lucywritesagain

[lucywritesagain]

shooting-star.exe

Clark Kent x Coder!reader

cw: smut(minors, dni!!), vaginal fingering, p n v sex, clark being caring and a sweetheart, slow burn(but not in the normal way), minor mentions of drug use and overdose, angst through the roof, soooo much plot, mostly plot, i wish i knew how to write less plot, past tense, second person, no use of y/n summary: it had always been a dream of yours to work for s.t.a.r. labs, build machines, create programs that could save lives. you didn't learn that wasn't their plan for you until it was too late. stuck in their labs and fearing for your life, you contact the Daily Planet, trying to expose the seedy underbelly of your multi billionaire employers. little did you know, the reporter sent your way wasn't just devastatingly handsome, he was also superman. an: whats up! this idea came to me because first of all, the movie rocks and everyone in it is so hot, and also because i binged all of mr. robot recently so a coder character was fresh in my mind. i stole some character names and locations from mr. robot too, don't judge me! shes here, shes long, shes been fun to write and has hella missing punctuation, and now shes yours:) wc: 21.6k (jesus christ superstar)

You remember standing outside the Daily Planet, thinking about how clutching your laptop in your purse and trying not to shake wasn't what you wanted to do that day, but after what you had done in the lab, after seeing the cars following you down the street, what you wanted wasn't really an option. 

You wanted to disappear, you wanted to get back to your five year plan: become the youngest lead coding engineer for S.T.A.R. labs, at least at their Metropolis branch. You wanted a seat at the table with the most brilliant scientific minds in America, and at one point, that goal seemed within reach.

You were so young when you stepped into the building, being told you were a prodigy, a genius, that you were the future of engineering development; all the things executives say to the impressionable to keep the actual backbone of the labs working for the goals of shareholders rather than for the sake of pushing knowledge further. You remember the elevator with buttons for floors ten stories beneath the earth, floors you couldn't reach without the right tenure, without unwavering loyalty to the company. You remember seeing those buttons, knowing you would earn that trust and do nothing but work towards completing projects that coders twice your age couldn't. 

The day you got access to the basement labs was the same day you rushed out of the building and ran to the cops, unaware of the black car that was tailing you to the station. 

“Im sorry, ma’am, but there's nothing we can do to help you.” The officer sitting at the intake desk eyed you with concerned curiosity, half trying to believe you and half trying to believe that your concerns were the ramblings of a lunatic, “if you think there are people down in the basement, they're probably willing volunteers for studies.” 

You paced in front of the uniformed man, his badge reading MPD and Adakai; your laptop sitting on the desk in front of him, open, illuminated with pages of results from attempted human cloning and outlines for adding code and directives to minds the labs have been growing in test tubes. The files of the latest project they assigned you. 

Was he even reading the files? Does he have no curiosity?

“Trust me,” your pacing comes to a halt as you lean forward and scroll down to CAT scans and MRI’s of developing brains and bone mass, some of the scans belonging to people who could only be children based on their development and size, “S.T.A.R. labs isn't just plucking people off the street, some of the things I saw down there could only come from kidnapping, o–or from some kind of fuckin’ human farming!”  

“Ma’am…” Officer Adakai slowly stands up, closing your computer and sliding it back over to you, “have you been sleeping alright? Do you have family you can–” 

“Stop,” you grab your laptop quickly and take a step back from the desk, “you think I'm crazy?” you look him in the eyes, his furrowed brow and quiet resignation a far cry away from your bloodshot and frenzied gaze. “How can you not see it? Or do you just not want to see it?” 

Part of your switch to hostility came in how officer Adakai watched you. You saw his eyes, green, the rarest color they could be, tick from side to side as you moved across the room, carefully. Like he was trying to keep you from filing a report for more reasons than thinking you were an unreliable source, his dismissiveness made less and less sense without factoring a fear of your employers into it. But there was something else itching under your skin that caused your further unhappiness with the interaction. He wanted to send you to your family, or find out if you had family. Was he in on this? Was he looking for something on you?

The officer walked around his desk, sat against it and leaned forward close enough for only you to hear what he was going to say next, “you want some very off the record advice?” your eyebrows scrunched together but you nodded slightly, “S.T.A.R. labs can't be stopped. Others have tried, this precinct has seen more attempted whistleblowers than any captain or commissioner would like to admit, but the key word is attempted. What you have here,” he tapped your computer, “would demand a warrant, but their lawyers would slow that process down for weeks, and if by some miracle you got officers to the labs and the evidence was still there, you would be tampered with before you ever got to testify.” 

His words hit you like a downpour of gravel, all at once and with a million points of impact. His kind, pitying tone was mixed with exhaustion, the kind that made you realize that this man had tangoed with S.T.A.R. labs before, and they were more than willing to step on his toes, or even break his legs to keep their usual dance going, they would just switch him out for a more compliant partner. 

He couldn't do anything to help you, and he wished he could. 

Adakai watched your posture change, he saw the deflating righteousness in your shoulders and the quiet retreat that made you ashamed of yourself. You couldn't fight this, not on your own, not with what you had. Your head hung low as you nodded once more, “...Thank you for your time, officer.”

Turning to leave, you gave officer Adakai one more curt nod before he spoke again, “if you ever feel unsafe,” he held out his hand to shake, “if you feel like you yourself are in personal danger, please call us. If we can't help, give me a ring.” you took his hand, olive skin with nails picked at and a wedding band on his ring finger. You felt his card in the shake, his grip tightened and definitely crumpled the paper. Why he didn't just hand it to you was something you weren't too keen on asking about, but you were curious. 

Walking out of the station, you took a breath and wished you had a cigarette in your bag, but you knew you threw them out months ago, even your spares. Part of the contract you had signed with your new promotion at the labs was to quit potentially fatal habits such as smoking. The explanation for this clause as it was explained to you by a room of lawyers was that they couldn't risk hospitalization or unexpected loss of a chief coder at the expense of S.T.A.R. labs’ projects. But there was a feeling you had that another reason was to see if they could control you, to keep you from a small personal decision. A feeling that they wanted to own your mind, body, ideas, all of it; a feeling you ignored as you signed the contract. 

You didn't know where to go. You told the labs you were going to lunch but you doubt they believed that, you were shaking when you left. You didn't want to go home, that would raise more eyebrows. You didn't want to go back to work, but it was the only way you felt to move forward. As the soles of your shoes it the pavement, you became increasingly aware that the car moving behind you was moving far too slow for the road it was on, that it stopped moving then you bent down to tie your shoe, how it made 4 right turns around the block when you did it to see if it was following you. That car followed you to the police station, that car's driver had a S.T.A.R. labs key card that they used to get into the parking lot when you got back to the building. They were following you.

They knew you were scared of them. They were going to make sure you stayed compliant.

You spent the next several weeks in the basement you worked so hard to earn your way into, though at that point it didn't feel like an honor. You didn't go home anymore, sleeping in the on-call rooms the labs provided. You spent your days away from the sun, too scared to step outside; you woke up in an uncomfortable bunk, sometimes alone but usually with other scientists and coders residing in the bunks beside you, often running on two hours of sleep(never mind that health clause you agreed to), you would get a stale muffin and cup of coffee from the cafeteria and you would get to work. 

Not talking to another soul, sitting at a computer surrounded by developing organisms floating in tubes. The job they gave you was continuing the work of a predecessor that was ‘put out of commission’, as you were told. S.T.A.R. labs was trying to program metahumans they developed. Your job was to figure out how; through codes with sequences of electric currents and chemical releases, you were supposed to create a series of patterns in the synapses of those unborn, the ability to influence thought and create memories that would not be organic to the people they were trying to birth into weapons. 

It took you awhile to realise that they were trying to create adults with full comprehension fresh out of the tube, to raise children that have intelligence, wisdom, interpretation far beyond their years; all with safeguards built into their neurochemistry to shut down if they descended on the wrong parties. 

You weren't even really qualified to deal with a lot of this. You were a computer scientist, your study of biochemistry was left behind in your second year of college. You wondered if this gap in knowledge would hurt the people they had you work on, though you didn't dare question your new position. They wanted you to get this done, so you'd try until it was.  

Was this really what you spent your life working towards? Shutting out your family, hiding from any friends you might have had, missing out on joys vital to human survival just to be self imprisoned by your employers? Hiding in their house. Pathetic.

“Sometimes, i wish i was in there with you,” you mumbled to the illuminated body floating in front of you, not even looking up from your several monitors, “if im doing my job right, you’re dreaming of something warm, something safe.” 

so far you could only figure out how to generate the simulation for feelings in the subjects. memories and knowledge can't be uploaded into people, you tried to explain that at some point to a man in a suit checking on your progress. He just walked to the elevator and said, ‘not yet’. 

Sick of staring at your screens, you stood up and walked closer to the woman in a dream. She looked dead, no activity behind her eyelids, her head was shaved; they always shaved it when they took her out for scans, but she had red roots when it grew back in. you wondered what her eyes would look like, the color, if they would be kind, or scared. You wondered if she was capable of wanting things, or coherent thought. If you somehow got her out of that fluid and she woke up, could she speak? Could she run? Would that be an instinct in her, to run?

“Im projecting,” you whispered against the glass, “i want to run, but i wont, and im not even stuck in a tube.” You sat back at your desk, squinting a bit when the monitor lit up. The light made your head tilt upwards and you caught a glimpse of the camera directly above you, “maybe that why i wish i was in there, no excuse for my stagnant ass,” You kept typing for the rest of the day, noting any twitch that the woman’s body made while you filled her mind with chemicals. You didn't even realise you were crying until a tear hit your hand on the keyboard. Its warmth was a stark comparison to the temperature the labs were mandated to keep. Sometimes you felt your body temp reaching those levels. 

God, you wanted a cigarette. 

Maybe it was that need for indulgence, the human, living desire you often took for granted, that had you stepping out of the building for the first time in weeks and grabbing a pack from the gas station two streets down. And maybe it was the rush of smoke in your lungs, the breath of nicotine that made the next inhale of air feel like its own high that had you trekking down to the public library with your laptop. 

You printed the most extreme pages, the ones that had fetal tissue scans, nameless people put under microscopes, pages with S.T.A.R. labs’ logo on it; ten pages, that was the library's print maximum and you doubted you would get another chance to do this again, you had to choose carefully. The printed pages fit neatly into the manilla envelope that had been floating at the bottom of your purse since you went to the cops and were told no, when this idea first planted in your head, and you put the envelope in a mailbox 3 blocks away from its destination: Lois Lane at The Daily Planet. For whatever reason, when you read her articles they had bled trust from you. This objective, critical quality that had her check everything, be thorough with any curiosity she had. You just prayed that the envelope piqued her curiosity.

You stood looking up at the building, tremors moving through you as the black car you've become used to waited on the other side of the street for you to start walking again. You were watched as the envelope slipped into the letterbox, you were watched when you stepped into the library, though no one came in while you were printing, and you were certainly watched as you broke your health clause with that damn cigarette. 

And though you knew all of these actions will lead you to be punished by your employers, or worse; you were truly grateful that the flash drive tucked so neatly in your new pack of Marlboro Reds resembled a lighter. Hopefully, it would be safe if anyone looked. 

Lois Lane was tired. She was always tired, her job demanded it, her brain demanded it. Any free time she had, any quiet moment she was afforded was always ruined with her mind running through unfinished stories, headlines she had written months ago that she had to follow up on, thinking about the people in her interviews that she couldn't help in any way outside of getting their stories out there. Lois Lane considered herself a cynic, someone who will always question an answer that was too easily found, knowing that further context is right below the surface. Nothing worth it can be that easy.

So Lois knew that when the spunky new reporter by the name of Clark Kent kept getting interviews with the Man of Steel, it wasn't just because he liked him, it wasn't that easy. She badgered, bothered, endlessly needled her new colleague about how he did it until he finally(it was two weeks) told her about his double life. His alien origins, his midwest upbringing, his inability to resist jumping into danger, his faith in his parents' message to serve the people of earth. When Lois found out, she felt this wave of fear. An instinct that this well meaning man would definitely get himself killed or weaponized by putting faith in a species that can cause great damage to their fellow man. 

But it wasn't as if she didn't trust Clark to make decisions, either. He had proven himself to be smart, kind, and strong beyond Lois' own comprehension. She vowed that day to be the hand on his shoulder that had him question motives. Not just see the story in front of him as Superman, but to dig for context before jumping into action. She was his guardian skeptic, and he was the man capable of stepping out of line and helping the people she spent her nights worried about. They were a team, so when you sent those files to Lois Lane, you unknowingly sent those files to Superman. 

“Hey Clark, check this out,” Lois dropped a file on the desk the man in question was currently resting his head on, the thud of the paper causing his body to shoot back up.

“Jeez, Lois, can't a man take a nap in peace?” he took off his glasses for a split second to shake his head almost like his dog would, trying to shake off the surprise he was struck with.

“Ooh, cursing,” Lois smirked and crossed over to her own station, putting one leg over the other as she leaned back in her chair, “if you think this is the place to take a nap,” she gestured to the screaming of stories, facts and headlines from their coworkers around the room, “you are sorely mistaken. Just read the file, the mailroom dropped it on my desk a few hours ago. It's not enough for a full story, but I think your buddy Superman would find its contents interesting.” Lois shot him a knowing smile and turned her chair back to the mess of papers in front of her. 

Clark opened the file and his eyes shot open the second he saw where they came from, his Xray vision carefully sped reading through every page without flipping through the paper. By the time he was done, Clark rolled his chair over to Lois with a gobsmacked look on his face, “how are you not freaking out over this? You're not gonna publish these?” he waved the paper at Lois, almost trying to fan her for attention.

