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miserymorgue · 7 days ago

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im in love with you this is one of my fav fics ive ever read like. ur narration is so beautifully distinct, and unique, and gives such a wonderfully fresh perspective. and you also just write clark like perfectly oh my god!! like thats so him, you know his mannerisms, speech pattern - its just so good. as someone whos recently been diagnosed with ASD, all of this - so real! hey! fun! and just so charming, and grounded. genuinely ur writing is fantastic, im gonna binge everything of urs now lol . be so proud of this!! ahh! im like saving this to my spreadsheet of my favfics (yes im so sane) !!!

me after this ty

the love list

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess.

You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love.

Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot.

Better make a list.

[10k, fem!reader, no spoilers, one steamy scene & no other way to put this but you’re a weird girl <3 ]

edit: now with a prequel, but read in either order <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It’s not that you haven’t had boyfriends before.

‘Cos you have. Well, kind of.

Technically, if you’re counting (and you are), there was Danny. He was your boyfriend from second grade, which lasted all of 2 days.

It was tough from the beginning. He hadn’t been appreciative of the myriad of bugs you tried to present him with over the 48 hours of your relationship. He also didn’t want to hold your hand.

The final straw came when he claimed that a pile of worms was gross, not romantic.

You still didn’t get that. But you figured if getting mud between your fingers wasn’t some notion of romance, then perhaps romance wasn’t for you.

And after that, it had been a long while.

Teenage years had slogged by. You got to watch as your friends got boyfriends—then got to wonder what bizarre magic it was that turned them into hopeless fools.

Lost to reason. Endeared by things you could never quite understand.

You had asked about it, just once. Your best friend at the time, Kelsey, had fixed you with a look and said, “You’re thinking about it too much. It’s just, like, love. You get it or you don’t.”

Kelsey and you hadn’t been friends for much longer. But you still remembered what she said for years to come.

It hadn’t been all that confidence inspiring, if you were being completely honest. Since then, you’ve been wondering if you’re just one of those people who are never going to ‘get it’.

There seems to be a lot of things that people get that you don’t.

It’s not been for lack of trying though. During your early twenties, there had been that awful three weeks where you had downloaded a dating app.

It had been tricky. It didn’t seem all that romantic either. How are you supposed to sum yourself up in a couple of photos? How are you supposed to read tone through a text?

Besides, no matter what you seemed to do, all the conversations led back to the discussion of sex. Which didn’t seem very fitting, considering it was called a dating app. Were hookups considered dates? A mystery to you.

But - and you remember this clearly - it had been the day you’d deleted the app, that you had run into Darren in the hall of your apartment complex.

By anyone else’s standards, Darren is the only boyfriend you’ve had.

Except for now — because now, you have Clark.

And yeah, like you said, it’s not like you haven’t had a boyfriend before. It’s just that somehow, with Clark now, you’re noticing things.

New things. Different things.

You and Darren had dated for the better part of a year. The break-up had been amicable — at least you think so.

Getting a read on Darren’s emotions was one of those things that never really clicked - though, ironically, you could tell that it was one of the things that annoyed him so.

It was one of quite a few things, apparently.

According to your friends, you and Darren had a ‘fairy-tale’ meeting. Bumping into each other in the elevator, his coffee spilling down your sleeve, his apology and insistence at making it up to you.

You’d agreed before you’d even really realised it was a date.

It was easy to get wrapped up in it, in him. Darren was certainly nice to look at. He had this swoopy blonde hair and nice green eyes that reminded you of seaweed. He didn’t seem to like it when you’d told him that though.

The first date had been at a dive-bar you’d never seen before, a grimey place called The Last Resort.

It flaunted crimson lighting and sticky vinyl seats. You’d been too overwhelmed and tried to stem it with a margarita - overshooting it a bit with the booze. You hadn’t expected it when Darren tried to kiss you.

It had been awkward, his lips not quite meeting yours, combined with the squeak of surprise you’d let out. But Darren insisted it was cute.

He’d walked you home (but then again, he did live in your building) and asked you at your door, tall and nearly intimidating in the space of your doorway, if you’d like to do it again. You’d barely had a second to think it over, to analyse any emotion of the night, before an answer stumbled out.

It’s, like, love. You get it or you don’t get it. The only haunt from your old best friend - the only reason you really wondered if you were missing something.

Something that made you want to get it, even if you weren’t entirely sure what it was.

You’d told Darren yes.

After a couple of weeks together, you were confident. Kelsey had been right. You got it now.

Darren was sweet. He took you out — though, those nights frequently ended up at The Last Resort. Eventually, you learned to like it with time.

He’d invite you over and cook you dinner — but sometimes he’d forget that he hadn’t been grocery shopping and would just order in.

He’d kiss you like no else had - because no one else really had - and you’d let him convince you to be late to work. He’s peel off your clothes in a rush of frenzied passion, as though he couldn’t make himself wait. Darren made you feel special.

Love. You had been in love.

Correction: you think you had been in love.

It must’ve been, you’ve since concluded. You can’t really think of any other reason that it lasted that long if it wasn’t love.

In fact, you hadn’t really questioned it until now. Hadn’t had any reason to.

Until Clark.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark’s apartment is fancier than yours.

It’s all high-rise and sleek surfaces, with big windows that stretch from the roof to the ground. You like how fast the elevator goes and how it makes your stomach swoop.

Clutching the strap of your bag, you watch the numbers climb as it reaches his level. The path to his apartment is memorised, even though, technically, you and Clark have only officially been seeing each other for a couple of weeks.

You have your prior friendship to thank for that. A friend of a friend, that’s how you two had met.

Lois Lane is a fantastic reporter and a good friend. She could ask the right questions, make you uncomfortable for the sake of finding out the truth, but she was never mean. You liked that. It was rare in people.

You two had been friends — though you hadn’t been sure if she would use that word — back in your college days.

It was an accidental reunion on the streets of Metropolis that had her dragging you along to some Daily Planet happy-hour drinks after work. There you’d met Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark.

This is where people say the rest is history.

The elevator dings and rocks to a halt. You step out, counting the doors on the way to Clark’s apartment. His door, like all the others, is a lime-green you’re not fond of. Clark always smiles when he catches you wrinkling your nose at it.

It’s as you come to a pause before the familiar lime-green, do you realise you haven’t called ahead.

You hadn’t been thinking of that — just that you got off work early, had to run an errand on this side of town, and were right by Clark’s building entirely by accident. You’d only been thinking of seeing Clark.

Most people don’t like it when you show up unannounced, you’ve found.

You get it, you suppose. You get that way when someone comes into the kitchen when you’re cooking - or when you’re wearing your headphones and people won’t stop trying to talk to you. It makes you itch.

You don’t mind so much when people come by and visit you, mainly because it doesn’t happen all that often.

It might be your apartment; a quaint shoebox, especially compared to Clark’s.

But Clark insists that he likes your apartment more, calls it homier. Which is nice, because Darren only ever called it tiny.

And Darren really didn’t like it when you called by without telling him in advance.

The first time you had, after getting a surprise bonus at work, had been the first time he’d ever raised his voice at you.

You’d stood in the hallway the whole time, because Darren never even undid the chain to let you in, and felt slimy with guilt and confusion for days after.

Just as you’re envisioning all the ways this unexpected visit might result in a similar disaster, the door swings inward. There stands your boyfriend.

He’s smiling - a good sign for your predicament - and it’s a good-surprised kind of smile. Like finding something you’d thought you’d lost kind of surprise.

Clark opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“Hi. I- I’m sorry, I— wait, how did you…? I didn’t knock.”

“Hi,” Clark says back, still so smiley. He has one hand still on the door, the other against the doorframe. He looks very pretty. “What are you sorry for? I thought I heard you come down the hall, so I thought I’d just check.”

You wonder if he’s done that when it hasn’t been you — the thought of his head poking out, searching the hall for you, makes your stomach feel like it does when the elevator goes too fast. In a good way.

You shrug your shoulders in explanation for your apology. “I didn’t call ahead.”

To that, Clark grins a little wider. He steps back and opens the door further, to invite you in. “I’m glad you didn’t. I love surprises.”

Something preens within you at the idea of being a nice surprise.

He’s clearly back from work early — or he’s working from home, but still decided to put on his work clothes. No glasses today either.

He’s wearing his usual slacks and smart dress shoes. His white button-up, though, has been replaced with a tight-fitting ringer t-shirt. It hugs his arms well, snug across his biceps, and it's tight across his chest.

If he asked you what you thought of it, you’d probably sputter something stupid. And sinful.

He doesn’t ask thankfully, he just ushers you inside politely. You step through the door you’ve been through countless times, toe off your shoes, and stop at the edge of the kitchen. Clark closes the door behind you and you wonder what protocol for this is.

This is a new part you’re still getting used to.

Normally, you’d take yourself to the couch, the usual corner seat you’ve unofficially reserved. But, now that you think about it, you haven’t actually been here since Clark dropped the g-word.

(He hadn’t actually asked to be his girlfriend in that manner of words. It had been much more poetic, flowers bought, a nervous and murmured ‘Please be mine?’ that you still thought about before bed.)

A hand touches your shoulder lightly and you turn towards it, to Clark, with a tentative smile.

This is where you’re unsure. Are you just allowed to kiss him? Whenever you want? Darren hadn’t been like that.

Kisses to say hello? It feels preposterous. You’ll never stop if given the chance.

“Hi,” Clark says again, and all thoughts of Darren evaporate. His hand shifts, tracing the line of your shoulder slowly up to your face.

Then, he answers your endless unvoiced questions for you, his hand cradling your jaw tenderly. You can feel the callouses on his fingers, feel the goosebumps you get in response.

Clark guides your chin up, you hold your breath, and he kisses you, soft.

You savour the moment by keeping your eyes closed a little longer, even when his lips have left yours.

Clark’s smiling again when your eyes flutter open, grinning enough to show teeth. You’re mirroring it without even realising, eyes creased and cheeks already aching.

You can’t believe it’s been a few weeks and it still feels like that when you kiss him.

It’s an effort not to get worried about when that will stop.

Clark removes his hand slowly, eyes still roaming your face, but eventually he relents. He takes a step further into the apartment.

You follow, wrapping one hand around your wrist to subtly feel for your pulse. It’s rocketing. No wonder you feel so lightheaded.

“How’d you end up on this side of town?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

You realise where his dress shirt is now, picked up between his fingers as he unwinds a spool of thread. There’s a button on the table, matching the others on the shirt.

You take a seat next to him. Close, but not so close to be clingy. Clingy isn’t good, you’ve learned.

You pull your legs up and rest your head on your knees, watching as he hunts for a needle on the table.

“Work let me leave early,” you say. Clark locates the needle with a quiet aha! “I had to return that book I got from the library. I don’t know if you remember, but they only had it at this particular branch.”

“I remember,” Clark says warmly, his eyes glancing up at you. “You finished that book already?”

He’s talking and trying to thread the needle at the same time. It’s not going well. The needle looks tiny in his hand. You take pity on him after the third try.

“Yeah, I — hey, let me have a go,” you cut yourself off, holding out your hand. Clark smiles guiltily, carefully passing over the needle and thread in your waiting hand.

In one quick motion, thread wet on your tongue, you push it through the needle. Instead of handing it back, you hold out your hand again - and Clark dutifully puts the button in your palm, handing over the shirt at the same time. You readjust, putting your knees to the side and folding your feet up beneath you.

“It was good, then?”

You hm, eyes fixed on the button as you prepare the thread, lining everything up. You glance up, meeting Clark’s eye, and realise he’s still asking about the book.

