie i love me some ex childhood bsf to lovers arc.

[howiswhatawhy]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man could wear.

[howiswhatawhy]

MINORS DNI!! 18+

i’ve been thinking of this but i feel like in all the smut ive read abt clark kent he’s just not soft enough like i get that he’s superhuman and he’s dom but have you seen the movie!!! he’s such a baby!!! he’d 110% be holding back (esp if his partner doesn’t know that he’s superman) like obvi he’d overstim u but he’d just be gentle about it and almost pleading?

like he’d beg (but not really giving you a choice) for you to give him one more orgasm meanwhile you’re crying and shaking because it just feels. so. good. he’s sloppy and relentless, murmuring things like

“please baby, just one more.”

“i know it’s good, you’re doing so good for me.”

“c’mon, look at me, i know you’ve got one more in you.”

“eyes up here, yeah? look at me when i make you come.”

and you’re just there barely keeping your eyes open from all the pleasure he’s given you (this is like your 6th? 7th? 8th? orgasm) and he’s not even close to finishing.

like i’d feel like he’s the type to be super duper gentle with it. my favorite thing to think about is every time he tries to get inside of you (after eating you out and prepping you for ages) you’re already so sensitive and he’s barely putting the tip in. he’s always trying his best to be gentle with you but with you moaning “clarkie, i can’t, you’re so big.” in his ears he just quite literally can’t take it. he has to stop to regain his control or else he’s just gonna fuck you senseless right then and there.

“i know, just a little more, yeah? you just feel so good around me.”

“im sorry if it hurts baby, i just can’t get enough of this sweet little pussy”

and when he’s fully in he has to stop for a moment again but you can feel his cock twitching so much in you and you know he’s trying to be gentle for you.

like my fav part about clark is even though it takes him longer to orgasm and he’s stronger and can 100% manhandles you and just use you to get there (which he might do if you beg enough for it and he’s sure you know what you’re getting into), he’s always putting you first and is always always always thinking about your pleasure.

[howiswhatawhy]

born to marry him, forced to read fanfics about him

[howiswhatawhy]

just finished my finals!!! writing again soon<3 (after i finish my 500 final projects)