Lois rolled her eyes with a light smile and stopped typing, swiveling her chair and leaning over to Clark, "I'm not going to publish it yet, those are a great start but there's no surrounding evidence. We can't even verify without knowing where these came from.” She pulled the now opened envelope and showed it to Clark, “this was an anonymous tip sent directly to me, and only ten pages? Of metahuman testing? Whoever sent this is in deep and doesn't want to get in trouble for it. We find them, we find something more to publish.” Lois slid the envelope over to her friend and continued, “if these are real, we can't go knocking on S.T.A.R. 's door, that could put who knows however many people in danger, this is why i think our buddy could help us out with further investigation.”  

“Why do I have a feeling you're only involving me because you hit a dead end in the last couple hours?” Clark grabbed the envelope and stood up with the rest of the papers, his question paired with a lopsided smile.

Lois snorted and turned back to the her final draft on Lexcorp's unethical mining operations in Indonesia, “just get to work, Clark,”

Oh, the work Clark Kent could do on his coffee breaks.

But so far, he was stumped. Clark could fly around the world in an hour or two, but he couldn't find somebody who was trying so hard not to be found. As a reporter, he hit every dead end Lois came to days earlier. He called in Mr. Terrific to scan for finger prints but they found nothing but remnants of latex gloves; even the water used to wet the envelope’s glue and stamp could be traced back to the Metropolis reservoir. The papers came from the public library, but there were dozens of locations, 4 near S.T.A.R. labs facilities. And snooping around those too often might alert the wrong people. 

“I hate to say it, man, but I'm stumped, and I don't joke about that shit,” Mr. Terrific grumbled and typed at his systems core at the hall of justice, trying to look into the S.T.A.R. labs systems, but it was hard to do that undetected, and Superman begged for discretion. “The Lab’s firewalls are easy enough to get past, but they have a closed internal system, nothing gets in or out unless you physically take equipment from the building. If you want this to stay under wraps I can't help you without a few days of work. And even then…” Mr. Terrific turned back to Clark with a deadeyed stare and a small shrug.

“Shoot,” Clark was rubbing his hand over his eyes as he started to walk back to the entrance of the marble vestibule, “Do me a favor, keep at it for a few days and let me know if anything changes?” 

“I’ll try, Superman,” Mr. Terrific yelled, now focused back on his screens, “but I'm not a bloodhound, I'm not sure I can sniff this one out. And there's little shit I'm not sure about.” Little did he know that his comment struck through Clark like a bolt of lightning, the realization dawning on him that he hasn't used all his resources.

 With a new idea in place, Clark took the envelope and shot off to the arctic circle. 

You felt small sitting alone on one side of a never ending conference table, a good 15 suits sat across on the other side, looking like one organism of contempt. They whispered to each other, humming like an engine revving up to run you over, and there you were, hoodie zipped up to your neck, hoping it would shield you from the impact. 

After a few minutes, which you're sure they planned to have you squirming, the man in the middle of it all spoke. His hair was white and thinning, thick glasses sat on his crinkled nose, the frames of which matched his pocket square and tie; he looked like every other man sitting beside him, “it’s needless to say we’re disappointed,” your name slipped from his mouth, running a shiver down your spine, the first time you heard your name said in weeks. It sounded venomous coming from him, every word did, “you hold such potential, and here you are, ruining your mind and body, defying the agreement you made.” He leaned back in his chair, the plush leather rolled back a bit, earning a small squeak that bounced around the room, “if we can't trust you to follow small agreements we both set, what else can’t we trust you with?” every set of eyes was trained on you now, almost rehearsed, “Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

The air in the room went still, his final question taking up more space than it should have. Suddenly, they were all waiting on you. You tried to keep your face as blank as possible, mentally wrapping your body with cord to keep it from shaking. Thinking about what they knew, you weighed your options for a response. They know something else has to be happening in your head. They know you went to the police your first day of your promotion, that nothing ever came out of it, no report, not notes. They know the first time you left the labs after you went to the library and dropped something off in a mailbox, and walked over to the daily planet but never went in. 

There was room to lie, but there had to be something they didn't want to hear to be believable. 

Inhaling a large breath, you tried to start small, something true. 

“When you offered me the job of chief R&D coder, I thought I would be working with your automated branch. programs for health robots and digital nurses, y’know?” you tried your best to keep eye contact, but it was hard to give each set on you equal attention, “I was over the moon,” you let out a sigh with a bittersweet smile, “I don't know if you're aware, but my mother needed help in her later years, and those beta tested automotive helpers i've seen at your conventions would have been a great asset to our family. It might have even saved her life.” you looked down at your hands, they had begun grasping at each other like old friends reuniting for the first time in years, looking for any form of comfort you could find, “But when I saw what you wanted me to do, what you’ve been having me do, it scared me. The first time I saw those… things we’ve been researching in the basement, I felt sick. I tried to go to the police with the files you gave me my first day, but they said I was crazy, that I was imagining this world where people were torn to shreds and built back up again. And oddly enough, the longer I thought about it, I started to feel grateful.” This caught many of the men watching you off guard. Whether they were surprised by your admission of trying to involve the MPD or your change of heart was unclear. You kept going, their visual shift of curiosity spurring you on, and after the first few you already told, the lies came easy. “The longer I thought about it, the more I realized I was being crazy. The work we have here, it’s important. The life we’re creating as a community will create a safer, more controlled world.” You sat up straighter in your chair, combed your fingers together and made a point to look at someone new with each word. “Ive spent the last few weeks pouring everything I have into these projects. I believe in the metahumans we’ll create. Strong, perfect beings with nothing but our sights in their minds. But I got lost in it quickly, this kind of dedication can get ahead of you, and it got ahead of me. The day I broke the health clause was the day I realized that though this work is important, my personal life is a vital part of my survival here. How can I program our subjects to want, to feel, if I neglect those feelings in myself? It was a breaking point for me, but it had me reach out to my sister for the first time in months, and if I hear back from her, I know a rekindling of our connection would only improve my morale here at the labs. Although that's still up in the air, no one really sends letters anymore.” you shrugged, earning a small chuckle from a few men on the other side of the mahogany moat that separated you. The only suit that seemed unsatisfied with your answers was the man in the middle. 

His eyes hadn't moved from you since you started talking, his scowl had remained firmly planted, the fluorescent lights in the conference room giving each line marking his frown a stark contrast to his pale, illuminated skin. 

“And there’s… nothing else?” his distrust radiated off him, you figured he made a business out of distrust and backstabbing, why would you be any different?

You figured everyone else was happy with your confessions and self-proclaimed loyalty, and most men in the room would be enough to keep you alive today. You would figure out how to survive tomorrow when it came. “No, nothing else,” you shook your head with a controlled earnestness you weren't aware you were capable of, “i failed you the other day, for that, i apologize. But nothing will keep me from progressing our code. Everyday I get closer to creating the future of our species, nothing will convince me that this work isn't vital.” you kept your eyes on his. As far as you were concerned the iced stare of the man across from you was the only gaze in the room. Convince yourself, convince him. 

After a beat, the man in the middle sighed in resignation. “Alright, there's no denying your abilities and knowledge of our projects are useful, but our trust in you has been damaged. In this business, trust is everything.” He looked around the room, eyeing his colleagues for support he knew he already had, “you are suspended for 5 business days without pay. We’ll see how the work continues in your absence. If we make steady progress, you will be terminated. If not, we will welcome you back with open arms and stricter stipulations. Is this clear?” you had half a nervous nod out before he continued, “please keep in mind that this offer we’re giving you is out of generosity and gratitude for what you have already given us. The progress made with you at the helm is far more drastic than your predecessor, but he was disposable. And as much of an improvement to him as you are, you are also disposable.” Your name slipped past his teeth for a final time, sounding more like a threat than anything he had said before. “We’re done. You may leave your badge at the front desk, have a restful week.”

It took all the restraint you had left to keep from laughing right there.

When you got home, you locked every bolt you had on your door, shoved your dresser in front of it, opened the window at the far side of your apartment and lit up a smoke. With every inhale you stared up at the brightest dot in the sky, unsure if it was a satellite or venus, and wondered what the hell being terminated meant in the eyes of S.T.A.R. labs. Though you were kidding yourself, you knew. 

Maybe you could get out of the country? Although S.T.A.R. labs has a facility on every continent. 

Maybe you could fake your death? But how could you get that together in 5 days?

Maybe–

“You know those things can kill you?” the man shouting below you cut off your brainstorming. He was in a white button up, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. His hair covered his forehead in a mop of black curls with thick glasses that met his bangs at his eyebrows. The stranger stood there with a white dog on a leash, which barked up at you. You swore the man was standing on his dog's tail to keep him from jumping up. 

You couldn't see him very well in the darkness, though from the second floor you could hear his dog panting between barks and his quiet attempts to hush his pet, “Maybe mind your own business?” for all you knew, this guy worked for S.T.A.R. labs, seeing you break your contract after apologizing for the same transgression hours ago, “And get your dog to stop yapping!” At this point, you didn't care, you just wanted it all to stop. 

“The smoke bothers him,” the man sighed out, shaking his head, “he can smell that stuff from a mile away, I swear,” 

Done with the conversation, you stubbed your cigarette and blew your last lungful of poison out the window, “there, happy?” 

“Thrilled!” the man smiled back with a genuine enthusiasm that left you feeling nauseous.

You closed the window and started to brush your teeth. The one part of cigarettes you couldn't stand, what they did to your pearls. You were a minute into scrubbing the smoke out of your canines when a playful knock came at your door. You nearly dropped your toothbrush. 

Weapons weren't really a specialty of yours, but creativity was an ally, and a frying pan could be useful. Armed with your cast iron skillet, you crept towards your door, looked into the peephole over the dresser and was surprised to see the man with the dog warped in the view of the fisheye glass. The barking of the mutt on the other side of the door was far louder than it was down on the pavement.

“Go away!” You huffed, “It's weird you came looking for my apartment!" 

“I–im sorry to bother you, miss,” your name coming from him sounded light, normal. Almost too normal for a second, though the fear of how he knew it struck quickly and had your knuckles on the skillet handle turn white, “my names Clark Kent, Lois Lane sent me,”

The way your eyes widened had your whole sense of vision change, shoving the dresser out of the way, unbolting every lock on your door as you opened it and pulled the man and his dog inside, “how does Lois Lane know about me?” you reset your locks and spin around in a panic. But when you really got a look at the man in front of you, the dilemma you were in seemed easy to forget.

‘Fuck me’ you thought, ‘hes cute.’ and he was. 

Clark Kent was attractive, distractingly attractive. He stood tall, not in a way that crowded you, but in a way that urged you to walk towards him for protection. His posture was relaxed yet polite, a gentle warmth radiated off of him that told you he knew this was your space, and that he had to earn his time with you. Clark shot you a small smile that had his sharp jawline turn soft, the lines framing his lips made his presence feel inviting. 

The whiplash from horror to whatever this was made you dizzy, staring at a stranger that was approaching you like a friend. and shockingly a loud part of you felt comfortable having him there, it all demanded questions. 

Little did you know that as he stood in your apartment, trying to keep Krypto from trashing the place, Clark Kent's thoughts were rather similar to yours. As you stood there, eyeing him down with your heart going a mile a minute, Clark felt an odd sense of peace. He had spent his whole life chasing after answers. What kind of man he was, how his powers fit into this world, how he could serve this planet with his abilities; every time he thought he found the answer to one question, a new one popped up in its place. There was always something more to do, more help to give, more answers to find(Lois taught him that); but standing there with you in front of him, his world and questions shrunk down the size of your apartment. If you were the sender, if you were scared because you tried to do the right thing, your paranoia became something strong in you. He saw a fighter in front of him, and as you continued your staring contest, his questions for this story became less about the papers and more about you.

“Im really sorry I scared you,” Clark's earnest words through your train of thought, “and this is going to sound strange, but do you have any raw meat in your fridge?” His question had an urgency in tone that only confused you more. You were starting to wonder if you were in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

 “Uh.. why?” your voice was quiet and scratchy, like you were speaking for the first time since waking up. Suddenly, you were feeling far more self conscious, realizing anyone who saw you would know you were a disaster. You wanted to send him back out and change your ratty sleep shirt, run your face under cool water, keep the puffiness down. But it was too late to change where you were.

“This is Krypto,” Clark gestured down to the hyper ball of fluff beneath him, clawing at your floors with eager restraint, his tongue nearly touching the linoleum while he panted, “he’s not very well trained, it might be a good idea to keep him busy while we talk. I don't want him to break anything, trust me,” Clark let out a humorless laugh and shook his head in disappointment. His voice had a hint of a drawl, it dripped from his words like honey falling from the comb. It had you wanting to jar it up and keep it in the pantry for times of comfort. That thought sent a wave of confusion through you. 

It was alarming how quickly you felt at ease with him, how hearing his voice lowered your heart rate, despite the reason for his presence. “How do you know Lois Lane?” you walked slowly to your fridge, pan still in your grip. “How does she know who I am?”  

Clark's eyes were still on you when the light of your refrigerator bounced off your frame. His eyes traced the lines of your face carefully as you looked for something to keep his dog dormant. The lines along your eyes built shadows the size of scars across your cheeks, the puff and irritated color of your eyelids suggested little sleep in recent days or violent sobbing. Perhaps both. Clark saw the fear and the instinct to stay on edge as you moved; as you looked at him, as you kept the door in sight and your skillet in hand.