“Oh. It was okay, I guess,” you shrug a little.

You bite the needle between your teeth so you can align the button with both thumbs. “It had one of those three-day loans so, y’know, I had to read it in three days.”

It’s one of those little rules that make more sense to you than to anyone else. Darren hated them - and you hated that he called them senseless. It was the exact opposite!

“Well, of course,” is all Clark says. Another flash of your eyes up to his face tells you that, surprisingly, he’s not making fun of you. “I should get you to read some of my articles if you can read all that so quickly.”

For some reason, that makes your face burn. You focus on jabbing the needle through the fabric in precise motions to distract yourself.

“Why would you want me to do that?”

“Why not?” Clark responds. “I trust your opinion.”

The burn in your face gets worse. You pull the needle through for the final time and tug the thread taut til it snaps.

Just to check - and to give yourself a moment - you run your fingers over the button to check. Secure and neat.

“Here you go.” You pass it back. The needle and thread go back on the table.

Clark takes the shirt, but doesn’t move to do anything else. You lift your eyes to his face and realise he’s waiting for your answer.

“I don’t think I’d be very good at it.” You admit. He shrugs, as if to say maybe.

“We won’t know til you try,” he says. Then he kindly backs off, turning his attention to the shirt.

He does just as you had, running his fingers over the newly secured button, but with a much more enthusiastic reaction.

“Holy cow, this is—” He squints at it. “It’s so neat!”

Clark looks up at you, eyes somehow both wide and accusatory. “You didn’t tell me you could sew.”

Technically, you can’t. You can do little things like buttons and hems—but the way Clark’s smoothing his hands over the fabric, you’d think you’ve given him a brand new shirt, made from scratch.

You say sheepishly, “It’s just a button.”

Suddenly, the shirt is tossed to the side and Clark’s reaching for you - his large hands curl around your thighs, just above the knee, and he pulls you across the couch with a surprising strength. You slide forward, almost into his lap.

“Clark!” You laugh, hands on his collarbones to stop yourself from falling into his chest.

Your protest goes unnoticed - or ignored - as Clark’s hands move up, circling around your waist and pulling you even closer. You are in his lap now, with his big arms around you and his face so close. God, it’s a nice one, you can’t help but think.

He’s smiling at you and you have no idea what to do with your hands.

“Sorry,” Clark says, not sounding very apologetic at all. “It’s just, you’re so full of surprises. I love getting to learn new things about you.”

One hand on your back is tracing up and down lightly. You feel like you’ve accidentally swallowed a bag of pop rocks.

“A lot of people can sew.” You say. You shift a bit on his lap, hoping you aren’t making him uncomfortable and his hands loosen to let you do so - but the moment he realises you’re not moving off, he brings you in closer.

“I know,” he says, hand resuming its drift up and down your back. “A lot of people aren’t you though.”

His eyes roam your face, his mouth curled into a smile so sweet, it’s devastating.

Your hands at his collarbones finally unfurl as you let yourself relax a little more into him, pulse still racing. Your nerves never really leave around Clark.

“What are you thinking about?”

You’re not expecting the question - and answer more truthfully than usual. “How you still make me nervous.”

You expect Clark to laugh, but he doesn’t. His brows knit together, a sketch of concern on his face.

“In a good way?”

You weren’t before, but, abruptly, you’re concerned that Clark might think otherwise.

Darren certainly complained that all your annoyances came out of nowhere. History tells you you’re not the best communicator.

“Yes,” You nod severely. You’re clinging a little tighter to his neck now, worriedly. “It’s good. You’ve never made me bad-nervous.”

“Whew,” Clark says. “You’ve never made me bad-nervous either.”

You haven’t thought about that before. The idea of Clark being nervous is laughable.

Awkward? Yes. But he’s so sure in his ideas, in his motions. It’s why it surprised you that much more when he asked you on that first date.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “I don’t make you nervous, do I?”

In answer, Clark frees one of his hands and brings it between you. Gently, he places it atop one of your own, cradling it, and he drags it from his neck down to his chest.

He holds it over his heart.

“Feel that?”

You can, just lightly. There’s a thumping, but you can’t quite tell if it’s faster than usual - not unless you sit still for 15 seconds and count the beats.

“It would be much more efficient to feel the pulse on your neck.” You inform him.

Clark chuckles, smiling somewhat shyly. “That’s-well, uh, I mean, where’s the romance in that?”

Genuinely perplexed, your brow creases again. All of this is romantic to you - being in his lap, his hands on your back.

It certainly feels more intimate than any kind of cuddling you did with Darren—though, he self-proclaimed himself ‘not a cuddler’.

“Isn’t it?” You ask.

To test the theory, you slip your hand out from under Clark’s.

He lets you maneuver him, picking up his hand and moving his two front fingers together, up to your neck. You push them lightly against your jugular, knowing your rabbiting pulse must be thrumming against his fingers.

Clark looks at you, his eyes fixated on your hand still holding his, and swallows.

His ears have gotten redder. He lifts his gaze to your face, “I stand corrected.”

You release his hand with your own shy smile and before you can back out, you reach for his neck, two fingers out. He lets you, chin even shifting up to give you more space.

His skin is warm, with a little scratch from his shadow - he’ll be due for a shave soon. You haven’t gotten brave enough to tell him that you quite like stubble just yet.

Fingertips tracing, you find his pulse point.

Staring at the hollow of his throat, you don’t even need to count to 15 to feel his pulse is faster than normal. He’s not lying. You do make him nervous.

You’re not quite sure why it seemed so impossible until right this moment.

Flicking your gaze up to meet his, you find Clark already watching you. Like his ears, a lovely pink colour has dusted across the tops of his cheeks - it takes a second to realise it’s a blush. He’s blushing.

Clark clears his throat. His voice sounds raspier when he asks, “Believe me now?”

With his heartbeat against your fingers, you have no choice but to. Though the idea it’s just from two fingers is positivity delirious.

“I never said I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t.” He agrees.

He straightens up on the couch, his hand on your lower back keeping you steady as his face dips closer to yours. You hold your breath instinctively - and swear you see the ghost of a smile cross his lips - then, he’s kissing you.

It’s short. He doesn’t linger, though the look in his eyes tells you he might want to.

Given you're on his lap, hand still pressed to his neck, you try to convince yourself it’s probably a good thing.

Just one kiss is enough to inspire more. There’s no other word than ravenous—which is highly concerning since you had never felt that way with Darren.

You shelve the thought of sinking your teeth into Clark’s shoulder far, far away.

And then mentally make a note to check and see if you’ve had any bites from rabid animals recently. That would at least explain the strange urges.

Clark breaks the silence, “Thank you for mending my shirt.”

He reaches for it, tugging it between your bodies. He thumbs over the newly fixed button, almost as if he’s marvelling at it.

His sincerity mystifies you. It’s like nothing you’re used to.

Having read a dozen articles on new relationships (your best attempt at research, inspired after your first date with Clark), you know definitively that bringing up an ex is the worst thing you can do.

It’s the first thing on the lists: THE TOP TEN THINGS WOMEN DO WRONG, as Cosmopolitan had titled it.

1: Bringing up their ex. Always bright red, meaning danger!

That’s how things work in nature at least, like poison dart-frogs. You know better than to lick a poison dart-frog and you apply the same knowledge here.

No bringing up exes. You don’t want to bring up your ex.

Worse, you don’t want Clark to bring up any exes.

But you can’t drop it - the thought caught in your mind like a fly that can’t find the open window, going round and round, louder and louder.

You got it. The love thing.

It had been an open and shut case with Darren, one that had left you mildly dissuaded from it in the future. Yeah, yeah, love, you’ve been in — but it had been like, sharing a sundae.

Except, you had a straw and Darren had a spoon - and the flavour was chocolate, which you didn’t like, and you only got some if it melted before Darren ate it all.

…Not your most astute metaphor, you’ll admit.

Point is, with Clark, you’re worried you were so focused on getting it, that you actually… didn’t.

Point is, if you were in love with Darren, then you have no idea what you’re doing with Clark.

Point is, that’s incredibly fucking scary.

You best start keeping notes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

In your notebook, you write he thanked me for mending his shirt.

You’re not sure exactly what the list is yet.

Notes on the Clark Kent boyfriend experience? A step-by-step guide to the differences between boyfriends?

Neither of those seem right. You end up printing a ? at the top of the page and deem that sufficient. Then after a moment of consideration, you add the word love before it so it ends up reading: love ?

You read the first line you’ve written again. It’s the most concise way to sum up what had stuck out to you about that day — not the mending, but the sincerity in his thank you. The excitement over just a button.

If you didn’t know Clark to be so earnest, you’d think it might be one of those sarcastic jokes.

Sometimes, people play them on you — an exaggerated reaction that you’re supposed to know actually means the opposite.

But only sometimes. You’re not particularly good at cottoning on in the moment.

Luckily for you, Clark isn’t the sarcastic type. You like that he’s honest.

The first line in your notebook doesn’t stay lonely for long. The next time you add to your notebook, it’s your eighth official date together, just a few days after.

Clark had secured some swanky museum tickets, a perk offered from his job, as he told you over the phone. He’d called while still at work, the telephone lines ringing and an office murmur in the background.

It made you think he got the tickets and called you right away. Your stomach had done the elevator thing again, all swoopy and good-nervous.

The shelved thought of biting his shoulder made a fierce reappearance and you had to fight to focus on Clark’s words, not just his voice.

“They have a new butterfly exhibition, that’s what the tickets are for, and I thought of you. I thought we could, uh, go. My treat. I mean, obviously, I’ve already got the tickets…” He had trailed off awkwardly. It’s part of what makes you like him, his awkwardness. It’s so very Clark.

“What do you think?”

You answered candidly, “I love the museum.”

You hope the one he’s talking about has a mineral room.

“You do?” He’d sounded truly delighted to find that out. “That’s great, I—mean, me too. So we’ll go?”

You remember frowning at that, like he thought you might not want to - very much untrue. “Yes. I like going places with you.”

Following that had been a sharp inhale, then a stuttered cough, which made you pull the phone back with a cringe at the volume.

“Sorry, that was— something, my throat.” His voice had pitched up a bit. “So, tomorrow? Friday? It’ll be less busy, but we could do Saturday if you don’t want to go after work.”

“I like Friday.”

Then, far off, someone else’s voice had filtered through the phone. A coworker, jeering loudly enough for you to hear—“Clark, stop twirling the cord like you’re on the phone with your gir— oh my god, you are, aren’t you?”

“I have to go now.” Clark had said hastily, voice suddenly louder, like his mouth was closer to the receiver. “I’ll come by your place, Friday, 6pm. It’s an evening exhibit. Have a good day!”

Then the phone had hung up.

Then you were here, the next day, walking to the museum with Clark beside you.

This afternoon, you had been mulling over whether to call it a date or not.

Clark hadn’t actually said the words — it’s a date — not like how he had when he first asked you, over a month ago now. That had been clear.

This feels like murky ground. Do you still even call them dates after you start dating? Darren didn’t.

As you two walk, hand in hand, you decide to ask, “Is this a date?”

Clark jolts to a halt on the sidewalk and with your hands joined, you inadvertently come to a stop too. Perplexed, you look back at him, having to tilt your head up.

Fixed on you, his eyes are wide behind his glasses, something like concern pulling his brows together. It reminds you for all the world of a lost baby rabbit. His nose even twitches too.

You don’t like how upset he suddenly looks.

“What?” he says, sounding crushed. His fingers shift in yours. “I-I mean, I think so. I would- do you not think so?”

You also don’t like how his hand is loosening in yours, so you grip it tighter and shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know if you still call them dates once you start dating. You didn’t call it one. That’s why I asked.”