Clark watched you throw Krypto a hamburger patty, jumping in your skin as he tore at the offering. You radiated something that screamed ‘all wrong’. like you were a hostage in your own home. He wondered who kept you in this state, and his wondering turned into something uglier. This instinct to make sure whoever made you this way couldn't keep doing it to you or anyone else.  

“Hello?” you prodded Clark lightly with your pan, his eyes had drifted elsewhere, though still in your direction. His tongue ran over his teeth in a frown; he was thinking of something that upset him. “Kent, right?” you poked at him again, finally regaining his focus, “how does Lois Lane know who I am?”

Clark blinked back to you, finding your figure standing a few feet away, eyes darting back and forth between his own, like you were trying to find something beyond him. 

“Well, that's the thing, she doesn't know who you are. She sent me out to find you,” your brows furrowed, and Clark sensed that response left you with more questions than answers. As you opened your mouth to speak, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his press pass and, to your surprise, a familiar manilla envelope, “I work with Lois at the Daily Planet, were you the one that sent her this?” his hand extended, not moving a step closer, he wanted you to come to him, not get cornered into a response. 

His badge swayed lightly on the lanyard, the envelope taking up the rest of Clark's hand. They found you, you were so careful and they found you anyway. “Did you see anyone watching you downstairs?” you asked quickly, your gaze trained on the contents of his grip.

“No.” His response was just as quick, his surety apparent.

“Did anyone follow you up here?”

“No.”

You walked back to the door, looking through the peephole once more. Your vision of the hallway was empty, “how do you know?” you looked back at him.

“I would know, I promise,” Clark nodded towards your couch, “can we sit? Why do you think I was followed?” 

“You can’t promise that,” you hissed, “why did you come here? Is the envelope not enough?”

Clark's eyes widened, “so you sent this?”

Your lips pinched together, trying to keep anything else from slipping out before you were ready. Walking closer to Clark, you held his press pass in your hand, looking at the photo, then looking at him.

You both stood there for a moment, the dim lights in your living room had you move a step closer to observe the man in front of you more thoroughly, but also to confirm the suspicion of the feeling in your gut. He looked confused, a little frazzled; his lips were parted slightly though he was breathing though his nose and his eyes stayed trained on your expression as you took him in. He looked vulnerable, and your eyebrows raised in amazement when you realized what the feeling in your gut was. 

You had butterflies. A crush on a man you met a minute ago.

Your pathetic streak continued.

You dropped his badge and moved over to the couch, collapsing to one end, “you might want to grab your dog another patty,” you nodded your head to his now empty handed pet, “this is gonna take some time. We both have explaining to do.” 

Clark followed your suggestion, throwing Krypo another slab of meat before walking slowly across the room to sit on the other end of the couch. He pulled a pad of paper and pencil from one of his apparently bottomless pants pockets and leaned towards you. You were willing to talk, he wouldn't take that for granted. 

“You sent those to Lios,” Clark pointed his pencil at the papers now residing on your coffee table, “how did you get them?” 

You huffed through your nose, and turned your head to the pack of reds next to you, “does your dog really hate smoke, or was that just your ice breaker?” 

Clark chuckled and shook his head, “no, he's not, but how else would I have gotten your attention?”

Your cigarette was already lined up in your teeth when you responded, “you could have knocked on my door?”

“You would have answered?” Clark's eyes followed your hand as you sparked your lighter and took your first drag. Chipped nail polish, all at the tips, blisters resided on the pads of your fingers. You were working with close hands regularly, but what for? Maybe a mechanic, seamstress, carpenter, casino dealer? Based on your behaviour, the last one felt most plausible to him.

You turned to see another cheeky smile coming for the reporter next to you, constituting a smirk of your own, “no, probably not.” you took another drag and draped your non-smoking hand over the back of the couch, posture becoming more relaxed. “How did you find me, anyway? I was careful.” 

“I know, it took forever to find you, I had to resort to an archaic method,” Clark joked and pointed over to the white furred lunatic that was throwing up scraps of beef with his nose and jumping to catch them. Jumping far higher than any dog should, you noted. “No return address, fingerprints… saliva,” Clark winced at his last word, the extent he goes to find answers often feels invasive when said out loud. It was a part of himself he wrestled with regularly, “Krypto here had to sniff you out. He's got an impressive nose, makes up for his lack of manners,” 

You decided to humor his answer, though you didn't believe it completely, you kept pressing, “does Lois know about your wonder-dog? Does she know you're here right now?” you kept your gaze locked on him, the cigarette barely leaving your mouth. 

“Lois trusts that I can handle these situations… delicately. She's a lot smarter than me, but she knows I have skills she doesn't. I'll bring her whatever you give me, she’ll trust that it's true. Then she’ll take that and bring back something better. We're partners in this, that doesn't come without faith.” the way he spoke about his job, if it felt foreign from your own. A system based on trust at the labs would get you killed. The Daily Planet sounded like a paradise in comparison. “Besides, i think the term ‘superdog’ fits Krypto more,” 

You snorted when the last thought tumbled out of Clark's mouth, though the rest of his explanation left an unorthodox curiosity in you. One you selfishly(or foolishly, take your pick) felt the need to ask about, “Lois Lane, she's your partner… only on this? You speak pretty highly of her for a colleague.” 

you tried to voice your inquiry as casually as possible. It was harmless, in a way. You probably wouldn't see this man again; hell, you might be dead before you got the chance. It was rare to find yourself wanting anything, but you liked his attention, and you wanted to forget about what waited for you outside your apartment for a minute. He had convinced you to talk based on kindness alone, a little flirting couldn't hurt, right?

The question had Clark choking on his next breath, his face growing warm at the change in your tone. When did you become so friendly? Why was his relationship with Lois important? And when did you start looking at him like that?

“Uh, n-no, we’re partners on a lot of projects,” Clark looked down at his shoes, but he felt your amused smile radiating from the other end of the couch, “Lois took me under her wing when I showed up at the Daily Planet. She helps me when I'm lost, kind of like my mentor." He took a deep inhale and faced you, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose before he spoke again, "I think we’re friends, we know a lot about each other. And we’d both like to know more about you,” his last statement came with that boyish smile that seemed encoded in his personality. You shook off the idea of him working like a machine, realizing the lab's work had buried itself in you more than you thought. 

If there was ever a time to reverse the damage you had done, it was now. 

You sighed, realizing you couldn't afford to want anything, it's just not in the hand you were dealt. You took a long drag, nearly reaching the filter before you spoke.

“Those papers, they're mine. It's part of the work I do at S.T.A.R labs,” your eyes found a home staring at your rug. The color faded from the years of sun passing through your window. You didn't doubt it saw the light more than you did. “The lab I work at is underground, the company is working towards cloning and programming their own metahumans. For what, I'm not sure, but they don't want me talking about it.” you stubbed out what was left of your cigarette and lit another. Clark wanted to take the pack from you, to convince you to stop poisoning yourself, but that was a battle he couldn't fight right now. If this is what you needed, he had to let you do it.

You hadn't realized you started shaking, and Clark could tell the nicotine had nothing to do with it. Your body temperature had risen, your heart beating at an irregular rate. When he zeroed in on your lungs, the breaths were shallow. The only deep ones you took were when you were inhaling smoke. It made sense, you had barely said a thing, but every word out of your mouth was an avalanche of evidence against S.T.A.R. labs, and a damning reason for your paranoid behavior. 

“You work there,” he started slowly, trying to stay calm and hide the scribbling of his pencil against the pad. the less noise he made, the better, “but you don't seem like you want to. Why are you still there?”

This time, you felt the tears boil to the surface before they came. Biting your lip to keep the sobs from slipping out; but the second you saw Clark, the earnest reporter with eyes that projected nothing but worry… it all came out.

You two talked for hours that night. You told him everything, the floodgates had opened and you couldn't stop. 

You told Clark how you hadn't expected your promotion, or what the new job had entailed. You told him about officer Alakai, how resigned he was; how the system built by the men who sent you away hours ago had taken any chance at justice you had. You told him about the nameless people in the tubes, how you watched lifeless clones get poked and prodded, and how you were sent the leftovers to study and improve. You told him about the cars that watched you, about your possible termination. You told him about your trust in what Lois had to say, how when you read her work you felt safer. The proof of people fighting for the truth was a far cry away from your own line of work. You told him how desperately you wanted to get out, and how you feared for your life.

Somewhere in all of it, you both had slipped to sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. Krypto, having gone through all the meat in your house, was laying belly up, lightly snoring. You occasionally reached out to rub his tummy. 

All the while, Clark kept writing; kept reassuring you that your identity would remain anonymous. Every time he did, you told him it didn't matter. They would know, it would be too coincidental for them not to. You told him if he wanted, he could publish your name and picture and your chances of staying alive would remain unchanged. You meant it as a joke, a bitter laugh coming out with a puff of smoke(you had nearly gone through the pack), and to your surprise, he gripped your hand and promised that you would be safe no matter what. 

Your knuckles felt warm under his palm. They steady reassurance he kept through the entire interview. And as much as you wanted to believe him, you couldn't, “you can't promise that,” you rolled your eyes, “you keep doing that shit, making promises to a stranger." you pulled your hand slowly from under his, savoring the brush of his fingertips against your wrist.

The longer you talked to Clark the more charmed and annoyed you became by him. He was sweet. So fucking sweet. It was easy to learn things about him from how he talked, from what he had shared with you. The interview felt less one sided as time went on. You learned he got the twang in his accent from Kansas, how his parents and their farm taught him the importance of hard work, caring for details, valuing life even when it's lost. He was a believer in justice, accountability, saving those who can't save themselves. 

It was cute, but a bit naive. Thinking everyone had a bit of good in them, it's just not a sustainable way to live. People hurt people, many times on purpose; but you know that even when someone has the best intentions, plans can still crash and burn and your fellow man can still betray you. 

Even when they don't mean to. 

“I’d hardly say we’re strangers now,” Clark leaned back and rested his head on the couch cushion, "I don't usually talk with strangers until five in the morning,” he took his glasses off and gently kneaded at the bridge of his nose. He once again adorned a goofy smile as he tilted his head to look back at you, his sunken eyes resembling yours more and more by the minute. The thought of him growing your tired traits made your heart sink. No one should have to grow exhausted from your problems. 

But he was right, you weren't strangers anymore, it felt stronger than that. 

You left your cigarette in the ashtray before leaning over and brushing the hair from his eyes, a bittersweet smile accompanying your gesture, “you should sleep, clark.” 

You were a bit too out of it to realize how you were affecting him, but Clark felt like he was ready to combust from the feeling of your hand, half-polished nails lightly scratching at his scalp. It felt electric when you touched him, your eyes unguarded and looking at him like his well being mattered. It had his pulse quicken, this softer side of you, but he should have seen this coming. This effect you had on him, it reared its head several times over your hours together. In quieter moments, when the confessions lightened up for a second so you could breathe; you asked about him, and he asked about you. 

He told you about his small high school, how the football team felt like family to him. You told Clark about growing up in Metropolis, a city so big you could never be alone and yet could still feel so lonely. He told you about feeling different his whole life, in ways he admitted he couldn't tell you. You told him about how your dad fucked off when you were 14(your words) because your mom was diagnosed with cancer. 

You told Clark about how your sister left when she turned 18; about skipping school so you could take your mom to chemo appointments, how she got hooked on oxy and turned to heroin when the tumor in her pancreas grew in spite of the doctor's predictions. 

You told this stranger how your mom died with a needle in her arm while you were at coding camp when you were 19. How you found her on the floor of your childhood bathroom a week later. 

You told him everything, like it was your last confession. 

And he listened, watched you as you talked, how the topics turned darker and more personal as you tried to forget about your current predicament. You told him all you knew was loss, and how you wanted to keep that from being the case for others. Clark listened to you recount cutting everyone out of your life, not that you had many people to begin with. Concerned professors, wary students. You were a national merit scholar who graduated college 2 years early, with no one to clap for you at graduation. 

Clark saw what they did to you, what S.T.A.R labs saw when you got recruited. They saw a brilliant mind they could run like a machine. Take your good intentions and twist them to fit their agenda. You were halfway through your story about how they recruited you when that realization dawned on him. He gripped the couch arm so hard, he would've broken it without the conscious effort to control himself.

Sometimes, it felt like he was living in a world of cardboard.

Clark saw how you listened, too. When it was his turn to share. He found himself telling you things he hadn't said to a living soul. Maybe Gary, once or twice. You listened as he told you that he sometimes got scared of himself, of his habits and strength. You nodded your head in recognition as he explained his pathological instinct to push things farther than they should go, and how he, trying to solve problems, often made bigger ones. 

He felt your genuine admiration as he told you about his life at the Daily Planet, how Metropolis took a long time to feel like home, how making friends is easy, but keeping them is far more difficult and painful for him. 

“But you're still doing it,” you said, leaning back against the sofa, “all that doubt, all that experience, and you still hold out hope and fight for the better. That's hard, but you do it. Thats fuckin’ impressive, Clark. You should take pride in that.” your admiration shouldn't have sent shockwaves through his system, but it did. Your attention on him felt like a high, filling his brain and flooding his body. He didn't know compliments could feel that good. 

“You could do it too,” Clark reassured, leaning closer, his voice soft as to not wake Krypto. “you tried to, you just landed in the wrong place.”

When he said that, you started to cry again, and the only time Clark left your side was to get you tissues, the gum from your purse, and a glass of water. 

No. You weren't strangers anymore. 

So there you were, two non-strangers sitting on the floor, exhausted.

Your hand was still resting against him when an idea popped into your head. You weren't one to make bold choices, but you hadn't been acting ordinary these days. So you asked the question that had rooted in your mind for the last few hours.

 “Come to bed with me?” The question was quiet but spoke volumes as your hand shifted from his forehead to cradle his jaw, softly directing his head to look at you. His stunned but not disgusted expression kept you going, "I don't want to be alone, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of not asking for the things I want.” 

Clark's mind was racing, but his body remained frozen. Had he heard you right? It almost felt like a dream, the way such odd questions in succession could feel ordinary, how he didn't even feel like questioning the situation he found himself in. 

You were beautiful, and you learned more about him that night than others find out in years, and you asked him to join you for the night. He didn't want to question it, but he knew he had to. This wasn't a dream, after all.

When he spoke, Clark's words came out in whispers, not moving as your face slowly started to lean in, "I'm not sure if this is what you want. your scared and–”

Your lips crashed into his, cutting off his words and silencing his concerns. You tasted like smoke and watermelon bubblegum. Clark could have sworn he felt a buzz from the nicotine leftover on your tongue as it swiped at his bottom lip. Clark, on the other hand, tasted like spearmint and something deeper, something chemical in him that brought out a subtle sweetness. 

So he's sweet everywhere. You noted and smiled lightly into the kiss. 

You pressed your weight forward as your hand combed through the hair on the nape of his neck, earning a gasp from Clark. That had his body jumping into action, trying to steady himself with a hand on your hip, leaning into your advances like a man starved. Opening his mouth to satiate your curiosity, you pulled him in closer, pressing against his chest and exploring the warmth behind his teeth. His attempts at retaliation were soft but persistent, his tongue swirling around yours and reversing the dynamic between you. You let out a whimper when his teeth lightly dragged along your tongue, reminding you that there were benefits to letting people in, allowing the chance for another person to surprise you.

And the way Clark Kent kissed, well, it surprised you.   

You nipped at his lower lip as you pulled away, looking down at your non-stranger. His pupils were blown, his chest heaved with attempts to regain air, and you smiled with a warmth you can only assume you contracted from his infectious charm. “Doing that, and seeing you like this is the only thing I'm sure I want.” You pressed your forehead to his, breath still catching up with you, “now the only question left is, do you want me?”

Clarks grip became lighter, not leaving your hip completely, but reducing pressure to rub small circles into your side, he chuckled softly, almost to himself, “I do, I promise,” there he goes again. “But this isn't how I want to do it. I don't want to be something you ask for only if you think your world is ending.” he pulled his head a bit to get a better look at your eyes. They were wide, remnants of tears still blinking on your lashes, the stress from lack of sleep more noticeable than the last time he checked. “Maybe sleep is the best advice for the both of us,” 

Your eyelids closed lightly as you sighed out your nose. He was right, of course he was. It was all too fast, and he was a creature of care. Your health seemed to be his priority, “would you still join me? I don't feel safe by myself,” you didn't know if Clark would say yes just to be polite, for all you knew, he had plants to water at home. But you were feeling selfish, you were feeling greedy; and under his gaze, you found yourself feeling safer than you had in weeks. You didn't want to say goodbye to him yet.

And luckily enough, Clark found himself feeling the same way. wanting to hold you, feel your heart slow as you found sleep, to wake up with you beside him when the sun came up. It was hard for him to justify wanting those things, to feel like he wasn't harping on someone desperate. But you asked for this, you said it and meant it. And when you looked at him so honestly, how could he ever think of denying you? 

“Alright, I'll join you,” Clark leaned into the nape of you neck and brushed at your ear with his nose, “but you're brushing your teeth first,”

You barked out a laugh a little too loud with Clark’ ear that close to your mouth, astounded he could chastise you with such a caring tone. You slapped a hand over your mouth as you tried to stand up, using his shoulders as leverage. Clark didn't miss how you griped at his muscles, but he was courteous enough to not mention it(It had nothing to do with how his ears started to heat up, no siree. He was normal and levelheaded about all of it, totally).

“I have an extra toothbrush if you want to freshen up,” you called as you stumbled your way towards your bathroom. Clark was close behind, making sure if you fell, he would be there to catch you.

“Are you asking me to move in already?” Clark joked, "I thought we were strangers,” 

You watched in your mirror how he leaned against the open door frame of the bathroom, arms crossed. He took up the entire doorway, and you knew you were staring, but you didn't stop. 

“Nah, I only ask people to move in after I know the dick is good, not just in theory,” as the steady rhythm of you scrubbing your teeth took over the room, Clark wondered if the ground could swallow him whole. 

He looked away, finding the trim of your baseboards interesting, clearing his throat, “you got a theory, huh?” 

You spat the toothpaste into the sink and nodded your head, turning around and leaning against the basin, "I mean, based on how your making me wait for it, I assume it's quite the showstopper,” you padded out of the bathroom, squeezing past the statue of a man frozen in place. 

“Are you always this forward?” he called, walking into the bathroom himself and finding your extra toothbrush behind the door of your medicine cabinet. “Or am I just special?” 

You were glad Clark couldn't see the smile splitting across your face as you picked up your nearly empty pack of reds. The last cigarette and your contingency plan rattled around inside the carton.

“Id say it has more to do with the unique situation we find ourselves in. though you truly are like no one I've ever met,” walking back to the bathroom, you mirror Clark's former position. Leaning against the door and watching him bend over the sink to spit out the last of the toothpaste. It did feel oddly domestic, a feeling unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

His eyes met yours in the mirror, staying locked on each other for a second before his eyes caught sight of the carton in your hand. “Are you really about to ruin all your hard work from a second ago?” 

He raised an eyebrow and turned towards you. You shook your head lightly and held your hand out to him. “This is in case I don't see you when I wake up. I want you to have this,” 

Clark looked into the contents of the pack you were holding, and he saw it. The inside of the device next to your last cigarette. The shape of a lighter, the wiring of a usb drive. You still had more to give him, and his heart swelled at your discretion. 

Clark knew what this was, but he couldn't tell you how. Opting to try and get you to tell him yourself, "I don't smoke.” 

“No, of course you don't," you smiled back at his furrowed expression, “but you'll need this, I promise,” you shook the carton a bit, relieved when Clark took it with caution, like the cardboard would dissolve in his hand.

“Now who's making promises?” he tucked the pack into his shirt pocket before he started unbuttoning the fabric. Your mouth went dry as his shirt fell from his shoulders and he hung it on the back of your bathroom door.

“Jesus Christ man, you're trying to kill me before S.T.A.R. labs does,” you started walking backwards towards your bedroom, not taking your eyes off of Clark for a second.

“Thats’s not funny,” Clark chastised, though the amused grin on his face indicated otherwise. As embarrassing as it was, he really liked your blatant attention. You were starting to hide fewer and fewer things from him, and it made Clark wonder if he could start hiding less and less from you. “So… bedtime?"

You nodded, "I'm starting to wonder if we’ll both fit.” 

Clark pulled back your comforter and sat down on the left side of your bed. You watched him get comfortable like it this was the only place he should be, “you could always just lie on top of me if it's that big of an issue,”

“I know you're joking, but don't tempt me,” you warned, sliding in next to him on the right side.

“Im not joking.”

You now lay face to face with a man who you didn't know a few hours ago, his impatient dog still snoring in the next room. Heat radiated off of Clark, the warmth trapped under your sheets, you prayed it still lingered when he left. 

“You smell like my toothpaste,” you whispered, eyelids growing heavy. You fought to keep them open just a bit longer.

“Go to sleep,” Clark murmured back, exhaustion taking over his body. Holding onto your waist and pulling him closer to him was the last thing he remembered before darkness took over. 

You woke up at 9 a.m. with an arm around your waist and the sound of shredding metal coming from your kitchen. You shot up, causing Clark to stir beside you, hair somehow even more fluffed up than it was the night before.

“Clark, someone's out there,” you whispered, shaking him violently.

Clark propped himself up on his forearms and craned his neck towards the door, still feeling the effects of sleep. He squinted a bit before his eyebrows shot up and he leapt out of bed at an inhumane speed, “Krypto!” 

“The fuck-,” you flipped your covers over and rushed through your now open door to the kitchen. You didn't know what shocked you more, the fact that a dog was tunneling through your refrigerator or that Clark knew what he was doing with a door blocking his vision. “Oh, my security deposit is so fuckin’ gone. Kent!”

Clark took the cue and grabbed his dog by the scruff of his neck, moving Krypo to lay on the floor, “You can't do this,” Clark used his free hand to point to the fridge. The dog, unaware of his scolding, continued to smile and pant up at him, “this isn't our house, boy! Do you know how rude this is?” 

“Why are you not surprised by your dog's ability to break through metal?” you stood next to your broken appliance, taking a closer look at the claw marks that cut through the door. The cold air was disappearing, the wiring clearly gnawed through. “Clark, how did you know he did this before seeing it? Has he done this before?” 

“Yeah, he's torn my place to literal shreds before,” Clark answered absentmindedly, still trying to keep Krypto from flying though the roof, “I should've known he would do this, but I didn't plan for us to stay this long.” he started to rush his words. Talking to himself, more than anything, "I thought we would be here for three hours at most, then we started talking and then- oh gosh- you kissed me and I was a goner I didn't even think about-”

“Clark, how can he do this?” you cut through his words, crouching down to his level. He finally looked up from his dog to you with a face full of guilt. It made your heart swell. “Dont hate yourself, last night didn’t go as anyone expected. im just curious about this… superdog of yours,” you sat down on the floor, scratching behind Krypros ears. As if he recognized you, Krypto rolled over, giving you an expecting look.

You scratched at his stomach and shot Clark a similar gaze of expectation, waiting for an answer.

Around the third hour of talking the night prior– around the time he should have left– Clark decided he would tell you he was superman. Not then, but soon. He liked you, he respected you, he wanted to get to know you better for as long as he could. And he wanted you to know him completely. Clark wanted your opinion on superman, he wanted you to ask for his help, he wanted to see the look on your face when he told you he could fly. You were hard to predict, and that's why he wanted you to know so badly. 

Clark Kent was down so heckin bad. 

To have the opportunity present itself, it felt like an act of God.

“Krypto’s from my home planet, we have extra strengths here,” Clark smiled shyly, watching the gears turn in your head.

His smile turned to entertainment as he saw it click.

“Krypto… Krypton,” you looked from Clarks dog to Clark, astonished, “you’re– oh my god im so fuckin stupid,” you slapped you palms to your eyes, groaning, trying to reboot your system, “oh my god, of course you are, you look just like him–you,” your palms slide down your face as you put more and more of the pieces together. Clark had joined you and Krypto on the floor, he started to laugh lightly as you malfunctioned, “Holy shit, that's right! You're the Daily Planet guy that gets all those quotes from Superman! Jesus Christ, am i blind? Does everyone at your job know? they must, right?” 

Clark picked Krypto up and held him in his lap, holding him hostage in the politest way possible, “Only Lois,” Clark shook his head, his boyish smile lining his features yet again. ““You only see the resemblance now because I'm not wearing my glasses, it's tech that tricks your perception a bit. Also from home,” his gaze shot upwards. And it was there that you realized that Clark Kent was exactly the same in the daylight: sweet, thoughtful, and distractingly attractive. 

It made sense that he was from another planet. 

“That fear you were talking about last night,” you said, “it was heavier than you let on. I can't imagine how hard it must be to be as gentle as you are.”

Clark turned his head back to you, his smile becoming bittersweet, "I try to be, but sometimes there are mistakes, miscalculations. It's hard.”

You slide over next to him, nudging his shoulder, “But you still do it. You recognize your power and you use them with integrity. That's kind of crazy, if you think about it.” you chuckled, "Believe me, I know what a misuse of power looks like; we need as much benevolent strength as we can get. That's you, Clark.” you poke his bare chest, forgetting that's how he went to sleep.

But it all came back to you then. with context. 

“Superman saw me in my ratty ass pj’s,” you murmured to yourself. Clark shot out a bark of bubbly laughter. “Did I really make out with superman last night?” you turn to Clark, who was still shaking with humor. “And I asked if you wanted to fuck me, oh my god. Actually, S.T.A.R. labs, if your watching me, you can just take me out right now–”

“Dont joke like that,” Clark chastised, calling your name as you stood up and quickly made your way to your bedroom, slamming the door behind you, “Nothings different, i wanted to, its fine-” 

Clark cut himself off when he saw that you closed your door to change your clothes. He blinked and spun around, heat creeping to his face, cursing his Xray vision.

Sometimes he didn't know how to turn it off. 

He turned back to look at you when he heard your door open, cheeks still on fire. You, now in a t-shirt and boot cut jeans, were standing there with his shirt, notebook, and press pass in hand, “You wanted to, huh?” 

Cark took his shirt as you knelt down to pet Krypto, giving him a moment to slip his arms through his sleeves and buttoning up. “I said I did, didn't I?" Clark murmured at his feet. He found it hard to look at your face. The amusement in your voice was already overwhelming.

“You promised you did.” you said with the dumbest grin you've ever had. “Do you still?” 

Clark nodded, “more than before,”

“Really?”

“Its nice to see your face in the daylight. I was wondering.”

“Wondering what?” you stood up, passing Krypto back to his guardian when his items were back in their respective pockets.

“How happy I would be when you looked at me properly,” Clark hoisted his dog in one arm, meeting your eyes once more. “I didn't know I could feel like this with a stranger."

Suddenly you found yourself feeling as shy as Clark did earlier, but you kept his gaze on his, “We’re not strangers anymore, Clark."  