That makes Clark sigh loudly in relief. His shoulders, which have hiked up to his ears, sink down like a slowly deflating balloon.

He doesn’t look upset anymore, which is good. In fact, he’s looking at you much more intensely, a smile gracing his mouth.

He grips your hand back with the same fervor as before and starts you both walking again. “Yes, this is a date.”

You like that he answers your questions without poking fun at you for asking them.

You twist his hand over and start counting the freckles on the back absentmindedly.

“When is it a date and when is it just hanging out?”

You don’t look up, so you miss the affectionate glance Clark steals. He gives a hum in thought. He has 11 freckles on his left hand.

The museum peeks out, just up ahead. Something wilts in you. You wish you had another block to go, to keep walking with him. Then you could count the freckles on his other hand and see if they match.

“I think when you go out together, like this—” Clark finally answers, gesturing with your joined hands to the museum as you approach. “—it’s a date. Just you and I. I invited you out.”

“You invite me over,” you point out.

“True.” Clark smiles at you. “Maybe dates are the special occasions then.”

Your mouth twists. You don’t like that answer. Namely because it feels like a special occasion every time Clark calls, or invites you, or holds your hand, or kisses you.

“It’s always a special occasion,” you say pointedly, frowning a bit in your confusion. “You’re the special. Everything else is just an occasion.”

You’ve arrived at the doors to the museum. There’s a little line. Clark has the tickets in his pockets.

You pause slightly further back to let him retrieve them — you know you hate having to get things out in a rush — but he doesn’t reach for his pocket.

You glance up at him, concerned. He’s turned that brilliant shade of red again.

“Clark?”

“Hm?” He clears his throat, long lashes batting wildly as he blinks rapidly. You wonder if you should tell him you can’t blink away a blush - you know because you’ve tried.

“Tickets?” You ask a bit more weakly. Maybe he’s experienced a sudden change of heart about the museum - or you.

“Yes!” He exclaims, banishing that last thought swiftly. He shoves one hand in his pocket and pulls them out, brandishing them like a winning lottery ticket. “They’re here, I have them.”

The sign carved into stone, above the entrance way, reads METROPOLIS OBSERVATORY & SCIENCE CENTRE. It explains why it would be open for the evening - star-gazing is trickier during the daytime, you’d imagine.

Clark lets go of your hand to hand over the tickets, which get punched, handed back, and pocketed again. You make a note to ask for the keepsake later — you like things people often call junk.

He doesn’t reach for your hand again, instead resting his on the small of your back, ushering you through the doors.

The interior opens wide, with several paths splitting off from the entrance. There’s large, bright butterfly stickers on the ground leading to the right, accompanied by flourishing arrows. You can see into the beginning of the exhibit, people milling around already.

There’s also signs posted on a column, various arrows assigned to different paths. One reads Observatory, another Botanical Hall, and below it, Mineral Room, with a crystal decorated sign pointing to the left.

You perk up in interest and stop at the intersection of paths. “Can we see the mineral room, please?”

“The mineral…? You don’t want to see the butterflies?” Clark seems surprised.

That makes you pause, worried. You didn’t think about this — will he be upset if you say you want to look at rocks more than the butterflies?

You feel for your wrist, fingers pressing to your pulse. An old habit. You’re relieved to find your heartbeat steady.

Still, an old argument tickles at the back of your neck, Darren’s frustrated voice creeping in, and you force yourself not to physically bat the bad feeling away.

Biting your cheek, you realise you should’ve said something on the phone to begin with.

Now you’ve made Clark believe one thing, when you meant another. He invited you to see the butterflies. He didn’t mention going to the mineral room. You’re probably being demanding.

“If you want to,” you say as evenly as you can.

You’re not very believable. Clark sees straight through it, and even so, you’re not even aware that your body language gives you away, feet pointed to the left.

Never mind the fact you’re also a terrible liar - or the fact he can hear the skip in your heartbeat.

You wait for his sigh.

His hand on your back slips forward and he holds it out, palm up. You frown at it, then look up at him.

“I want to do what you want to do,” he says earnestly. “Let’s look at the minerals.”

He nudges his glasses up with his spare hand and his gaze holds such a softness that eye contact seems more unbearable than usual. The familiar burn in your face returns.

You look at your shoes—but not before you put your hand back in his.

You’re the only two in the mineral room, which is a treat all in itself. It’s quiet. You can keep Clark closer than usual.

He listens dutifully when you rattle off about pleochroism and birefringence — still keeping that intense warmth in his stare that you can’t handle for long. He doesn’t stop smiling the whole time. Neither do you, given the ache in your face.

By the carbonates, he kisses you, slow and sweet.

His glasses fog up and his blush makes an appearance. You feel like you’re having your own chemical reaction in your chest, fondness crystallising in the valves of your heart.

And when you ask if he minds that you didn’t get to see the butterflies at all, you believe him when he says not in the slightest.

You add, he asked me questions about rocks, to the list after he walks you home.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

After one particular morning, you add three lines in one go.

It had started the night before technically, when Clark had offered to come over to yours for the night. Tame enough overall, but… surprising.

Because, well, you were already at his apartment.

The thing is, you really like your own bed - though Clark’s is a close second.

And it’s just, you get finicky about these things —and last night, it had been the yoghurt you bought for tomorrow's breakfast, already in your fridge.

It makes you itch when you mess up the flow you have planned. But it didn’t mean you didn’t want to spend the night with Clark either.

Darren used to say you were punishing him when you went home like this. He’d never really believed you when you said there was nothing wrong — if there’s nothing wrong, then why are you going home?

Darren also didn’t like it when you were truthful. He said he did. Just be honest with me.

Yet, when you were — telling him his sheets were too scratchy, that his incense made your head too woozy, and his yoghurt brand was the one you hated — it always seemed to backfire. You told him anyway, because he asked.

One time, he’d called you a tease, spitting out the word. You didn’t get what you were teasing, but didn’t like how it felt either way.

To avoid this, you had made sure to set the precedent with Clark.

You stay over, but only with ample warning and a well-packed bag. You bring your own toothpaste, pillowcase, and a tiny Kermit that stays hidden in your bag - there for reassurance mainly. Clark never lights any smelly candles and his sheets are plenty soft enough for you.

Tonight, you find the precedent isn’t needed. Saturday night, a lazy afternoon spent together, and your boyfriend makes no protest beyond an adorable pout when you start to pack up to leave.

“I wish you could stay the night.” Clark murmurs.

It doesn’t sound like a guilt trip - it sounds like i miss you, before you’ve even gone.

He looks devastatingly comfy, relaxed beside you on the couch, lounging in his casual clothes. His hair is messier than usual.

You want to bury your hands in it, and let him kiss you over and over again, like he’s been prone to doing recently.

It’s becoming a serious hazard for your heart—so much, you’ve been thinking of informing your doctor. This much tachycardia can’t be healthy.

You remember it’s impolite to stare.

“I don’t have my things.” You remind him.

Clark twists his mouth, sighing a bit. “I know. I just like it when we sleep in the same bed.”

“I do too,” you say truthfully as you lace your shoes, moving slower than necessary. You glance back up.

Something in Clark’s open expression pulls the explanation off your tongue. “I just, it’s- I have my yoghurt. I got it for tomorrow.”

It sounds silly when you say it aloud. You try not to cringe so visibly.

“Wait, you’re going home just to go home?” Clark perks up, as if this is good news. “Not because you’re sick of me?”

Distress must show on your face because he hastily adds, “I’m kidding. I know you’re not.” Then, before you can worry about that too much, “Can I come with you? Spend the night?”

You haven’t even considered that he might want to.

“You’re already home, though.”

You realise that might sound like you don’t want him to and your hands clench up tightly.

Thankfully, Clark only shrugs and smiles, “Well, I was already going to walk you home.”

Relaxing, your hands unfurl. He’s being sincere. He wants to come over and spend the night - and he doesn’t mind if it’s at yours, instead of his.

Something in your chest aches tenderly and without thinking, you abandon your shoes and burst across the couch to Clark.

Surprised, he still catches you, arms cushioning your fall against him, but he isn’t prepared enough for your kiss. It catches him off guard and your teeth knock together from the force.

“Sorry,” you breathe, not that sorry at all. You’re gripping his shirt in your hands like you’re worried he might slip away — or worse, retract his offer to come over. “Yes, come over. I really want you to.”

Clark, still reeling from your kiss, looks a bit starry-eyed as he fixes his glasses that you’ve knocked askew.

But he’s smiling and he’s smiling at you. You can’t resist another kiss. You adore the little hum he makes in response.

It’s as though its set you off for the evening— Clark quickly packs a small bag, you kiss him; he grabs both your coats, you kiss him; he locks his door and you wrap yourself around his arm, pressing up on your tiptoes to kiss him.

He’s paying attention to locking the door and you can’t quite reach, so you kiss his jaw instead. Clark flushes hotly, but he’s still smiling. You still can’t believe he wants to come over.

It’s a highly uneffective way to travel, wrapped up in each other as you walk the blocks to your own apartment.

It’s a warmer night. The heat worsens when the doorman at your building clears his throat obnoxiously, making it clear your lovey dovey behaviour has an unwilling audience. It makes Clark fluster wildly, sputtering out a polite apology.

You drag him to the elevator in the midst of his, “My apologies, sir-!” so you can kiss him again, away from prying eyes.

Clark looks a little debauched against the elevator wall. You could probably roast marshmallows over his bright red face. His hands hover over your sides, flexing, but not touching.

“You—” He starts, a little out of breath. “What’s- I mean, I really don’t mind, but you’re, uh, well, eager tonight.”

“Bad?” Your voice dips into worry, fast.

“No!” Clark quickly amends. His hands finally find your waist, strong and sure, pulling you in before you even realise you’d been retracting. “It’s just a, uh, a bit of surprise.”

It’s true. To begin with, you were very shy with affection - your first kiss so sweet, Clark remembers your lips trembling.

Like how you hold your breath subconsciously every time he kisses you first. A tiny sharp inhale. Clark could write a full-length feature, worthy of the Daily Planet front page, on how much he adores it.

You remind him, “You like surprises.”

Clark softens at the memory you’re referring to, eyes shining in affection. “I do.”

“You like it when I surprise you?” You check.

“That I really like.” He’s grinning now, and he’s so handsome that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Kiss him? Bite him? Live in his dimples? He’s so nice to you in a way Darren never was.

The elevator dings, opening to your floor.

You tumble out together, with Clark still attempting to maintain a sense of manners. He straightens his rumpled coat with one hand, the other occupied by yours.

You lead him to your door, then through it.

Shoes toed off, you flip on the lights, then wince at their harshness. Clark slips off his shoes and gives your hand a squeeze before he drops it, moving past you. He knows the path to the myriad of lamps about your place.

As he turns them on, one by one, he has to duck to avoid the low-hanging living room light. It’s a relief to turn off the big overhead light.

“Let me put this in your room, alright?” he says, gesturing with his bag in hand, before disappearing into your bedroom.

Something compels you to follow and you watch as he turns on the lamp on your bedside too, coating the room in a soft amber. That now all-too familiar rabidness runs rampant beneath your skin.

“Clark?” Your soft voice catches his attention, and he turns, mid-way through shucking off his coat.

He told you once that you could ask him anything.

“Can you kiss me again?”

Something crosses his face, his eyes a little wider. He swallows, hard, and his motions falter momentarily. Finally, he wrangles his coat off and tosses it onto his bag and then he reaches for you.