And like the night before, you two stood there, staring in silence; the only sounds coming from Krytos wagging tail hitting Clark's side, and the slow wheezing of your dying kitchen appliance. His eyes were blue, not like ice, like a lake in the summer. Sparkling, inviting, assuring you that the water’s fine, it was warmed up by the sun. a deep blue you could find yourself sinking into. 

Then there was a third sound, Krypto barking at Clark with urgency. The man in question looked down with recognition, and then back to you with a look of apology. “He has to go to the bathroom. It's actually kind of a miracle he hasn't gone already,” he looked around the room, as if to double check. “Do you think you'll be okay for a few minutes? I'll be back in a jiff, i promi-” 

You cut him off once more by tugging at his collar and pulling him down for a kiss. It was quick but filled with intention, like you were trying to send a message. Clark didn't hesitate to respond this time, using his free hand to hold you by the waist, angling his body to keep Krypto out of it. Morning breath be damned, you swore it was one of the best kisses of your life.

You pulled away as quickly as you came, “you promise, I know. I believe you. Go walk your dog, man.” 

Clark’s grin grew so wide you were worried his jaw would fall off. He was right, it felt good to have him look at you in the daylight.

“Superman, actually.”

“Just go walk him, dumbass.”  

Your door clicked shut, your three locks clicked after it. You stood with your back to the door, leaning your whole body weight on it. The smile on your face had not dissipated, because the room still had the energy of the moment before floating around. 

This was good. This was amazing.

Not just because Clark Kent was a trusted employee of Lois Lane, not because he had your flashdrive, not because he was Superman. but because Clark Kent looked at you in a way that made you feel stupid. And for some fuckin reason, you made him feel stupid, too. His lips were soft and eager, and you couldn't remember that last time a kiss left your lips prickling with the electricity of ‘what’s next?’

You would have stayed that way, pressed against the door, waiting with a smile, hopeful for the future; but that's not how your life tends to go. It's never that easy.

The far more likely scenario happened, the one you were expecting last night. Something heavy was thrown through your bedroom window, something emanating teargas that filled the apartment far too quickly. 

They had come for you, of course they had.

Your eyes began to sting as you grasped for your phone, rushing to find the contact you made weeks ago. S.T.A.R. labs smoking you out, and as much as you knew you were falling into their trap, you tugged the door open and rushed down the hall. Tossing your phone back into your apartment, gasping for a clean breath with the dial tone still ringing. The second you turned the corner, everything went black.

Clark knew he shouldn't have stopped for bagels. He knew it would add more time to his absence, but Krypto ate all your food and he figured it had been awhile since someone had taken care of you. And Clark knew you wouldn't take care of yourself. He walked back with food in his grip and a spring in his step, already imagining the smile on your face when you saw that breakfast came back with him. 

As usual, his best intentions came to bite him in the neck.

As soon as your open door came into his field of vision, his joy was quickly replaced with panic. He dropped Krypto's leash and left him to dive into the bagels as Clark ran into your apartment to find it empty, turned over, and filled with a thinning smog. Your keys and wallet were all still there, but your laptop was missing from your coffee table. Your phone was laying in the middle of the floor lit up with your contacts page.

“Dont move,” a voice behind him spoke sternly, “put your hands behind your head and get on your knees.”

Clark shot his hands up and turned around before lowering himself to the ground. The man in front of him was in uniform, body camera on, and his gun drawn.

“How do you know the woman in this apartment?” The officer's voice was deep, heavy with distrust, but Clark heard a tremor being masked in it all. 

“Im her friend,” he started slowly, “my name is Clark Kent, I was bringing her breakfast. I think she was abducted.”

The officer sighed and holstered his gun, “do you have I.D. on you?”

Clark nodded quickly and fumbled for his press pass, "I think her company did this to her–”

“S.T.A.R. labs, I know,” the officer, whose badge read Alakai, looked over Clark's pass and handed it back, “she came to me a few weeks ago, I told her this could happen if she kept going. She called me.” 

“You talked to her?”

Alakai shook his head, “no one was on the line, but it makes sense with this scene.” He walked through your apartment slowly, pointing his camera at the state of your home. “I called for backup. We couldn't do anything with the papers she brought us last month, but this is now an abduction case. We don't need a warrant for this investigation,” Alakai offered Clark a hand up, and as soon as he was on his feet, he was out the door. 

“Im going to try to get a camera crew down there,” he called out, grabbing Krypro's leash, "I don't want any funny business.”

Clark left the building and rounded the corner, he would regret flying without his suit later, but he had to be quick. He shot off to the fortress, dropped Krypo off, gave him a pat on the head, and flew back in a new outfit. 

Running into the Daily Planet, Clark was visibly sweating. The second Lois caught a glance of droplets on his forehead, she knew he had something good to give her. 

The stakes of the situation were what she wasn't prepared for. 

“She just gave these to you?” Lois rushed after Clark after he slapped the drive on her desk and turned on his heel. 

He tried his best to explain quickly. How he found you, what your job was, how you were in trouble. Lois took it in stride, knowing her lingering questions could wait.

“Not exactly.” Clark pressed the button for the elevator, his hand tapping against his leg for an anxious outlet, “it took awhile for her to trust me enough. Makes sense given what's happened,” the door slid open with a ding! Clark stepped inside, Lois following him in. 

“And our buddy’s gonna do something about it?” she whispered at him, there were a few other people in the elevator; albeit, caught up in their own worlds. 

“She’s probably scared,” Clark justified, though he doubted Lois needed much convincing on this, “and she thought I was coming back. I promised.”

Lois eyed Clark with suspicion, quickly turning to intense disappointment. “Oh my god, Clark, you can’t sleep with a source!” she hissed through her teeth. Her attempt at secrecy was fruitless, a few heads in the elevator turned at the sound of a scandal.

“I didn’t!” Clark kept the hushed tone, a bit offended. The elevator reached the ground floor, “but… she matters. I care about her, and if it was anybody else, I would still do this.”

Lois shook her head with a smirk, "I don't doubt that. I'm sending Jimmy and 2 camera techs to the labs, he's actually excited to do some field work.” She followed her protégé off the elevator, Clark nodding absentmindedly. “And you guys better promise to stay PG until the exposé is published, you hear me?”

“Got it!”

Clark rushed out the lobby and around the corner before he shot off to your facility.

He just prayed that's where you were.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was the smell. It was a combination of sterile cleaning products, dust that lingered on the vents, and cryogenic fluid. It smelled so fucking familiar. Opening your eyes, you found yourself staring at your monitors, the woman you were used to being parallel with was gone. A small creature resembling a humanoid lizard had taken her place. You tried to reach out, try to confirm where you were, but your hands were zip tied to the arms of your chair. Your legs had a matching set around the footrest.

“Where is she?” you croaked out. Not sure if anyone was around to hear you. 

You were surprised you weren't dead. When the reality of your abduction set in, you expected the next thing you would see was the barrel of a gun, maybe a silencer if they wanted to keep it neat, surrounded by tarps. You didn't consider that they would bring you back to work.

“Who were you expecting?” a cold voice rang behind you, the scratched baritone rang across the steel walls on one end of the room and landed flat against the concrete walls on the other. You recognized it, you had heard it only yesterday.

“Man in the middle?” you asked, “Is that you?”

“Mr. Slate.” He said simply. His tailored frame walked into your field of vision, sitting at the edge of your desk. He refused to bend down to your level and you refused to look up at him. You stayed looking forward, you stayed silent. He continued, “Quite the trick you pulled yesterday. Pandering to us. Tell me, where did you learn to lie so well?”

Your eyes stayed on the creature ahead of you, your mouth stuffed with cotton and sewn shut. 

Slate took a sharp inhale through his nose, amused by your insolence.

“When my grandfather founded this research organization, his philosophy was very similar to that shit you spewed yesterday.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked around your desk. He took his time weaving through the cryogenic vessels, admiring his legacy. “Building a future he could control, creating perfection out of imperfect beings. If he saw all of this though,” he waved to the tubes, "I'm honestly not sure if he would think his work had gone too far.”

Knowing he was enjoying himself too much, you broke your silence. “Where’s the woman you had in there before?”

“What woman?”

“5’ 6”, redhead, muscle mass always under 30%,” you listed off everything you could remember about her: mechanics, wiring. It made you feel like a monster. “You had me pump her full of norepinephrine, you guys wanted her angry.”

Your tone became whiny at his silence. Slate was losing patience as fast as you were, “I don't concern myself with every test we have down here. She's probably incinerated at this point.” 

Your eyes closed in resignation, your heart dropped to your stomach. Of course they killed her. Hell, they would just grow her anew, stuff her with shit no one should be near and kill her again when it didn't work out. If at first you don't succeed… 

“Dont cry for her,” Slate reprimanded, spotting the water littering your lashes, “whatever you thought you saw in that woman, it wasn't real. She was a failed hypothesis, and with your help, we can take what we learned from her failure and build something better.”

Slate sat back down at your desk, this time moving your keyboard and placing himself in front of you. “We can look past your transgressions. The smoking, the lies, spending the night with the reporter. A very stupid move, by the way. You think a correspondent in print media will stop all we've done?” your blood ran cold. You knew they were watching, but god, it was humiliating to hear out loud. Slate carried on, fueling his own ego as he ramped up to his final request. “No, as it turns out. The only thing blocking our progress was your suspension.”

He moved for the last time, sliding your keyboard back to its rightful place in front of you. 

“Your coworkers spent the last twelve hours trying to figure out how the fuck your system works. You have very complicated measures in place, they had no idea they were draining the tubes though your sequences until there were visible level drops in them. I have to admit, I respect your dedication to secrecy, whether you'd like to hear that or not.”

You didn't like hearing it. You didn't like where this was all going. As ashamed as you were to realize it, it was true that death was a consequence you could look forward to. It would be final, all of this would have been over. But Slate wasn't trying to kill you, he was trying to keep you here for as long as you remained useful. And he was telling you your value.

“Heres what's going to happen. You're going to stay here, you're going to keep working on the experiments assigned to you.” Slate said all this as he dug into his pocket and slowly unfolded a small hunting knife. You flinched as he moved closer to you. “You’ll never see the sun again, and the day you fulfill all projects, or teach someone to do them better, we’ll put you out of your misery.”

The serrated edge of his knife cut through the plastic restraining your wrists. It could be so easy just to reach out and grab it, the gleam of the polished blade started to glimmer like hope…

“And if you think of doing something else ridiculous, if you refuse to do your job, we can always contact your sister and bring her down to motivate you. Did you know she has a son now?” 

You turned your head to face Slate for the first time, scanning his face for any clue that might tell you the validity of his statement. Curious, desperate; that's how he wanted you, on the edge of your seat.

“No, of course you didn't, you haven't spoken to Angela in years.” Slate chuckled as he folded his knife back down and rolled you over to your monitors, “she has a lovely little house in New Jersey. Yellow with a sage green trim. My best inquirer said she makes a killer cup of coffee.”

Any thought you had to get out of the lab disappeared as white-hot rage bubbled through your system. Your attempts to fight back were pathetic, trying to swivel around and hop closer to the architect of your biggest fear. Fears you didn't even know you had. 

“You fucking bastard, dont you dare touch her! You hear me? i’ll fucking kill you!”

“Thats adaroble, but so very untrue,” Slate shook his head, a pitying smile on his thin lips. “You don't want me to interfere with Angela's life?” he turned you back to your desk and pushed you in so hard the edge hit your ribs. He leaned down you your ear, wrinkled hands clutching your hunched shoulders, “Do your fucking job.”

He gave you a harsh pat on the back before walking out of the lab.

And there you sat, plastic digging into your ankles, weighing your options. They had your family– and fuck– Angela had a kid. Of course she did, she always wanted to be a mother, not that she had much care for the one she had. Your mind shot back to the tea parties she begged you to be a part of, introducing her teddy bear as her kid, asking if her “aunt” would be able to refill the cup. ‘She’s a baby, she could burn herself.’ Angela always reminded you how delicate younger people could be. 

Now you felt too much like that teddy bear: patronized, stuck to your seat, this close to a fire that could burn not just you, but family you've never met.

It broke your heart that you would never get to. 

But Slate never mentioned the drive, and he never mentioned Clark's secret. You had checked your apartment for bugs when you got home, the labs had ample time to plant some. You found nothing, but that didn't hinder your suspicions. But now, you knew they didn't have audio, they didn't hear your conversations. 

And Clark would have seen the mess they left behind in your abduction. You knew he came back, he wouldn't have promised otherwise. Superman knew you were missing, Lois Lane would soon know everything you did, and S.T.A.R labs and Slate seemed to be none the wiser. 

You were going to die, but there was a good chance Clark could help your sister and her family before Slate got to them. 

And just like that, a new plan formed in your mind. You were going to break everything.

Your monitors lit up, unsurprised to see you back. It didn't shock you that the others couldn't see past your systems without tripping safeguards, you were a careful person. Your skills in coding were underutilized at the labs, putting you in with the bioweapons division. You were a hacker, you could build worlds with a few lines of directives. Or you could topple empires from the bedrock. 

Within minutes, you were inside the building's internal alarm system. The sprinklers, the lights, the elevators, you owned it all. Keeping those directives to one monitor, you focused your work on the tubes in front of you.

The fluid they kept these people in, it was expensive. You saw on a revenue report two weeks ago that it cost $3,200 an ounce to produce. It would be a huge dent in the company's budget to lose any of it, and you were about to realize all of it.

But you had to get your legs free first. Chaos was often about timing, cascading failures caused the most damage when the plane was 30,000 feet in the air. At this point, you were still on the ground. You had to cut yourself loose. 