“Y-Yeah, c’mere,” he says. In the same motion, you’re in his arms and he’s sat back on your sheets, pulling you both onto the bed. “Anything you want, honey.”

Still, he doesn’t move to kiss you just yet.

You’re adjusting yourself, getting comfortable in his lap, and you’re still wearing your coat. You move to shrug out of it and Clark helps, his hands guiding it off your shoulders.

It’s banished to sit with his coat. The whir of the air-conditioner unit permeates the air and you can feel the softness of your sheets where your knees meet the bed.

A hint of Clark’s cologne makes your nose twitch. It smells nice, musky and warm. It might be your new favourite scent.

You’re suddenly too nervous to look him in the eye, so you study the rest of his face. You’ve reddened his lips with your kisses, which you feel quite guilty about. Further up, you follow the line of his brow. You can’t resist tracing along one with your finger softly.

“You’ve got good eyebrows.” you say, closer to a whisper.

Clark’s grip on your waist tightens, so gentle that you’re not sure if he’s aware he’s done it. He swallows thickly and you remove your hand, moving it to rest over his throat.

“You think so?”

You can feel the timbre of his voice under your fingertips when he speaks and it makes you grin. You nod in response to his question too, finally brave enough to meet his gaze.

Blue eyes meet yours.

Then, sweeping your hair back from your face, he kisses you.

The first kiss is slow, easy. Like the kiss he gives you when saying hello. Your hands find their place around his neck, jittery and twitching in your excitement.

Clark’s hands on your waist shift, his arms wrapping around you like a hug. His next kiss, you sink into. You’re helpless to do anything but.

He dedicates himself to the curve of your mouth, memorising it with kiss after kiss after kiss.

It makes you feel dizzy. You clutch the collar of his shirt, a soft, sweet noise slipping out your throat.

It breaks the kiss. Clark exhales hard, his nose drawing a line down your cheek, along your jaw. He kisses as he goes, delicate little presses of affection.

He hovers at your neck, “May I?”

He sounds a bit wrecked, voice rougher and unlike himself. You nod, a minuscule motion, and clutch his collar tighter.

There's heat on your neck, a warning kiss bestowed. Then his lips begin to mouth softly at the warm skin of your neck, with what can only be described as a devoted reverence.

You melt in his lap.

Clark’s arms around you keep you close as your head tilts back, letting him in. His glasses nudge against your jaw as he teeth scrape your neck.

You’re so close to him—and yet not close enough. You want to crawl into his skin. You’re too worked up to know if that’s an appropriate thing to tell your boyfriend.

It’s no mind; with Clark’s lips on your neck, you’re not capable of any words.

You’re not capable of anything beyond these cute hiccuping gasps that will follow Clark for weeks. He feels insatiable, like a livewire. He’s attuned to everything you.

It’s why he pulls back, one hand stroking up your spine.

“You’re shaking,” he says, voice low.

You are—trembling slightly in his hold.

You hadn’t noticed, the same way you hadn’t clocked your own laboured breathing. It’s like you’re skipping a breath by accident, the way you do when you’re overwhelmed.

Unclenching your fingers from his crumpled collar, you put two fingers to your pulse point. It’s still warm from Clark’s mouth and beneath the skin, your pulse rabbits wildly.

“I-” Your mouth is unbearably dry. “I promise I’m enjoying it.”

Even your voice is shaky, though your assurance isn’t. You are, you are. You’re not shaking because you’re scared of this, of him. It's just a lot.

“I know.” Clark says calmly, though his eyes scour your face with a tinge of worry. His hand hasn’t ceased its soothing up and down your back. “I know, I—”

“It’s not you,” you say, desperate to steal the worry from him. “Well, it is you, but it’s not, like, you—that sounds stupid. It’s, uh, me, it’s a me thing. I— you haven’t done anything wrong, please.”

“Okay,” he says, which makes you feel better, because it means he believes you. “Neither have you. Believe me, I know what it’s like to feel like everything’s dialled to eleven.”

That is sort of what this feels like—like you’re a spring loaded too tightly.

The rich smell of his cologne, the taut feel of his firm shoulders, the heat of his beautiful mouth - all of it urges on that fervent feeling that skitters under your skin. You can’t process it all at once.

You close your eyes.

Despite how you really don’t want to, you draw back your hand from his neck, curling your nails so they bite into your palms. Clark’s hand against your spine pauses, pressed against your lower back. He holds it there, and waits, patient.

It doesn’t take long to ready yourself — only a few moments — and when you finger your pulse, it’s steadier. Eyes creasing open, you find Clark watching you closely.

The apology nearly falls off your tongue out of habit. Clark gets there first.

“Please don’t apologise,” He pleads.

His eyes scan across your face, looking for any other sign to worry, but it’s needless. He can hear your heartbeat, can follow the now steady rhythm of it.

He knows you - and more than that, he trusts you. He trusts you’ll tell him if something is wrong, even if sometimes you need a nudge. He doesn’t need any apologies for needing a moment.

Clark kisses the next apology out of your mouth and it dissolves on your tongue.

It’s chaste, this kiss. While he’s still close, breath fanning across your face, he murmurs, “Tell me if you need another one,” like this wasn’t even a hiccup to him.

You kiss him so fiercely, you bite his lip. Clark barely registers the twinge of pain, only the enthusiasm. He aches.

Without breaking the kiss, he leans back on your sheets, and tugs you down with him. His big hands slide to hold your hips, grip still gentle. The buzzing under your skin gets louder.

You pull back, hands still moving up, and you tentatively, carefully, slide his glasses from his face.

Clark lets you, hands unmoving from their place, his gaze still hopelessly fixed on you. His lashes are long, his eyes creased from his smile. He’s so handsome.

He looks in love, you think to yourself.

You bury the thought for later - and your hands in his hair, like you’ve been wanting to do all night.

You only need one other breather that night. One break from the sensations—when his long, careful fingers sink into you and have you whimpering into his neck, grasping his shoulders tightly. His breath shudders, but he talks you through it, patient and unwavering.

You fall asleep, sated, skin to skin, and dream of nothing.

In the morning, you’re roused by the smell of fresh coffee. The sheets beside you are empty and you follow suit.

Golden light paints the kitchen. Bathed in it, Clark looks sleep-rumpled and lovely.

You drink your coffee together, your ankles linked together beneath your table. It looks extra tiny with Clark’s large frame sitting at it.

He does the dishes, no asking or prompting from you, so perfectly midwestern of him. He only nearly drops one of your mugs when you kiss his shoulder blade in thank you.

You watch him, in between getting yourself dressed, and Clark blushes scarlet when you pass him with no pants on to retrieve something from your bag - which makes no sense, considering you were wearing much less the night before.

It’s almost like those days before he had asked you out—quick glances that make you both smile, eyes dancing away. You have to remind yourself you’re allowed to look now.

It’s easy. So easy, it’s scary.

The buried thought from last night rises to the surface. Whether you want it or not, Clark Kent is single-handedly rewriting every idea you ever had about love.

That old fear twinges in you— you get it or you don’t.

You decide you don’t mind if you were wrong with Darren, if it means you get it this time — get it and get to keep it.

When he’s gone, in your notebook, you write he came over to my place - which is almost too astute, but you know what it means.

It’s not about the yoghurt, or the bed, or anything else. It’s the complete simpleness of how it had panned out. You can’t stay the night and he wants to see you, so he makes the effort.

Below it, you write he likes doing the dishes.

Then, after a moment, you cross it out. Your brows knit together. No, it wasn’t that that was different to Darren. It takes another moment to put your finger on it.

You write he likes to help. With more thought, you tack on another word, so it reads he likes to help me.

The last one makes your face burn so much you nearly get too shy to put it down on paper. You write it all the same; he takes his time with me.

You really, really hope you get it this time.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The love list isn’t meant to be seen by anyone’s eyes but your own.

And to be clear, he didn’t mean to see it.

Clark is not a snoop. He believes strongly that privacy is a human right that everyone deserves to have respected. Even amongst relationships, not every thought needs to be shared. Not every secret.

He still has his big blue secret, after all.

You have… this list.

He hadn’t meant to see it, truly. But given how you’d left your notebook open on your kitchen table, and how you knew he was here, it hadn’t clocked as something you might want to hide.

You disappear after letting him into your apartment and Clark can trace you to your bedroom, his hearing tuned to your heartbeat. In the evening kitchen air, your perfume lingers. Your notebook is left on the table, open.

And Clark just… glances at it.

He doesn’t even know what it is.

He’s not so presumptuous to think it’s about him to begin with — there are no names on the paper. But, given its title, if it’s about love, he quietly hopes it’s about him.

Though, there is a question mark attached. That feels less good.

Especially as he reads the line about rocks and questions, which is as telling as it gets - Clark is pretty sure he’s the only one taking you to museums and kissing you in the mineral rooms. He really hopes he is.

It’s as he skims over the line he takes his time with me and realises what that means, he knows he should really stop reading.

Unable to help it, his cheeks bloom bright red. But beneath his slight embarrassment, something glows proudly.

These are good things. He’s making you happy.

But… then, why the list?

“—did I tell you about how when I was going by Fran’s the other day, there was this shirt in the window- you know the shop across from—”

You stop speaking and walking in the same second.

Clark’s head snaps up and he watches your eyes dart between him and the notebook in rapid succession, hears your pulse tick up in pace. The embarrassment from earlier flourishes up again.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- it was out.” He wasn’t sure before, but now he knows this wasn’t meant for his eyes. Gosh, he’s such a jerk. “I only glanced, I promise.”

He pulls at his collar, which suddenly feels too tight. You won’t meet his eye and Clark can see the tell-tale sign of your nervousness—your fingers pressing to your wrist, taking your pulse.

Awfulness coats over him. But despite that, you only give a shrug and murmur, “It’s okay. It’s not, like, bad. I was just- it was just to help me.”

Clark swallows. “Help you?”

You haven’t made a move to close the notebook or to approach him. He can still read the lines if he glances over - and he can’t ignore the itch to understand it. Help you with what?

You shrug again, now picking at your fingertips. You still won’t look at him.

“Just,” You exhale through your nose, a stressed sigh, and Clark wants to close the space between you. “When you… did something I didn’t get—or, just- like I know you’re not supposed to bring up exes, or- or compare, but it was only— Darren didn’t—”

You make a frustrated noise, hands clenching up tight, your sentence abandoned. Clark’s heart aches, more at your frustration than the mention of your last boyfriend, Darren.

He doesn’t know a lot. Has never met the guy. What he does know is that Lois wasn’t a huge fan, which meant he probably wasn’t the most stellar of partners. He trusts her judgement a lot.

Clark tries not to judge people he’s never met — but as your words sink in, when you did something I didn’t get, and he looks at the list again, something clicks.

he thanked me for mending his shirt, he came over to my place, he asked me questions about rocks.

They’re hardly impressive acts of love.

Clark likes to think he’s done a good job at wooing you, but none of what he’d consider the most romantic is on the list. None of the carefully crafted date ideas, none of the meticulously picked gifts.

It’s the little things. The quiet acts of love, of patience.

It’s evening, the sunset bleeding into the horizon, but Clark suddenly feels like he’s doused in yellow sun. Relief twines with his endearment, almost feverish with how it stirs up in his chest.

The next thought bleeds into fact with ease; he’s in love with you. Irrevocably. Entirely.

And with one final glimpse at your notebook, Clark knows exactly how to tell you.

For right now though, you’re still staring at the ground. Still picking at your fingertips in frustration, one ankle rolling to the side in a fidget.

You’re not worried about the list, he realises, you’re worried about him.

That just won’t do.