You rolled around your desk, clutching to the wood for leverage, they lab had no pens, no blades, the fuckers cleared out the sharp objects before you came back. But there had to be something.

Angela's voice rang in your ears. C’mon bitch, get creative. 

You gave yourself a resounding push, rolling over to the appliance table. Materials used to patch up physical malfunctions. Scanning the contents, you lit up when you found thin copper wire.

Jackpot. 

You ran the wire back and forth against your ties until they snapped loose, the blood rushing back to your feet. You stayed sitting while they woke up, rolling back to your monitors all queued for your suicide mission.

Showtime. 

With a few strokes of your keys, the lights above you turned red, a blaring siren echoed throughout the basements, and the glowing basins before you started to drain slosh all over the floors.

You unlocked the large doors holding you hostage, grabbed your laptop that had been left for you, and started to dash for the exit. 

The alarm you triggered was for a chemical leak. An emergency that demanded evacuation. A monotone voice rang out from the ceiling. 

Attention, a malfunction has caused a toxic gas to spread past its holding, please make your way outside in an orderly fashion. 

Anyone who had the lab's schematics in front of them knew it was bullshit, but you made it so no one could shut the alarm down or take over the PA system to correct the warning. 

Everyone else was rushing with a panic, including the guards taking station outside your lab. They would be radioed soon, told of the trick, being berated to see where you had gone. But you figured you had a 30 second window, and you would use that time wisely. Everyone was heading for the stairs, running up as fast as they could; you grabbed a lab coat hanging off the back of a chair and joined the crowd. Two stories up, the entire building shook. Everyone around you screamed and got down, and you joined them. That wasn't you.

For a moment you thought back to the tubes. Did they all wake up, were they tearing the labs down? It wouldn't be the worst thing, but it might cause a much larger problem. One that could hurt the innocent.

Against your better judgement, against everything screaming in your head to get out, you started to run back down to your floor. 

You learned quickly that the creatures weren't conscious yet, hallways leading to your lab undamaged. You also learned that Slate and 4 armed guards were waiting for you. You heard him before you rounded the corner, his once teasing tone filled with panicked contempt, “Find her! I want that cunt’s head on a fucking stick!” you heard objects being thrown alongside a hurried chant of yes sir! Boots were hitting the ground and you were out of time. 

Another rattle to the building hit, with the ceiling bursting open and a blur of red and blue coming down. “Y’know, you shouldn't talk about people that way, Mr. Slate.” 

His tone was one of genuine suggestion, and the second you heard it your heart fluttered. He came for you, of course he did. Your head peaked from behind the corner and as if he had a sixth sense, Clark turned around to meet your eyes. 

Goddamn, he really was Superman. 

“There she is, fucking fire!” Slate pointed towards you, screaming like a spoiled child, completely ignoring the superhero in the middle of it all. Shots rang out as you ducked back behind the wall and covered your ears, shrapnel nicking your clothes and skin. 

Before the next round went off a gust of wind blew through Slate's army, Clark speeding by and taking the automatic weapons from their grip. 

“You should know, Mr. Slate,” Clark started, bending the guns in his grip, “Local and state police are outside, your employees are rushing out the front door, and a camera crew is covering it all, more undoubtedly on their way.” Clark's smile made its way up to his eyes, the early starting of crows feet becoming prominent. “And the only way she's leaving is with me, alive.” 

“Shut the fuck up you goddamn alien!” Slate looked about ready to pull his hair out. You watched his breakdown as you came out of hiding, taking your place behind the man who had done nothing but fulfill his promises. “You can't stop this! Nothing has changed! I’m the fucking future!” 

His grandiose claims left you rolling your eyes as you took a step forward. You were starting to wonder if all billionaires acted this way. “Angela, you have her address. I want it,” your eyes stayed on him as Slate's head shot to your direction.

He started to rush towards you, Clark taking a step forward but you held your hand up. “You bitch, you'll never see her again. You sister, your nephew, they're going to die. I promise you.” Slate was an inch from your face, trying his best to intimidate, but all you saw now was a man who was told his whole life that money was power. This was a man who didn't like losing, and you had won. His temper tantrum was a flagship of your victory. 

“Superman?” you called playfully behind you, “could you please take his phone?” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Clark smiled at you, eyes meeting for a quick moment. His hand touched your back gently as he walked in front of you, giving a small squeeze to communicate, I'm glad you're okay. He leaned into Slate's ear. “You could hand it to me, or I could shake it out of you.” 

The man from the middle kept his eyes on you, nostrils flaring, teeth grinding against each other. It reminded you of your time at the police station, outrage slowly melting into resignation. Slate was entitled, but he wasn't stupid. Reality was setting in and his company just got tanked by some girl with a laptop and a being with power beyond his wealth. 

With a huff, Slate handed you his phone, and Clark held him by the wrists and began to walk him towards the elevators. You walked with him. 

“Hey, would you be able to release the lockdown?” he asked you, a shine of admiration in his eyes, "I don't really want to fly him up there.”

You blinked, forgetting for a moment the chaos you caused. “Oh! Um, yeah, I can. Sorry,” you typed on your laptop hurriedly, a bit embarrassed as the blaring overhead stopped.

“Dont be sorry,” Clark reassured, pressing the button to go up, “It’s insane you did all that from a computer.” 

You both walked through the elevator doors when they opened, Clark dragging a now more reluctant Slate in. The way Clark looked at you, like he was sincerely curious and amazed as to how you did it, had you feeling the butterflies in your gut from yesterday. With or without the suit, Clark Kent still looked at you like you were far out of his league. 

“It wasn't too hard actually, I was already in the network, so I just had to open a new browser and put in Slate’s IP address and port number,” you explained, “those were easy to find, too. Seriously man, what kind of password is your birthday?”

Slate stayed silent, but his posture shrunk a bit.

“Once my monitor thought I was him, it wasn't hard to own the system.” 

Clark's smile was all teeth and sunshine as you explained, "you're absolutely remarkable, you know that?”

God, his happiness was contagious, "I was told a long time ago, but it's nice to hear it said now.”

“I’ll just have to keep reminding you,”

you two kept looking at each other like idiots as the elevator reached the ground floor. “That’d be nice,” 

“Oh my god, shut up!” Slate whined as he was pushed out the doors.

“You shut up,” you shot back, "you're going to jail.” 

Clark's laughter bubbled up as the three of you walked down the steps of the labs, your vision caught officer Alakai among the uniforms. You sent him a nod of gratitude, he sent you one right back. 

“Excuse me,” you heard your name called out in the crowd. Behind the cameras and a gangly ginger boy, a dark haired woman pushed to the forefront, “Lois Lane, Daily Planet. I've been waiting to meet you,” she stuck out her hand with a cheery grin. You took it without hesitation. 

“The feelings’ mutual, as I'm sure you know,” you assured, “and as much as I would love to talk to you, it's gonna have to wait.” 

You eyed Slate as Clark lowered his head into the back of a cop car. Pulling his phone out of your pocket, you took a wild guess and put his birthday in as his passcode. It unlocked. 

“Hey, Superman!” you ran up to him, waving to the gutless man in cuffs as he was carted off, “could you give me a ride to… Washington Township in Jersey?”  

“Not a problem,” he grinned, hoisting you up by the waist and wrapping your arms around his neck, “hold on.” 

You wouldn't dream of letting go as he shot off into the sky. 

As much as you hated to admit it, Slate was right. Angela had a lovely house. She was shocked to find you in the front yard, even more shocked by your company. Clark nodded to you and then flew back up, going to help with the mess you made. 

He checked the perimeter before he left, telling you no one was hiding in the bushes. He was so thoughtful, it had you swooning unironically. 

You sat in your sister’s kitchen. Her son, William, was at camp for the day, so it was just you and her at the table. She had let you in, and a few hours of explanation later, you still sat, now with cold coffee in your cups. 

“Im kind of glad he's not here,” you remarked, "I don't want his first impression of me to be this.” you gestured down to yourself: covered in debris, small cuts littering your face and body. You looked like a disaster, which, to be fair, you were.

Angela nodded, still processing all you told her. 

“So, the man checking out the gas line, he would have killed us.” It wasn't a question. She was letting reality hang in the air, “Because of you.” 

“Because of them.” you clarified. Angela did this, even as a kid. The world would hurt her, and she would find a person close to take that pain out on. It happened with her old boyfriends, with your mother, with you, and now it was happening again. “I didn't even know where you were, or that you had a kid. Thanks for that, by the way.” 

You loved your sister, you would sooner die than have anything happen to her. But fuck, years of resentment and unsaid regrets bubbled to the surface quickly. 

“I didn't tell you about Will because your mistakes always backfire on me.” Angela didn't back down, “And I would be damned if your mistakes blew back to my son.”

“Dad leaving wasn't my fault,” you got out through gritted teeth, “mom getting sick wasn't my fault. But if you were there, maybe her death could have been prevented. But she's gone now, and that's on you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” she spit out your name like a curse, “She was dying either way. I saw her Xrays after you cleaned out the place. She was a fucking goner, at least she went out on her own terms.”

“With a needle in her arm? To be found a week later by her kid? You think that’s how she wanted to die?”

Angela held her cup of coffee to her lips and shrugged, “the woman was a mystery.” 

“She’s only a mystery to you because you weren't there!” you slapped the table, and winced at the sting of contact. 

All the shit you had been through today, and this was somehow the most taxing.

Angela stayed silent, watching for your mood. She was always better at reading people than you were, sometimes it made you jealous how she could control a room with a look.

You sighed, “Look, I didn't come here to fight about mom, or the fact that you have a son that I didn't know about. I came here because you're potentially in danger. I think it would be safest for you to take Will and find someplace to hide, just for a month or two.” Angela opened her mouth to protest, but you stood up before she could. “I have a new friend in law enforcement, he can contact the local PD here, help you with protection. I love you Angela, I don't want you or Will to get hurt.” you found a pad of paper on her kitchen counter, scribbling your number onto the top page. 

“I’ll get out of here before your son comes back.” Angela stood up and walked you to the door, "congratulations, by the way. I know you've always wanted to be a mom. I don't doubt you're a good one.” you didn't know if that was true, but you knew it would mean a lot to come from someone who knew her as long as you had. And you wanted this to end on a positive note.

Your sister nodded with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, opening the screen door.

“Hey,” she called for you as you stepped onto the grass, leaning against the doorframe, “are you fucking Superman? Ya’ll seem chummy.” 

You rolled your eyes but your grin was one you couldn't stifle, “Not yet, though I’m optimistic.” 

You shot your sister a wave before heading to the train station.

It wasn't hard to find, Washington Township was small. A far cry from where your sister grew up. You sat at the station, a ticket to Metropolis in hand. You wondered if this was the kind of town Clark grew up in, though with the shine of the east coast being absent. Almost as if thinking about him caused his summoning, a shadow appeared in front of you. Well shined dress shoes with pressed navy slacks sat next to you, and you knew it was him before you ever looked over.

“How’d it go?” Clark asked with that sincere curiosity he never seemed to lose.

You leaned back and kept your eyes on the tracks, “she heard me out. I think she’ll take it seriously, though you can never know.” you turned your head over to him, “she asked if i was fucking you,”

The sun caught on Clark's cheeks, dimples forming as he leaned his smile in closer, “and you said..?” 

“That I had begged him to, but he had to be a goddamn gentleman.” you huffed in faux annoyance, earning a chuckle from the man brushing his shoulder against yours. “How’d it go at the labs?” 

“Still going, a bunch of people in hazmat suits are combing through everything. Did you know they had a morgue down there?” 

You shook your head, unaware but unsurprised.

“they found all these bodies waiting for dissection or incineration. And they found all the people in your tubes flopping like fish on the floor.” 

You let out a quick burst of air from your nose, “Jesus. And Slate?” 

“Arrested with charges of attempted murder, abduction, obstruction of justice and a million other felonies. No bail. He called in some good lawyers so we’ll have to see, but it's kind of hard to refute the ten floors of evidence. Plus, a lot of the documents on your drive have his signature. Lois told me to hug you for that, by the way.” 

You look up at him expectantly, “So… where's my hug?”

As soon as you asked the question, Clark swept you up in his arms, lifting you from the bench and holding onto you with an endearing caution. You squealed with excitement, feeling lighter than you had in years. Clark holding you had little to do with it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, and Clark could feel you smile pressing into his ear. 

“You did it.” he murmured, squeezing you a bit tighter. He could smell the sweat and gunpowder that encrusted itself into your hair, the scent of your shampoo hiding at the base. "You're out, and contrary to popular expectations, you're not dead.”

Clark finally put you down, and to his surprise, and yours, you began to jump and skip around the empty platform. You shot your hands in the air multiple times as you smiled and laughed. Clark loved seeing you like this. Still exhausted, still bleeding a bit, but doused in possibility.  Victory was a fabulous look on you. 

You moseyed your way back to him, a splitting smile still on your face, and put both of your hands on either side of his jaw, pulling Clark down into a warm and eager kiss. You hoped the gratitude you were pouring into it made its way through. Clark held you at the waist, but his hands didn't stay there for long. They started roaming with mindless greed. No destination, only the goal to feel more. His fingers eventually found a home in your hair, scratching at your scalp a bit as you pulled away. Not far, though, your breath could still be felt on his lips as you whispered, “I couldnt have done any of this without you, thank you so fuckin’ much, Clark.” 

“It’s nice to be appreciated," Clark hummed, before his eyes shot open with remembrance, “Oh! By the way, I got you a ‘thanks-for-taking-down-S.T.A.R.-labs’ present.” 