He crosses the room in two quick strides. It forces your head up in surprise and it’s the perfect opportunity to cup your face. Clark cradles your jaw, hears the inhale and smiles, before he kisses you.

He kisses you sweet, short. Then kisses, again and again. He can only hope he’s kissing away the frustration, the doubt, the unease.

There’s a brief moment where he worries he’s overwhelming you, your breath still stuttering between kisses — but your hands rise to hold his wrists, keeping him in place. He knows you well enough to know that means more, please.

He indulges you like it’s the easiest thing in the world. It is, to him.

You’re leaning into him and Clark takes the weight effortlessly. He’s messing up your lipstick undoubtedly, which he'll feel bad about later.

“We’ll be late if we stay much longer,” he says, reluctantly breaking the kiss.

You’re both breathing heavy. Clark studies the plush of your lip, while your eyes stay closed - which only makes you all that more endearing to him.

You’re a stickler for being on time though, so it’s so unlike you to respond with, “S’fine. It’s—”

You pivot mid-sentence, as if remembering what spurred his kisses on. “—the list. You didn’t think it was…?”

You don’t finish your sentence, trailing off stiltedly. Clark drops his next kiss to your hairline, his thumbs swatching along your cheeks with gentle ease.

“Think it’s what?” He hums, his next kiss on your nose. “I’m not thinking anything about it, because I wasn’t meant to see it and-” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Huh, what do you know? Its completely left my mind. What are we talking about?”

There’s a furrow in your brow for a moment before you catch on. Then your mouth curls into a shy smile and Clark knows he’s convinced you.

Your grip on his wrists tightens, an involuntary motion to get him closer. He complies, kissing you again. The pink of his cheeks might become permanent if he doesn’t calm down soon.

“C’mon,” He relents the closeness to step back, slipping his hands from your face. “We can still make it on time.”

Clark Kent, notoriously late for most things, except for your dates. He’s learning from you.

Fixing his glasses with a nudge, he gives you a moment to compose yourself, before he offers his hand. When you link it with his, he dotes you with a kiss upon it.

He figures that, to you, it’s the little things that really matter.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When you return home and the notebook is where you left it, open to the love list, embarrassment wells within you.

You hadn’t meant for him to see it. It had been a mistake in your excitement, flustered just by him coming to meet you at your door.

He’d been a sweetheart about it all the same, but it doesn’t mean you can shake the fumble so easily.

Yet, at the same time, there had been something… different about Clark on the date that followed.

He’d seemed surer, more settled. Like something had been decided finally, and he could see the way forward.

Your coat finds a home on the peg by the door, your shoes slipped off.

Soft footsteps take you to the table and it’s as you go to fold your notebook closed, does it catch your eye.

There. Below the love list, there are two new lines, both in handwriting that isn’t your own. With a soft jolt, you recognise it as Clark’s.

Perplexed, you squint down at the paper.

He’s written, in his neat scrawl, he loves that you made this list.

Your heart pounds, that familiar fervor you associate with your boyfriend begins to coarse through your bloodstream. You bite your lip so hard it nearly bleeds—but you can hardly feel it. You’re goddamn untouchable right now.

Whether you got it with Darren didn’t matter. You realise now it never mattered. It’s you and Clark—and that is all you need.

Because, below his first line, Clark has written—he loves you.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the notebook :’) bcos i love a lil graphic

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested / replied to my snippet tehe <3 but no pressure! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes @strangerstilinski @djarinova @kissmxcheek @langaslefthairstrand

#misery recommends 𖤓

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miserymorgue · 8 days ago

Text

this was beautiful i hope you get the best head of ur life

she's gonna save me, call me "baby"

billy the kid x thyme!reader

when you find billy bonney, famed outlaw recently announced dead, amongst the bloody grass, you take it into your own hands to make sure he doesn't meet the angels too soon. cw// blood, mentions of gun shots and wounds, hurt comfort in a way - i can not believe this took me 10 months to write... but i do quite love how it turned out!! - 3.1k

Heaven was full of angels. Billy had been taught that by his mother from a young age. One day, he’d die, and the angels would embrace him in heaven to reunite the two of them. He never thought much about it until he was shot and left to die in a field. He wasn’t going to meet an angel. There was no way to cleanse his soul, to clean his hands of the blood he’d spilled in his life to allow him that luxury in what came after. He wouldn’t meet someone blessed by the heavens, someone whose soul was brighter than any star in the sky. When he felt her warm embrace and heard the shake in her voice, he swore he must be imagining it. He wasn’t granted access to heaven, so why was he seeing an angel now in his most desperate hour?

Before he could ask questions, he fell under the fog in his eyes. His body was limp and tired, riding the waves that drove him closer to death. His mind wasn’t far off from there itself, welcoming the thought of being reconnected with his mother. Maybe death was a relief, an end to a tiring life on the run. His thoughts slowed as he felt the tug closer to the end. It felt never-ending, a warm embrace, the tickling of a flame’s warmth close to his skin. He felt clean, cleansed even, of all the blood, his own and those he had killed before. Maybe the angel had given him grace; perhaps he’d finally get heaven after all.

He wouldn’t lie and say that he hadn’t been expecting to see the pearly gates when his eyes opened. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing instead, honestly. It wasn’t the sky or stars. It was wood. He wasn’t lying in the grass he’d be shot in. There was stone under his bones, underneath a layer of wool. When he turned his head, he was met with the sight of a fireplace, roaring to life with a slight breeze through an open window somewhere. Perhaps heaven was a house.

“You’re awake,” a voice exclaimed from across the room. He couldn’t see who it came from at first, struggling to sit up with the pain radiating through his whole body, until the person ran over to his side.

“Oh, you don’t want to sit up. Don’t want to put too much strain on those stitches,” your voice was soft, all the more indication that you were indeed an angel come to guide him. It wasn’t until your fingers brushed along the skin of his shoulder that he realized his chest was bare, and he quickly looked down to see the nasty gash sewn together at his side. He had been shot; he knew that. But a part of him imagined that the afterlife wouldn’t bring him so much pain.

"W-where am I?" he rasped, shocked by the scratch in his throat, but a clear sign he had been asleep far longer than he thought.

"My cottage. It's a few miles from where I found you. Just deeper into the woods." Billy didn't doubt your words necessarily, but as you examined him closer, your fingers delicate against him, he couldn't help but wonder how you had managed to get him so far. He watched your lips pull down into a frown as you poked along the edge of the stitches you had given him.

"This fucker certainly wants to be infected, but I won't let it," you whispered, mostly to yourself, making Billy smile a little. Turning to your supplies strewn along the side table, you grabbed a vial and some gauze before looking back at him. Your eyes widened as you froze at the sight of his smile still there, curiosity in his eyes, with his head tilted slightly.

"Who are you?" His voice was smoother when he talked quietly, and it sent a whole new sensation through your body.

"Me? …no one important, I guess. Just live out here and found you."

"Well, you saved me. Didn't let me die out there. That seems pretty important, doesn't it?" he suggested as you moved back closer to clean the wound again. You nearly jumped when he hissed at the feeling of the cleansing tincture under his skin.

"Sorry… I'm used to you being knocked out for this," you admitted sheepishly.

"Better to have it sting now than be in a heap of trouble if it gets infected, right?" he tried to reassure you, and he softened when you smiled in return. There was a comfortable silence that followed you two after that, the air growing warmer and pleasant through the cottage. He didn't know what he had done to deserve such luck as having someone like you find him out there when he needed someone most, but he had a feeling that you weren't written in the stars to be two ships passing in the night.

He had that confirmed for him the longer he stayed with you. At first, it was the excuse that you had to make sure his wound fully healed. You wouldn't let him help you with chores much or do much more than rest, something he couldn't remember the last time he had done. But by the end of the first week, you started to cave, letting him help dry dishes from a seat in the kitchen and fold laundry that you brought in from the line outside. However, you quickly took back his privileges on the latter when you hadn't properly separated your intimates from the rest, and you came back to a pile of your drawers folded next to the sheets you had handed him.

"I thought I- Oh god- You weren't supposed to- Fuck-" you stumbled over your words as you snatched your underwear from the spot next to him on the couch, your cheeks bright and warm with embarrassment. He had no intentions of embarrassing you, truthfully. If he had the opportunity to get up without you tying him to the couch, he would have casually put them away in your dresser for you, hoping you'd think you had simply forgotten that you folded them yourself later when you found them. But he wore a small smile at the way you flushed and nearly tripped over your two feet rushing to your room.

Your cottage was never dark during the day before Billy's arrival, but you swore that the sun was amplified off the man. When you had finally let him start moving around with you, under still strict instructions not to overwork himself, you two fell into a homely routine. He had started to wake up with you with the sunrise, following you out to the small chicken coop you maintained and standing behind you with a small basket as you collected eggs. There was a new kind of serendipity he felt being part of something so domestic and mundane compared to the life he knew before. Maybe the afterlife didn't have to start after death, or maybe he'd just been reborn.

He helped you cook lunches and dinners, and started to do the dishes for you when you'd finally allowed him. He relished in your cooking, not remembering the last time he had a truly homemade meal like the ones you offered him, something made with that special ingredient his mother used to use. It wasn't until the end of the month that he realized perhaps he couldn't stay forever.

"Do you have family you should get to? Surely they're worried about you if news got out that you're supposedly dead," you had asked one night in front of the fireplace, both of you holding a book while you sipped tea and he whiskey.

"No one alive. Most of the people who mattered are… well, they're dead," he spoke plainly, unsure how else to say such a terrible thing. He had lost everyone, and now there was a fear in his heart that he'd lose you too.

"I'm so sorry, Billy," you whispered, voice heavy with grief for him. You couldn't imagine it. You had been lonely, sure, but you did have family, whether you spoke to them or not. You couldn't imagine the choice to see them being ripped from you entirely.

"It's okay. I've had a while to come to terms with it… Do you… Do you want me to leave?" he probed, quietly hoping for an answer he was unsure he'd get.

"No! No, I'm not kicking you out. I just… I don't want you to feel obligated to stay here if you want to leave. Just cause I saved you from dying doesn't mean you owe me your help with my life here." He hated that answer in all honesty. Even if he understood your sentiment, he was forever indebted to you. The angel who brought him back from the brink of death for a second chance. Billy the Kid had died that day, but he thought that maybe you had managed to revive a long-gone Billy Bonney from the depths of his soul. He felt closer to the man his ma wanted him to be than he did to the one he had been while running from the law.

As the days passed, an unspoken tension grew, silences no longer comforting but instead heavy, weighing down on both you and Billy's chests. It didn't help that he had moved to sleeping in your bed next to you after he had pulled a muscle in his back, and you deemed him unable to sleep on the couch any longer.

"It's really not that bad-"

"My bed is far more comfortable, and I'll take the couch-"

"You are not sleeping on the couch, darling."

"Well then, I guess we're both sleeping in the bed," you had snapped, only to recognize a moment later what your words meant. The two of you had slipped under the covers that night in what had to be the most strained silence you had ever endured, staring at the ceiling for at least five minutes before you both turned away from each other to finally try and sleep.

Billy didn't understand what exactly had changed in the last week, as the words you two shared throughout the day grew fewer and fewer. He knew what he felt; he was scared that you wouldn't let him stay, that you would decide you didn't want him around anymore. But he couldn't decipher what feelings had occurred on your side to warrant the same kind of reaction. You both still moved in sync, going through the motions you had gotten so used to together, but every time you stepped away from him, it felt far deeper than physical. He was worried he was losing you every second.

The clouds were too dark when he woke up the next morning. The kind of dark that his pa would have considered boarding up the windows for before the rain started. But looking around the small cottage, you were nowhere to be found. Your jacket lay across the back of the chair in your bedroom, and your basket sat by the door still. Rain started to hit the windows in soft taps that directed his attention outside again. However, this time he finally caught sight of you.

When you had woken up to no sunshine beaming through the window, a deep-rooted anxiety overwhelmed you, slipping out of bed and into your boots quickly before running outside. Billy saw you just like that now, your nightgown getting muddy as you kneeled to peek under the chicken coop. He didn't think about changing either as he threw open the back door to bring you inside, grabbing your arm and pulling you up. He did his best to ignore the rain coming down that had already soaked you thoroughly while he stood between you and the outside.

"Darling, what are you doing? The storm is coming in fast," he spoke over the first crack of thunder through the garden. You looked at him, frantic, fear deep in your eyes as you got up, not even trying to brush the dirt off of you that dripped from your dress in small droplets to the floor. He wondered if you even knew it was there.

"Billy, one of the chickens is missing. I can't find her," you replied, barely able to focus on him as you looked past him into the yard desperately for the brown feathered puff currently missing from the coop. Your eyes were forced to look at him when he cupped your cheeks, wiping at dirt that had plastered itself to your cheeks in your pursuit.

"Baby, if you go back out there, you're going to get sick," he tried to reason, but it went in one ear and out the other with you.

"I have to find her. I can't lose her. The last storm-" you had started to explain, but a flash of brown had you breaking out of Billy's hold and trying to rush toward the trees before he could stop you. His hand barely managed to grab a hold of your wrist before he pulled you back behind the door, letting it close and seal you from the gruesome weather brewing outside.

"Billy... the storm- I can't- She's alone." Your last words cracked him right in two, bringing you closer as your knees buckled and you two sank to the ground in a pile of tangled limbs against the door. He ran a hand through your wet hair and tried to process the meaning behind your words until it finally clicked.

He had feared you'd want him gone, but you feared he'd want to leave. Neither of you wanted to be alone again.

"Baby, you're not alone. I'm right here. Rosie will be okay. The storm will pass," he whispered. Though he couldn't be confident about whether you two would find Rosie in the morning, every other statement was as true as could be. If he had his way, he'd never have to leave. He'd stay right there in your cottage with you for eternity.

"You'll leave eventually… everyone leaves or… or dies," you sobbed, unable to hold back the emotion you'd been safeguarding from him all week.

"But I'm not. Look at me, darling," he tilted your chin up to meet his eyes, the seriousness in them making you hold your breath subconsciously, "I'm not leaving or dying. You made sure of that second part. You saved me. You kept me from dying that day. You took me in and let me be reborn as the man I always wanted to be, and I can't… I can't thank you enough for that. So the very last thing I'm gonna even consider doing is leaving you. Not out of some duty to pay you back for saving me, but… but because I can't imagine this new life you gave me without you in it."

"Oh," you whispered, your brain moving too slow to form more words than that in the moment, though you had wanted to so badly. Your tears had stopped pouring from your eyes as you looked at him in shock, and he smiled softly, wiping away the remnants until your cheeks were finally dry.

"Oh?" he whispered back, unable to help the hope he felt in his chest at the soft look in your eyes.

"I can't… I can't imagine doing this life without you either, Billy," you uttered, taking a deeper breath before adding, "I was so lonely before I found you. I didn't have… I've been on my own for so long that it felt like- like I'd always be alone." Billy tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before he moved to let you be closer to him, which really wasn't much closer at all, your chests already touching and faces barely inches apart.

"You're not alone. Not anymore. I'm here and I… I love you." It wasn't the first time he had said I love you to a girl; he'd often said it in a rush of emotion not long after meeting one, but this time he knew none of the other times counted. This was as real as could be; as real as the new life you'd given each other.

"You love me?"

"I love you. Thought you were an angel when I first met you, and maybe you really are. Maybe we just needed each other. Like we're each other's guardian angels," he whispered, face edging closer to yours.

"Yeah? I like that. I know I needed you because life got a whole lot easier the second I had you here," you breathed as you brought your face close enough to brush your nose against his. The tension that had surrounded you two for the last week was nothing like the tension between the two of you now. This was electric and fierce, and it drowned out the clap of thunder, nearly shaking the door behind Billy.

"I like this new life with you, baby. I don't want anything else," he confessed, nudging your nose with his own before his lips faintly touched yours, and it suddenly lit a fire you didn't know if you wanted to be contained. That one spark broke the tension in a loud snap as you moved to press your lips to his with a desperation he quickly matched. You were both muddy from being outside, and the cold that had been seated deep in your bones quickly faded with the feeling of his hands roaming your body curiously. You wouldn't be shocked if you were made of pure fireworks in that moment, every movement of your lips with Billy's causing a new explosion.

"Bwak!"

You and Billy nearly jumped right off the floor at the sound coming from behind you, startling away from your kiss with a shriek. However, Billy quickly dissolved into soft laughter as he peered over your shoulder to find a certain brown chicken standing by your bedroom door.

"Rosie!" you gasped, turning to see the chicken in charge of all the mess you were covered in currently as Billy wrapped his arms around your waist. You sank back into his chest instinctively, letting his chin rest on your shoulder.

"I don't know how she slipped past us," he whispered, kissing your neck softly as you smiled.

"She just wanted to send me on a chase for her… worked out in my favor though," you confessed, turning your head to meet his lips again before adding, "I really should get you cleaned up, you know? You're filthy."

"I'm filthy? Baby, let me get you in front of your mirror and we'll see who is the dirtier one," he teased, but it gave you the perfect ammunition to shoot back a scandalous flirt.

"Billy Bonney! Take me on a date first before we're dirty in front of my mirror." You smiled when his cheeks lit up a bright red, and you knew that the comfort seeping back into your body was there to stay.

#misery recommends 𖤓

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miserymorgue · 8 days ago

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can you please write more josh 😋😋

i dont really have a lotta inspiration for josh right now! kind of dwindling out of that era i think. i'm pretty willing to take any specific ideas/requests and riff off that, but dont expect anything new/og any time soon. sorry ! :3

#miss misery anons 𖤓

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miserymorgue · 8 days ago

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Your billy fic is one of the greatest I've ever read. One of those that makes you keep thinking about it.

im honoured hehe thank u ver much im glad u liked it!! i am pretty proud of that one. more billy content soon :3

#miss misery anons 𖤓

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miserymorgue · 8 days ago

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14??

14. where do you get your inspiration?

gonna be soo fucking fr tiktok edits 😭 when i fr have no ideas i go to my (excessive) folder of misc edits and have a looksie there, usually something comes to me either a clip, music, etc.

music is a bit one generally i listen to a lot, i love taylor swift, so she always has a wide range of experiences and feelings to draw from

#miss misery anons #miss misery talks ✰

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miserymorgue · 8 days ago

Text

ALIEN | ft. C. KENT

summary Clark Kent is super white and like, literally an alien—and meeting your loud, fiercely loving immigrant family is way harder than saving the world.

wc 5.2k words

warnings established relationship, fluff, heavy middle eastern implications/arabic used at points - just self insert ur culture here lol!, family pressure, immigrant family dynamics, POC family experience, lighthearted, mostly light on race and politics, m+f parents - both are nice + mention of loads of big (slightly unhealthy but loving) family

parings clark kent/superman x WOC!fem!reader

Clark Kent is super white.

note b4: Reader is explicitly a person of colour but without specific mention of hair, eye, or skin colour. If you identify with these experiences, you’ll likely relate. For context, I’m Lebanese (Middle Eastern/Arab), so expect some strong Middle Eastern vibes and implied American immigrant background. would v recommend projecting ur own culture onto this, i find there's always overlap :3

That’s the first thing you tell your parents.

“What kind of white?” your mother asks, suspicious. “Irish white? We like those ones.”

You pause. How do you explain that technically he’s not just white—he’s not even from this planet? Now probably isn’t the time to get into the ontological weeds of Kryptonian ethnicity.

“...I think so?” you offer, weakly.

“You think so?” your father scoffs over the speakerphone. “You don’t know?”

“He was adopted, okay?” you scramble. “It’s... kind of messy. But his family’s from Kansas. Small town. Corn-fed. Beef-and-potatoes Kansas.”

“Mashallah,” your mother mutters. “So, he’s white-white.”

She sighs. Long. Dramatic. You hear her bargaining before it begins.

“Why not date a nice Middle Eastern boy? What about that dentist from church? The one with the Hyundai?”

You groan. “Because I didn’t fall in love with the dentist, Mom. I fell for Clark. He’s very polite, very tall, very nice.”

“Ooh,” she begins, a new thought interrupting your spiel. “You could always try a Vietnamese boy. They are very hard-working, you know.”

“Him being white doesn’t mean anything,” you say, voice tightening. “It’s just… different. Okay? Please don’t scare him.”

Another sigh. “White people don’t eat right, they don’t season their food, and they always walk around with wet hair. Why is your hair wet in public? Do you not own a towel?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Please, please don’t bring that up.”

“And what’s his name again?”

“Clark.”

“Clark? Like the shoes?”

“Clark Kent.”

“Oh, Mashallah. Two first names.”

You met Clark’s parents early in the relationship—totally by accident. They showed up at his apartment one Sunday while you were there for dinner, catching you barefoot, barefaced, and mid-chew. You nearly died of embarrassment, totally unprepared for the surprise visit.

Meeting your partner’s parents is always a big deal, but these two? They almost adopted you on the spot.

The Kents were hands-down the kindest people you’d ever met—humble, earnest, and emotionally available in that wholesome Midwestern way. You’d never had anyone’s dad insist on doing the dishes before.

And that was it. His whole family. No loud cousins, no competitive aunties, no endless family friends who’ve somehow known you since forever. Clark’s idea of family ended with two people and an occasional pie.

You, on the other hand, were a one-person nation-state. It was something you were never sure how to introduce people to. It can be overwhelming, and maybe shamefully, embarrassing - that still left you feeling protective over the loud, big family you've got.

So, you were never sure when or how to bring it up with someone like Clark, someone who seemed so conventional when you first met him, always had and craved the simple life, so the speak.

But Clark wasn’t traditional—not in the ways that mattered. Sure, he certaintly looked all-American with the jawline, the politeness, and the crisp button-downs, but in practice, he was more open-minded than some people of colour you’d grown up with.

He never flinched at trying new food, never called anything “exotic,” and didn’t blink twice at eating with your hands or using bread instead of cutlery. To him, it was an invitation to learn - something exciting, like a new book or a planet he hadn’t visited yet.

Despite your messy, mismatched schedules and drifting between apartments without officially moving in, Clark did have one old-school streak that never wavered: he wanted to meet your parents properly.

Not in passing. Not by accident. But like a gentleman.

He brought it up one night, entirely unprompted, after handing you a cup of tea the exact way you liked it. “I think I’d like to meet your family,” he said, casual, but with that soft nervousness in his voice that he rarely showed. “Like, really meet them.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels right. I mean… you’re important to me. I figure they should know that.”

And maybe that was the most traditional thing about him: not the door-holding or the ties or an old pickup truck. But the way he wanted to do things right—not by some rulebook, but because it mattered to you. Because he respected your roots enough to ask for a place in them.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” You nodded, hesitant.

He picked up on it right away. “What is it?”

“I just… Clark, they’re a lot,” You let out a light chuckle. “There’s a reason why I don’t talk about them a lot.”

“Oh… are you not close?” He wondered, small frown on his face as he guided you by the curve of your back to sit down onto your couch.

“No, it’s not that we’re not close—we are. It’s just... they’re a lot.”