Clark pulled away and took a small, neatly wrapped package out of his pocket. The paper was deep green with small christmas trees printed on it. You snorted at the off season wrapping, but loved him for the gesture. You pulled at the tape and revealed the pack of nicotine gum under it. 

It made your heart skip. You held the pack like he had given you a diamond. 

“For the ride back,” Clark nodded to the train chugging towards the platform, “and hopefully for the future.” 

You stood there, looking at the man who had saved your life, smiling nervously awaiting your answer. Clark handed you that gum like a promise, asking you to see him in your future. How could he not know the answer already?

“You know, my house is kind of trashed,” you started, opening the pack and unwrapping the first stick you got your hands on, “and I don't want to be alone tonight…” you popped the stick of gum in your mouth and chewed silently, waiting for Clark to take the bait.  

Luckily for you, it didn't take too long for Clark to pick up what you were putting down, answering you with confidence you hadn't seen from him yet as you walked onto the train.

“Come to bed with me?”

You sat side by side at the train pulled out of the station, you took his hand and intertwined your fingers, grinning like an idiot. 

“I thought you'd never ask.”

The second his locks clicked back into place, you spun Clark around and pushed him into the door. It was hard to keep your lips off his on the train ride over. You sat there, talking, filling in gaps of things unsaid the night before. And you loved talking to him, learning things about him; Clark was fascinating, but the more you listened the more you craved having his body pressed against yours. You were getting used to taking what you wanted, what you knew he wanted, too.

You just had to wait for too long.

The way Clark kissed here was different. He kissed like he knew he had the time to do it right. He responded immediately, no hesitation, only hunger. He knelt down a bit and reached for the backs of your thighs, encouraging you to jump up. You didn't need much convincing, being lifted and spun until your back was fitted between the wall and Clark's chest. Your arms slid down from his neck and your hands reached impatiently for the buttons of his dress shirt, Clark let you, using the moment to swipe his tongue across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth and grew frustrated with the fabric, opting instead to just tear his shirt open, a few buttons falling to the floor. 

“ –Hey,” Clark protested, though not very hard. Your chest heaved against his, a strand of saliva swaying between you as he pulled away to assess the damage.

“Dont care,” you panted out, cheeks red, “come back.” 

You tugged at him to you and buried your face in his neck, pressing soft, eager kisses against his pulse. Eventually you found a spot you decided satisfied you and lightly nipped at it,  soothing it with your tongue. 

Clarked groaned and his head fell against the door, pressing up into you and having another aspect of the night ahead on full display. You felt him half-hard through the layers of fabric between you, and you felt like surprising him. Opting to have one of your hands slither down his body and give him a squeeze, Clark's knees buckled a bit, much to your pleasure. At this point, he was a breathless mess in your ear. The fact that he seemed so overwhelmed just added to the impressiveness of holding you.

“Where's this bed of yours?” you whispered against the shell of his ear, running the lobe through your teeth just to see what it might do. You felt Clark twitch against you, biting his lip to stifle a moan. 

He hoisted you up to a proper position before walking towards his bedroom, stopping and getting side tracked as you placed his glasses on the kitchen counter, and placed a filthy, opened-mouthed kiss to his lips. You smiled at how much easier it was to maneuver yourself without the frames in the way. Clark, not one to deny you, pressed his lips back to yours with equal fervor, running his hands up your back and down again.

Getting an idea of his own, Clark set you down on his counter, lips never leaving yours, and moved his hands under your shirt, unhooking your bra with surprising ease. 

“How often have you done this?” you murmur into his lips, pressing them back to him without waiting for an answer.

The truth was, you didn't really care. Clark could have done this a thousand times before and it wouldn't have mattered(though you do think each time was probably well deserved), he was here with you. Touching you, worshiping you like you were the only person on the planet. You were quickly learning that being with Clark Kent meant being properly cared for, right down to how he took off your clothes. You almost forgot about asking the question until he pulled away with a sheepish smile.

“Plead the fifth.”

You scoffed with a smirk and he reached for the hem of your shirt and tugged it up. You helped, lifting your arms so he could get it over your head. You had miscellaneous shallow cuts from the shrapnel earlier in the day, Clark took note of those, but his eyes and brain stopped when they landed on your tits. 

“Oh, my.” was all he could think to say, like a man entranced.

You chuckled a bit, you couldn't help it. “You like ‘em?” 

“Have you ever met someone who didn't?"

“Fair enough. Are you gonna do something, or am I gonna have to get creative?” you asked, leaning back up to be face to face with the man whose eyes had yet to leave your chest. 

Instead of answering, Clark craned his head down and took your right nipple into his mouth, mirroring the pattern your tongue left on his neck moments ago. Your head tilted back, smug smile wiped from your face as his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, pulling it taught with his teeth before pulling his lips off with an echoing pop. 

“You can get creative, lord knows you're good at that,” he murmured, his voice had grown husky with need, “but I want to take care of you first.” his hand that cupped your breast slowly moved down your stomach, his palm warm pressing into you. When his fingers slipped past the waistband of your jeans, your breath caught in your throat, “Are you gonna let me do that, sweetheart?”

You tried to think of something smart, something competent to say. But all that came out was, “uh-huh,”

Clark grinned like you just gave him keys to the candy shop, “thank you, darling. I promise I'll make it good for you.”

“Of course you will, farmer boy–” your snide comment fell flat as Clark unbuttoned your jeans in one clean motion, slipping his fingers past the waistband of your panties. He groaned to find what was waiting for him.

“Holy– you're soaked,” he spoke into your shoulder. You simply wrapped your legs around him and pushed yourself into his hand. 

“You’re surprised?" you whispered, rolling your hips against his fingers, feeling them catch on your clit and you moaned. Not quietly, not holding back. 

God, his hands were so big. Every part of him was.

“Please Clark,” you batted your lashes at him, "don't make me wait.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, lift your hips up.”

You followed his order, feeling the damaged denim and cotton panties get tugged of you in one fluid motion. You were about to complain how you were fully naked and Clark only opened his shirt, but all words left your brain as Clark's mouth found its way back to your breasts. One hand of his held you steady at the hip, the other one resumed its position between the apex of your thighs. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you whimpered, feeling the pad of Clark's thumb swirl in slow and heavy circles around your clit. His middle and ring finger circled your dripping entrance, barely pressing inside. His tongue continued to swipe across your left breast, sucking at the soft flesh until he was sure marks were left. He kept at this for awhile, lightly toying with you while occasionally dragging his clothed cock against your thigh. “You’re a fuckin’ tease.”

“You like it.” Clark's tone was matter-of-fact. And you were in no position to argue. Even teasing you, Clark Kent had lit every one of your nerves on fire. “You want my fingers, sweetheart?” 

As he asked, he rubbed a particular spot at the front of your cunt, your hips stuttering against him.

“Yes, I fucking want them. I want you, Clark, please–” 

Clark eased his middle finger knuckle deep into you, watching your face for any signs of discomfort. Luckily for him, it was clear that this was just a fraction of what you wanted. You pulled him closer as he worked his way into you, thumb still rubbing your clit. Your lips gasped into his as his finger curled up, hitting a spot deep inside of you that you could rarely reach yourself. 

“You think you're ready for two?” Clark whispered, "You're certainly wet enough.”

You nodded mindlessly against him and he responded to your green light. Working two fingers into you, Clark found a steady pace that had his palm grinding into your sensitive nub while pressing curled digits in and out. At some point, you pawed at his other hand, the one keeping you steady, and took his index and middle finger into your mouth. Clark moaned as you sucked and swirled your tongue around them, before taking them out and pressing them back to your chest. 

Clark looked up for the first time since he’d started touching you. The second he did he was awestruck. You looked so completely lust-drunk: eyes hooded, barely showing your blown pupils, lips bitten at and bruised from kisses he didn't know he was capable of, hickeys along your chest that he barely remembers making. Your chest was heaving, making the thin sheen of sweat sparkle under the dim lights out his windows, and he gripped you a little harder. Your head fell to his shoulder as you whispered about how good he made you feel. About how if he touched you there– just like that, oh fuck, right there– you were gonna come.

Clark had never wanted to see anything more. 

He doubled down on his efforts, moving his hand faster, but easing pressure from his palm. He wanted to watch you go insane. To be teased to the edge and then finally be allowed to fall. He kept going, watching your body start to twitch in ways you couldn't control, listening to you gasp and whine as he felt his hand get flooded with your juices.

“I’m gonna– oh my god, Clark– please, i’m–”

“It's okay, sweetheart,” Clark said, almost begging himself, “Let go for me, I wanna see it.” 

In retrospect, you would be embarrassed that his permission is what did it for you. In the moment, all you felt was a crashing wave of pleasure as Clark slid his hand from your breast to your back, pressing you closer and strengthening the friction between his hand and your cunt. 

He worked you through it, encouraging you to roll your hips into him, begging you to take what you needed as you clenched around his fingers. 

After he pulled his now drenched hand from you, Clark dropped to his knees and licked a long stripe over your pussy with the flat of his tongue like a man possessed. You convulsed against the cool marble below you and you felt the aftershocks of your orgasm being coaxed out of you. 

“You taste so good,” Clark moaned into you, placing messy kisses to the inside of your thighs as he pulled himself back up. “Thank you for letting me do that.” 

You blinked up at him, utterly confused by his gratitude. This man had done more for you in the last 24 hours than most people had done your entire life, and he had the nerve to thank you?

“Take your clothes off, Clark.” 

He did as directed, removing his shirt, slacks and shoes with a grace that you thought would only be reserved for his Sunday best. When he was down to his boxers, you saw it. The outline of his cock; it was huge, throbbing and leaking generously from the tip, leaving a large wet patch against the navy blue fabric.

You felt yourself start to drool. 

“Fuckin’ showstopper.” you said without thinking about it. Clark tried to hide his reddening face with his hands, but you leapt off the counter with a giggle, not realizing how shaky your legs would be. You would have hit the ground if Clark hadn't caught you. You were decidedly unfazed by your lack of mobility. “So your bedroom is where?”

“Um– yeah, no, it's right down the hall.”

“Let's go then, we gotta take care of that problem of yours.” You regained your balance and pulled Clark back to his room, desperate to see what was beneath his boxers. 

Needless to say, you were not disappointed. Clark was huge, not just in length, but the girth of him as well. The second you saw his cock, red and weeping, begging for attention, you dropped to your knees and swirled your fingers around his head. Taking his precome and stroking his base, you stuck out your tongue and attempted to get as much of Clark in your mouth as possible. You were only halfway down his cock when the head hit the base of your throat, gagging a bit as Clark's knees buckled completely, collapsing onto the bed behind him. 

“Sweetheart, if you keep doing that…” Clark's tone was serious in his warning but did nothing to stop you. He actually wove a hand into your hair, pushing you down slightly when you went all the way down. Clark soon discovered that he liked watching come up for air. Watching you choke on only half of his cock had him losing his mind. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and as much as you wanted to keep going, you needed him inside of you.

“Move up,” you panted out, voice hoarse and mouth dripping. You watched Clark twitch at the sound, having the pulse between your legs rekindle with new desire.

He laid there, waiting restlessly, watching you slowly straddle him. You pumped him a few times before lining him up at your entrance, slowly sinking down onto his cock. Clark grabbed your hips and held you idle when he saw you wince, knowing it was a lot. He rubbed smooth circles into your sides with his thumbs, encouraging you, telling you how good you were being for him. His mouth was running on autopilot and he didn't know how to stop. 

“The second you kissed me I started dreaming about this,” he said, “I thought about how you look spread out for me, how you would whimper when I touched you, when you were full of me. I couldn't help it, your lips were so soft and you smelled so good. I swear, the second I touched you I couldn't imagine touching anybody else– Oh!”

His monologue was cut short as you finished inching down and your pussy took him in completely. His head dropped to the pillow, his body arched up to meet your hips. You rolled your own against him, digging your knees into the mattress. 

“Fuck, clark. You're so big.” you managed to say, your brain going blank.

You started a steady rhythm, keeping you body above him, Clark occasionally reaching out to play with your tits. His hands spend most of their time digging into the flesh of your ass, kneading it and helping you bounce more vigorously when he feels your pace become more eager. Eventually, you ended up where you two tended to, with your chest pressed against his, your tongue desperately tangling together. Clark started bucking up furiously into you, the sounds of skin slapping skin filling the room. 

You were close, so was he. You both could feel it.

No words were spoken as you reached your climax, your kisses became stalled as your mouth opened with a silent moan, clenching around Clark's cock. He felt it, the stutter in your hips, the fluttering of your walls around him, and he couldn't stop himself.

But he tried his best.

Clark quickly flipped you onto your back and thrusted into you a few more times before pulling out as quickly as he could, releasing himself on your stomach and over your chest. He collapsed beside you as soon as he finished, apologizing and promising to get you a towel to clean up in a second.

“You’re fine Clark," you laid there beside him, bones feeling heavy, sleep trying to take over. “You’re amazing, actually.”

Clark sat up against the headboard before swinging his legs over the bed and making his way towards the bathroom.

“Nice ass.” you called after him, still trying to catch your breath.

“Shut it.” his playful voice echoed back at you. 

After Clark had cleaned you both up, he slid into bed beside you, pulling you into his chest. As he rubbed circles into your back he asked, “Lois was wondering if you would come in tomorrow. She has a million follow up questions.”

“Hmmn,” you nodded, “can I still be anonymous?”

“I thought you said that didn't matter.”

“It didn't matter back when it was protecting my life, this would be to protect my dignity.” 