He chuckled like he didn’t quite get it. “Sweetheart, respectfully, I’ve saved the world from alien invasions, time paradoxes, and the occasional god. I think I can handle a big family.”

“‘Big family,’” you scoffed. “Clark, our weddings have more guests than some towns have people. And they're also just... have such big obligations and responsibilities, if that makes sense."

You rubbed your hands over your face, words tumbling out now.

“They love hard, but it’s… loud. And nosy. And they will feed you until you burst and then ask why you’ve gained weight. They will tell you what’s wrong with your career, your clothes, your iron levels - sometimes all in one breath.”

Clark tilted his head, still smiling but a little more cautious now. “Okay…”

“They’re not bad people, they’re great," You quickly insist. "Just… they don’t really do boundaries. Everyone knows everything about everyone. There’s a family group chat that’s basically a surveillance network. My grandma knows I got a cold before I know I got a cold.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Sounds… efficient.”

“Oh, God,” You let out a breathy laugh, hands flailing a little. “Clark, you grew up on a farm with, what, two parents, a dog, and like three neighbours? You guys probably had a landline and privacy. You probably got told ‘just be yourself’ and believed it. I love you, but your idea of family is, like, a Norman Rockwell painting.”

Clark grinned, a bit sheepish. “We did have a landline.”

“Exactly! Meanwhile, my family treats me like I’m in a constant job interview. There’s always some cousin setting the bar, and it’s always a competition I didn’t enter. Someone’s always winning a scholarship, or getting engaged, or starting a business while also curing a disease. It’s exhausting.”

He reached over and gently squeezed your knee, like he knew you needed grounding. “But they love you?”

You sighed. “Of course. Deeply. Loudly. In twelve different dialects. But they love intensely. And I just want you to be prepared. Because to them, meeting someone’s boyfriend is a thing. Like, a thing-thing. You’re basically one polite nod away from being considered part of the family and receiving your own roster of passive-aggressive updates.”

He blinked, but he was smiling now, like he’d been handed a challenge. “Well… guess I’d better bring my A-game.”

You sighed, feeling your ramble escape you.

He smiles at that. “They love you. So, that means I’ll love them. It’s no sweat.” He said it like it was the most simple thing. He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Do you think they’ll like me?”

You snorted. Instantly. You couldn't help yourself, he asked so earnestly.

He looked wounded, caught off guard by your response.

“No, no—I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly. “Of course they’ll like you. You’re a golden retriever in a Henley.”

Clark still looked unsure.

“They’ll just… be surprised,” you explained. “That I’m dating—”

“—an alien?”

“—a white guy.”

He blinked, then nodded. "Right.”

“I mean, I know you’re technically both,” you said, laughing a little. “But it’s the whiteness they’ll fixate on. The alien thing’s almost easier. At least that’s rare.”

“Hm… And that sort of thing matters to them?”

“Kinda,” you shrugged. “Dating within the culture is just easier. They get the jokes. They know the food. They know the unspoken shame, history, prejudice. If it’s not within, it’s adjacent. Or Irish, or something since they’re basically honourable people of colour with all the colonising and whatnot.”

Clark hummed for a moment. “Interesting.”

Clark Kent was, for all intents and purposes, very white.

Clark says “gosh darn” without a hint of irony, wears his shoes indoors (which sparked a minor domestic war early on), and has an unshakable love for Will Smith—as if memorising The Fresh Prince theme song is some secret white guy rite of passage.

He can two-step and square dance like it's nobody's business, and once took a film class he hated so much he still complains about how “pretentious” it was. He calls every dog he meets “buddy,” says “oop, just gonna sneak past ya” in crowded spaces, and treats the weather like it’s a conversation topic with national importance.

Clark’s polite to a fault, awkward with slang, and has a habit of explaining obvious things like he’s narrating a nature documentary. The guy barely swears—unless you really push him, and even then, he’ll mutter it under his breath and immediately apologise to the nearest inanimate object.

(Maybe that last is more of a Clark thing than a White thing.)

But then, there’s Clark—the exception.

He can actually cook - and seasons his food well, which sealed the deal for you. It made sense since his mother was a beautiful cook herself. He’s not religious, but will patiently correct anyone who assumes Jesus wasn’t a brown Middle Easterner. He regularly eats falafel and can pronounce some words in your language better than you, just from how much time he spends chatting with street food vendors and exploring local markets.

Clark’s, literally, not like other white guys.

Sure, on the surface he fits the Midwestern mould, but his experience as an alien—literally from another planet—makes him marketably different. Where most white partners might carry the baggage of colonialism or cluelessness, Clark carries something else: a deep-rooted sense of otherness that’s familiar in a way most people can’t grasp.

He’s faced suspicion, fear, and outright hostility not just because of where he’s from, but who he is. That makes him more patient, more willing to learn, and surprisingly humble about what it means to belong.

Being “white” for Clark isn’t just about skin tone - it’s complicated by the fact that he’s always been an outsider, even among those who look like him.

So when he steps into your family’s world, it’s not ignorance or entitlement he brings, but curiosity, respect, and a quiet determination to fit in on his own terms. And that makes all the difference.

You and Clark landed in your hometown the next weekend. He insisted on taking a plane with you, despite his abilities. Something about “doing this properly.” Something about “the human experience.”

You thought you’d prepared him enough, just by warning him: They’re a lot. But every five minutes on the flight, he was whispering questions in that earnest, hopeful way of his.

“Will they be okay with me wearing socks to bed?” he asked, clutching the armrest like turbulence might be emotional, not atmospheric.

“Yes, Clark,” you said, flipping through a half-crumpled magazine. “They’re not running a surveillance state. Yet.”

He nodded, serious. “Okay. Just—some people think it's weird.”

“Yeah, well, wait 'til you see what my uncle sleeps in. You’ll be the normal one.”

He exhaled like that helped. You watched him fiddle with the little plastic cup of water in his tray, shoulders tensed like he was bracing for turbulence that never came.

Another beat of silence.

“Do I take my shoes off when I enter the house?”

“Of course.”

“Even if I just ran out to the car?”

“Especially if you ran out to the car.”

He nodded again.

And when the flight attendant came around, he turned to you, very serious again. “Would it be too much if I wore a button-up shirt and a sweater vest?”

You stared at him. “Clark.”

He looked down. “Too much.”

“Way too much.”

When you finally landed, it hit you all at once—your city’s humidity, the familiar chaos of your hometown airport, the dread and love that swirled whenever you came back. And Clark, despite being physically indestructible, looked like he was bracing to be body-checked by a culture.

You spotted your younger cousin already waiting near the baggage claim, waving excitedly. Behind her: your uncle. And your other cousin. And your other-other cousin. Oh God.

“They came to the airport?” Clark murmured.

“They always come to the airport,” you said.

“It’s like a parade.”

“It’s like the Olympics,” you muttered, adjusting your tote bag. “You’re the foreign delegation.”

Clark straightened up. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“You’re not ready.”

And you were right.

Because the second they spotted you both, it began—an avalanche of greetings, hugs, questions.

Clark barely had time to breathe before someone was putting a mango in his hand and telling him their immigration story.

Your cousin complimented his teeth (“Are they real?”). Your aunt whispered something about his calves in her language. Your uncle asked him if he watched cricket.

Clark smiled politely. “Not really, but I’d love to learn.”

"I like you already," Your uncle smiled.

Your aunt folded her arms, talking at you with that knowing look. “So, what exactly do you do again? Something with ‘creative’ in the title? You know, those jobs that don’t really pay?”

You winced but tried to stay calm.

Another uncle frowned, voice low but sharp. “Your mother said he was white… didn’t say he was this white.”

Someone else muttered, “Better than the last boyfriend though. At least he doesn’t look like he'll disappear every other week.”

Your cousin chimed in, “Does he even speak your language? Did you know my boyfriend's a polyglot? Most Americans barely even speak two languages.”

"Oh, Shut up, Jen. Latin doesn't count," You roll your eyes.

"Don't talk like that to your cousin, you know she's had it rough since dropping out of Marketing school." Your aunt lightly smacks your shoulder, making you wince.

"Mom!" Your cousin groans. "I didn't drop out, I'm on academic leave."

"It's an embarrassment to the family."

Clark, unshaken, extended his hand smoothly. “Clark Kent. Lovely to meet you all.”

Your aunt cut in quickly, “Have you eaten yet? Yallah, we have all of Rahmid’s Butcher waiting at home. You’re not vegetarian, right?”

“No, ma’am,” Clark said, clearing his throat.

That aunt gave a small approving nod toward you. “Then he’ll survive dinner.”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your temple as the family’s questions and commentary kept coming in waves.

And Clark—Clark just smiled, nodded, said thank you in his thick American accent, and charmed them all like he was born to it. Like he’d been training for this his whole life.

Later, on the ride back to your parents’ place, you leaned over and whispered, “You good?”

He nodded, a little stunned. “They’re… intense.”

“Yup.”

“And that mango was warm. Does he carry them all the time?”

“Yup.”

"And the whole... academic leave thing?"

"Her mom's the one that told her to go on it, she's just being a hard-ass. It's... nobody means it, if that makes sense."

A beat goes by. You’re afraid you’re about to feel a wave of embarrassment as you watch his eyes flicker with something unrecognisable. He then says; “They were very sweet.”

“They are.”

“...Are they always like this?”

You sigh and nod. “Mhm."

“Must’ve been nice,” Clark says softly.

You just smile a bit at that and squeeze his hand.

This was supposed to be a small family barbecue.

You were naive to believe that.

By the time you and Clark arrived, it was already in full swing—less backyard hangout, more intergenerational summit. A pan-ethnic, tupperware fuelled diplomatic incident. Everyone was there. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins you hadn’t seen since they were in diapers. A neighbour. Possibly a judge. Your Uncle’s lawyer from thirty years ago.

The moment Clark stepped into the backyard, he was hit with a wall of sound, smoke, and unsolicited hospitality.

Your dad was manning the grill like it was a battlefield—sweating, scowling, tongs in hand. Kids were running barefoot between folding chairs. Aunties were gathered in tight circles, speaking low and fast with surgical gossip precision. Every table was covered in a patterned tablecloth that could cause optical illusions, and some kind of salad that had not seen refrigeration in hours.

Clark looked like he’d just stepped into another universe.

“You okay?” you asked under your breath.

“I don’t know where to stand,” he said, quiet and wide-eyed. “Is there… like, a designated boyfriend zone?”

You handed him a soda. “Just keep moving. Standing still is how they catch you and hug you forever.”

“I love hugs,” He remarked.

“I know, sweetie, but these people don’t just hug, they hug, tell you a little passive aggressive thing for not visiting enough, then pat you on the back twice and make you rethink your life,” You said.

You went through the standard routine: greeting everyone with a kiss on the cheek, carefully introducing Clark to each person. The familiar flood of “white boy” and “tall man” comments followed him wherever he went, and he made sure to crouch a little when meeting some of your shorter relatives—always accommodating, always trying to fit in. Clark was good at reading the room.

As you wandered through your childhood home, a comforting chaos surrounded you. In the kitchen, aunts bustled around, chopping vegetables and tossing salads, while the lounge was filled with the sound of cousins yelling at each other over video games blaring from the TV.

Clark couldn’t help but pause and stare at the walls plastered with every relative you’d ever had. And their kids. And their kids’ kids. Photos spanning back to when your great-grandfather looked like a serious gentleman posing with a massive mustache and a fez. This was something a lot bigger than what he had in Metropolis or Kansas.

“Aunty, this is my boyfriend, Clark,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Clark, meet Aunty.”

Clark leaned in, kissing her cheek with careful precision. “How many aunties do you have, exactly?”