Clark let out a small laugh, “Yeah, you can be anonymous, I promise.” 

“Well then, how could I not come in?” you smiled and leaned up to kiss Clark a final time before leaning into his chest and letting sleep take over.

You remembered standing outside the Daily Planet for the first time, wracked with fear, certain of your own demise. It was such a different feeling to be standing outside it again, with a feeling of optimism and a ridiculously handsome reporter next to you.

Your clothes were two days old, you were wearing Clarks underwear, and you were about to be interviewed by the woman you had placed all your faith in to save you. Lois Lane had sent you an angel and she was telling the story that kept you bathed in fear for so long. Life was starting to look up. 

“You ready?” Clark nudged your shoulder, scanning for emergency. You beamed up at him, making his heart flutter as you linked your arm with his. 

“Let’s go.”

Everyone you met at the paper was welcoming and beyond impressed when you met them. Clark walked you around like a celebrity, introducing you and easing you away from conversation that got too intense. 

You would thank him for his kindness later.

Clark walked you to the conference room, Lois waiting with her laptop. He opened the door for you, and you bowed your head with pink dusting your cheeks as you walked in. 

Lois caught one glance at how you looked at each other, how Clark squeezed your arm as he left you for your interview, and she knew. Lois rolled her eyes with an exacerbated sigh and walked quickly to the door, poking her head out and screaming to the entire floor. “Goddamnit, Clark. You promised!”

did this take a tremendous amount of time and brain power, yes. so incredibly worth it! im not sure what my next fic will be, lord knows im inconsistent, but i forgot how much fun writing can be:) hope you like reading and ill catch you next time! -guy

[lucywritesagain]

clark kent can respectfully get it

[lucywritesagain]

to whom it may concern  

clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent  word count: 18k Summary:  You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.  notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.

Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.

A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:

“You looked like you had a long night.”

No name. No heart. Just that.

You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you—phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices—but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.

And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.

Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.

You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”

He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”

Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”

“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.

“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.

You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.

You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie—striped, loud, undeniably Clark—is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.

He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.

“Clark—careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.

He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.

“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry, I’m late—Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”

You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk—specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.

Except… it’s not.

Then he clears his throat—loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel—and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”

You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”

He flashes you the smile again—crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.

And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.

You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is— He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.

You flinch. “You good?”

“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”

Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.

You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.

You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.

You don’t say it aloud—not even to yourself—but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.

It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.

He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.

You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.

Just in case.

-

You forget about the note by lunch.

Mostly.

The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts—phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.

By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.

But this time, the note reads:

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”

You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand. 

You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it—thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.

And someone else had read it. Which means…

Your eyes flick up. Around.

The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.

And then—Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.

You stare for a second too long.

He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.

Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.

You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all.  So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it? 

You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.

The loops. The slight leftward tilt.

Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.

You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.

You don’t say anything.

-

Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder—Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.

“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”

You open your mouth—just barely—ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.

“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”

The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”

Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”

Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.

You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.

Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.

Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.

You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-

tags:  @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)

[lucywritesagain]

i need him so bad its concerning at this point

[lucywritesagain]

Just saw stray kids live in Frankfurt, and life is worth living again ✨️

[lucywritesagain]

hi !! i hope you’re doing well

I wanted to ask if i could request banners like these but instead of support make it for anti ai ?

thank you in advance !!

hello! ahh this is a cool idea - I wasn’t 100% what wording you’d like so I did a couple different versions! hope you like these! 🩶

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[lucywritesagain]

absolute menace but still such a good boy :')))

[lucywritesagain]

Waving at all my mutuals. Hi mutuals. I'm love you

[lucywritesagain]

"We have a new AI feature!" "With the power of AI..." "Our AI..."

I am going to abandon technology and start only inscribing things on clay tablets

[lucywritesagain]

This message was displayed at the show tonight in Auburn on June 28, 2025.

[lucywritesagain]

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ just some emotional damage via praise and love because i’m pretty sure nanami is not protected from that

nanami is brushing his teeth when you sidle up beside him in the mirror, stretch your arms overhead, and sigh like a sleepy cat.

“you’re very handsome, you know,” you murmur, voice low and scratchy with sleep.

he blinks at you through the mirror.

you blink back. grin.

“what was that?” he asks, mouth full of toothpaste foam.

“i said you’re handsome.”

he stares for one more second—and then leans over the sink and spits, lingering a second longer than necessary to keep his expression in check.

“why?”

“…why are you handsome?”

“no, why would you say that?”

you raise an eyebrow. “because it’s true?”

he rinses out his mouth like he’s trying to scrub the embarrassment off his tongue. “you can’t just—say things like that. in the morning. while i’m brushing my teeth.”

“i literally woke up and felt overcome with love for your stupid face.”

he covers his face with one hand.

“you don’t like being complimented while you’re… minty?”

he sighs. “i’m not prepared for this level of sincerity at 7am.”

“what is your preferred time for me to express how stupidly in love with you i am?”

“never,” he mutters. “or at least after coffee.”

you lean in, cheek against his bicep, watching him in the mirror as he rinses his toothbrush. “i like your laugh lines.”

“they’re wrinkles.”

“they’re hot.”

he drops the toothbrush. “stop.”

“you have excellent forearms, by the way.”

“what does that mean?”

“and your shoulders? criminal. you should be fined.” your hands fall off of them as he steps away to go get dressed.

“i’m leaving.”

“i’ll miss you desperately, lover:”

he stares at you from the doorway like he’s rethinking his entire identity. then, very slowly, he walks back over and takes your face in his hands.

“listen,” he says seriously. “you can’t just… emotionally ravage me before I’ve had a chance to emotionally armor myself.”

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“it is a me problem.”

you grin. “does it help if i say i’m proud of you and think you’re amazing and love the way you always fold the laundry just how i like?”

his expression crumples.

he buries his face in your neck.

“stop,” he says, muffled. “this is damaging.”

“do you need me to—”

“no. no more compliments. not until at least lunch.”

you giggle, wrapping your arms around his waist. “deal. but at noon, i’m telling you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

he sighs against your skin. “i’ll prepare accordingly.”

[lucywritesagain]

synopsis ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ nanami accidentally finds your small, anxious-but-sincere vlogs and quietly falls for you through the screen. and when you meet, he becomes a gentle, faceless presence behind the camera—helping you grow, and loving you all the while.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ this was so fun to write

nanami doesn’t really use youtube. it’s too loud, too cluttered, too full of people trying too hard. he’s more of a quiet reader or podcast listener—he likes his content slow and thoughtful. but sometimes, during quiet lunch breaks or sleepless nights, he finds himself scrolling, searching for something simple to fill the silence.

the first time he sees your face, he skips the video. it’s nothing personal. the thumbnail just seems… ordinary. a soft smile, a blurry background of what looks like a street food stall, and a simple title: “trying something new today (๑•́‿•̀๑)”. he doesn’t think much of it.

but youtube, in all its persistence, keeps putting you in his recommendations.

every few days, your face reappears. new title. new blurry background. another small smile. there’s something oddly comforting about it, even if he hasn’t clicked yet. eventually, curiosity wins. one night, half-asleep and curled up on his couch, he taps on a thumbnail without thinking.

the video is quiet. not silent, but there’s no obnoxious background music or jump cuts. just you. talking a little nervously to the camera, explaining how you’ve never tried this kind of food before, how it makes you anxious to eat alone in public but you’re doing it anyway, for yourself. you pause a lot. laugh at yourself. your editing is minimal—sometimes you just leave long clips in where you sit there silently, debating the next bite.

and nanami… stays.

he doesn’t mean to. he thinks he’ll just let the video play in the background while he dozes off. but he finds himself watching. then clicking on another one. and another. you talk to the camera like it’s a friend. you say things like “i know no one’s really watching this, but…” and “this was scary for me, but i’m proud of myself anyway.”

there’s no performance. no show. just you, trying. trying to live a little braver. trying to make the world a little softer for yourself. and even though your videos have only a few thousand views at most, and a comment section with maybe ten or twenty kind words, nanami can tell you read every single one. you reply with gratitude and sincerity. you sign your replies with hearts and “thank you for watching!!” even when someone just says “nice vid :)”.

he doesn’t comment for a long time. he watches quietly, always late at night, a silent companion to your small adventures. his favorite video becomes one where you try to bike through a park trail you’ve never been on before. the camera shakes the entire time, the sky is gray, and you end up getting rained on halfway through. soaked and breathless, you laugh and say, “this was a disaster. but i don’t regret it.” and something about that sticks in his chest.

he comments on a video one day. it’s short, awkwardly formal:

“i admire your courage to keep stepping outside your comfort zone. thank you for sharing.”

a few hours later, you reply.

“thank you so much!!! i get really nervous about posting sometimes so this means a lot ;; i’m trying my best!! ♡”

nanami reads that reply more times than he’d like to admit.

—

he doesn’t think he’ll ever meet you. you feel like a little glowing orb in his private world. something precious that lives on his phone, just a click away, not real, not tangible.

but then, he’s at a weekend market. the kind of place you’d probably vlog, actually. he’s just there to buy fresh bread, enjoy the quiet, maybe grab a coffee. he’s walking past a stand selling handmade keychains when he hears a familiar voice.

soft. a little unsure. asking for the price of something.

he turns.

and you’re there.

you look just like your videos—maybe a little shorter, bundled in a cardigan despite the warmth, your bag too big for your frame, holding a small camera that’s not even recording. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes bright, darting around nervously. you’re alone.

and suddenly, nanami is nervous in a way he hasn’t been in years.

he debates not saying anything. he could let this pass. keep you as a digital secret. but then you glance in his direction, and smile—just polite, a brief flicker of recognition for another passerby—and nanami finds himself stepping forward before his brain catches up.

“…excuse me,” he says, and your eyes widen a little.

“yes?” you ask, voice soft.

“i’ve… watched your videos,” he says, and you freeze for a second. “they mean a lot to me.”

you blink. your mouth opens a little in surprise, then closes. and then you smile.

“really?” you say, a little breathless. “you… you actually watch them?”

“yes,” he says simply. “i think you’re brave.”

your hand flies up to your mouth, eyes darting away. “oh my god,” you mumble. “that’s—thank you. that’s so nice. i didn’t think anyone recognized me. my channel’s tiny.”

“doesn’t change the impact,” he says, and it’s honest. the way he always is.

you talk for a while after that. awkwardly at first—your nerves, his reserved nature—but slowly, something soft and lovely builds in the air between you. you laugh a lot, mostly just nervous. he listens a lot, mostly because that’s just the way he is. he tells you his name is kento. you tell him you were scared to even leave the house today, but you’re glad you did. he smiles.

before you part ways, you ask, very shyly, if he’d be okay with you filming just a little. not his face, of course—just his voice, his presence. he agrees.

that night, a new video goes up.

“a tiny adventure at the weekend market ✿ i made a new friend today…”

nanami watches it from his bed, and when his offscreen voice appears—gentle, amused, offering to carry your bag for you—his heart does something strange in his chest.

—

the first time nanami appears in a vlog, it’s his hand passing you a coffee.

you call him “a friend i made recently,” and giggle when he corrects your pronunciation of a pastry. he’s never shown — not fully. a shoulder here. the back of his head. your viewers are very curious. you just smile, almost bashful, and say, “he’s camera-shy, but he’s very sweet.”

you start mentioning him more in your vlogs. he’s still off-screen, but you’ll glance his way and smile. say something like “he helped me set this up,” or “he picked this place,” or just “he’s here with me.”

you don’t have to say his name. he stays a faceless figure in your videos. your viewers start to notice something more.

you never confirm anything. you just smile, cheeks pink, and say, “he’s really sweet. i’m lucky.”

nanami doesn’t need the spotlight. he’s happy to carry your bag, offer a steady hand when you’re nervous, and hold the camera when you want to capture something new. he’s happy to be the one encouraging you behind the scenes, whispering that you’re doing great when you doubt yourself.

you film together more and more. he goes with you to bookstores, little food stalls, quiet museums. he carries your tripod. holds your coat. gives you gentle encouragement when you freeze up in public and smile too hard when it’s over.

he falls in love with you quietly. over time. he doesn’t say it at first. he lets it bloom through little gestures — buying the tea you liked, learning how to edit videos just to help you with cuts, leaving voice notes when you’re too anxious to leave the house. he listens. he supports. he stays.

and he’s happiest when, in a quiet clip near the end of a video, you look off-camera and say, “i think i’m a little less scared of the world lately.”

he squeezes your hand off-screen. you smile at the touch.

and your viewers never hear the softest part—how, when the camera stops recording, you lean into his side and whisper, “thank you for finding me.”

nanami, who never believed in fate or chance or algorithms, just kisses your cheek and replies, “thank you for being found.”

[lucywritesagain]

IT FUCKIN YURI DAAAAAAAAAAAY

[lucywritesagain]

[lucywritesagain]

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[lucywritesagain]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[lucywritesagain]

with love. you have to fact check shit. yes you. you still have to fact check shit. a lot of people are great at fact checking stuff they don’t want to be true, but somehow are still absolute ass at fact checking stuff that’s rhetorically convenient to them. even people my age, who I KNOW grew up doing internet/bibliography literacy workshops, and being warned not to believe anything that isn’t reliably sourced, people who DO harp on fact checking conservative output or whatever, are still kneejerk sharing unsourced shit that is partially or wholly untrue or misleading, because it suits whatever narrative they’re pursuing in that moment, without even a “take this with a grain of salt”. fact check!!!!!! look at the sources!!!!! yes it’s a drag!!! do it!!!!!