Your aunt laughed, eyes twinkling. “Don’t start counting or you’ll get dizzy. Some of us are cousins, some are family friends. We’re basically a village spread across six different countries.”

Before you could respond, another relative piped up, “So when’s the wedding? And kids? You know, grandchildren?”

You and Clark exchanged slightly panicked glances, your voices stumbling out, “Uh, well, we’re, um… taking things slow.” You say.

Your aunt gave a knowing look. “That’s what they all say. You know, if you're having fertility issues you should talk to your cousin who got IVF last year.”

You grabbed Clark’s arm, speaking urgently, “We gotta go, Clark's starving."

That shuts them up as you escape the kitchen.

"It smelt really good in there," Clark mumbled to you as he looked back behind him.

"You'll have containers of that when we go, promise," You told.

As you step into the yard, the long table groans under the weight of food. Your father stands rigid by the grill, flipping meat with precise attention. Your mother is nearby, arms crossed, eyes sharp, making sure nothing burns.

“Oh, great. My dad’s right there. Come on,” you say, nodding toward the barbecue.

“Wh- What?” Clark stammers, clearly caught off guard.

“My dad. Dad!” you call out firmly.

Your father looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment. He opens his arms and hugs you tightly. You pull him close, the familiar warmth grounding you. When you step back, Clark steps forward, extending his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Clark says, voice steady but respectful.

Your father eyes him carefully, then shakes his hand firmly.

Your mother watches silently. As Clark turns toward her, she doesn’t say a word but allows him to lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies him.

Clark meets her gaze, nodding before stepping back.

The moment stretches, then your father breaks the silence, eyes glinting with mischief.

“So… Clark, huh? Named after shoes?” he asks, deadpan.

“Sorry?” Clark blinks.

“Clark shoes. The brand?” Your dad repeats.

“I… I'm not sure, actually, you know. I think they just liked the name,” Clark says, unsure how to respond.

Your father hums with a proud smile. “Hm. Well, you know, I’m named after my ancestor—a great warrior.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Weren’t you named after great-grandfather who sold wheat?”

“Okay, well… he definitely fought fights and won. Wheat was in very high demand. Warrior to me,” He replies, unfazed.

Your mother turns her gaze to Clark. “So, journalist, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clark nods.

“Does it pay well?” She asks, folding her arms.

Clark clears his throat, “Uh… it keeps the lights on.”

Your father grins, eyes twinkling. “Good. Because we don’t want any freeloaders at this table.”

You chuckle nervously, stepping in. “Alright, alright, let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

Clark glances at you, a little overwhelmed but still holding it together, while your parents exchange a look that says, We’ll be watching you both closely.

Before he could begin to unpack that with you, someone shoved a paper plate into his hand and began loading it with food. So much food. Things he didn’t recognise. Things wrapped in leaves. Things that shimmered with oil, generations of love and barely restrained judgement.

“Eat, white boy,” your great-aunt commanded, like a threat.

He looked to you. You nodded. “Eat, white boy.” You repeated.

Clark ate a lot that evening.

He tried everything. Even when you knew he’d reached his limit—there was that familiar, slightly drowsy look in his eyes, the same one you’d seen after your whirlwind fly-around-the-world food tour—he didn’t seem to know how to say no.

When people asked if he wanted more, or just started piling food onto his plate without asking, he accepted it all with a grateful smile.

“Jesus, the guy’s got a stomach on him,” your cousin, around your age, whispered to you, half-amazed.

By sunset, Clark had been grilled by three aunties with the classic question: “What are your intentions?” He’d been pulled into selfies by two uncles—“Smile, habibi, you’re family now”—and offered a beer by someone definitely not of legal age but who swore it was “just one.”

He passed every test. Especially the kid one.

A swarm of cousins, ranging from about four to ten, had taken to orbiting him like tiny sharks. One asked if he could pick them up. Then two. Then three. You watched from across the yard as Clark—former farm boy, literal demigod—lifted all three at once. One on each arm, one clinging to his back. It was basically air to him, but he made a show of effort, grunting theatrically.

A cheer erupted. Someone filmed it. It was in the family group chat before the hour was out.

After the kids were done, one of the aunts stepped up and asked if he could lift her. Without hesitation, he hoisted her onto his shoulder like a feather.

“Are you sure you’re okay with being used as a carnival ride now?” you teased, watching a line form behind her.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he said quietly, grinning as your grandmother approached. “Isn’t this what being a superhero is all about?”

You chuckled and slipped away toward your father at the barbecue, where he was flipping skewers with a practiced eye. You pressed a quick kiss to your father’s cheek.

“I know you mentioned he was adopted,” your father said, nodding toward Clark, “but I’d put money on him being Irish. Strong people.”

“Soo… you like him?” you hummed, watching Clark carefully lift your grandmother onto his broad shoulders. She wore her usual unimpressed expression—until he spun her gently around, and her face broke into a wide, genuine laugh.

Your father’s smile tightened. “Look, I’m not going to lie. He’s a good kid, no doubt. Polite, strong, steady. But he’s still an outsider. White. From who-knows-where, really.”

“Dad, come on. Outsider? You sound like some talk radio guy. What if someone told you that before you came here?”

“It’s different,” he said, voice low. “He doesn’t know what we’ve been through. What it means to be us. To survive all that crap.”

“Maybe not, but he’s just as human. And he’s really…” You lower your voice when you catch Clark’s glance in your direction, his smile briefly faltering as he goes to lift a baby—this time making a show of how big and heavy the little one is. “He’s someone I love,” you add quietly. “He’s one of the good ones, okay?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” your dad said, voice lowering a bit. “I’m all for you being happy. But you have to understand - it’s not just about liking someone. It’s about fitting in. With us. Our culture, our family, our expectations.”

He glanced toward the yard where your relatives were still bustling around. “He’s got a lot to learn. About respect. About how things work here. About what it means to be part of this. This family.”

You met his eyes. “Clark wants to learn.”

“Good,” your dad nodded, voice firm. “Because love isn’t enough if the rest of it isn’t there. This isn’t Kansas. It’s not some quiet farm. It’s family. Tradition. Responsibility. We don’t just hand out… khara memberships to anyone who shows up in a button-up and a smile.”

You sighed. “He knows that. He’s good, Dad, I… wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t know he loved me enough to try.”

Your father gave you a hard look but softened just a bit. “Just make sure he doesn’t wear his shoes inside, okay? Not like your cousin’s last boyfriend.”

Some time passes, as desert is handed out. From the same local bakery, with the same not-great cake, but you’ve all had birthday cakes there - it has the same cheap taste to it, that only THAT bakery could make. Clark, obviously, eats all of it. He even goes back for seconds. That definitely scores him points.

“You’re kind of killing it,” you said later, lounging beside him on a sun-warmed lawn chair dragged into the shade.

Clark looked at you, dazed but smiling. There was barbecue sauce on his sleeve and a turmeric smear near his collarbone. He held a juice box in one hand, a skewer in the other.

“I think your grandma called me baba ghanoush?”

“She likes you.”

“She also asked if I have a 401k.”

“That means she really likes you.”

He looked around—your dad still grilling while giving a lecture on interest rates, someone dancing barefoot, three cousins playing tag near a folding table, the sound of music coming from someone’s phone speaker. It’s quieter than it was earlier. These are the moments you remember most vividly.

“It’s a lot,” he admitted.

“Too much?”

“No,” he said, softly, and looked at you in that way he always did when he was saying something important. “It’s exactly right.”

You leaned back, your heart doing something quiet and glowing.

“You’re not even overwhelmed?”

“Oh, I’m deeply overwhelmed,” he said with a little laugh. “But it’s good. I love home, I love my parents, and the family I’ve made at Metropolis and all. But it’s… I don’t know, nice to be part of something so big.”

A beat goes by.

“You know… I—” Clark starts, then pauses. “I know what it’s like to be on the outside. I know, people see me - or they see… you know, Superman, and all they see is where I’m from. Not who I am. I’ve had that kind of hate thrown at me… for being different.. So I-I get the hesitance to let someone like me come here.”

You realise he overheard your conversation with your dad. “Look, what my dad said, it doesn’t—”

“-It’s okay,” Clark insists. “Honestly. I’m just… I want you to know that I get it. And that people fear what they don’t understand, whether that’s a different culture or a different planet. But… you know, being here—with you, with your family—I want to be part of it. I’m gonna try so hard and be the best white boyfriend anyone’s ever known. Okay?”

You look at him, eyes tracing over his features, so earnest, so sincere. He may not realise it yet, but this is the moment you decide you might just have to marry him.

“Okay,” You murmur softly, smiling.

“Okay,” He hums.

As if cue, your mother appeared out of nowhere holding a sealed Tupperware container like she was delivering state secrets.

“For Clark,” she said, ignoring you completely. “You take this. You’re too skinny.”

“Too skinny?” You express, confused. "Mom, he's over 200 pounds."

He accepted it with both hands like it was treasure. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She patted his cheek once, approving. Then turned to you with a brow raise as if to say ‘not bad.’

Later that night, your cousin’s kid fell asleep on Clark’s chest.

You watched him look down at her with quiet awe, like he couldn’t believe something so small could trust him that easily.

You’d seen him save lives. Stop a flood. Carry a collapsing bridge. But that—him gently rubbing a toddler’s back while watching reruns with your uncle—made your heart fall through the floor.

You turned to your mum, watching them from the kitchen as you set down a tea towel, finishing drying dishes as she packed away leftovers into containers.

“He’s… good with people,” you offered, nervous.

She shrugged. “He’s calm. And polite. And doesn’t talk too much. That’s a rare combo.”

You smiled. “So you like him?”

She didn’t look up. “He’s good. And not just for a white boy,” She remarks

Your mother pauses for a moment, clicking the tupperware closed and raising her eyebrows. “But don’t let it go to your head. We still don’t know if he can dance.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Mom—”

“I’m serious!” she says. “We can’t have another wedding where the groom just does that side-to-side shuffle like he’s in a toothpaste commercial.”

You glance back into the living room where Clark—Clark Kent, the most powerful being on Earth—is gently rocking a snoring toddler, her sticky hand latched onto his collar. Your uncle just offered him a second helping of something fiery and fluorescent. He took it without blinking. Again.

“He’s… really trying,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

Your mother hears you anyway. She looks over, suddenly quiet. Then, as if trying not to sound too sentimental: “He makes you less sharp around the edges. Like you’re not always bracing.”

That one lands. Right in the chest.

You nod, blinking quickly. “Yeah. He does that.”

She stirs once more, thoughtful. “Alright. We’ll keep him.”

And just like that, it’s decided. Not with a big declaration. Not with a formal welcome. But with a spoon and a shrug and that matter-of-fact tone only mothers and monarchs have.

You lean against the counter and watch Clark from across the room. He’s still letting the kid drool on him. Still smiling through a third game of Uno with children who cheat shamelessly. Still politely answering questions about interest rates and fibre intake like he wasn’t bulletproof.

And somehow, impossibly, like he belonged.

note: yeah so this is for me and me alone have fun with this! i know it might be kind of annoying that the reader is just.... vaguely ethnic, i just thought it'd be more fun for it to be generally relatable and all . if ur looking for more specific experiences, than i'm sure other people are definitely writing it, or maybe write it urself! i watched this movie second time around with my tayta (who barely goes 2 hours without a cigarette, my idol!), and even though she didn't understand a lot of it (she doesn't speak a lot of english), she liked it. and i just thought of like, oh if i ever had a 6'4 alien white dude, my family would pummel me and him for it. wouldnt that be fun! anyway. even if u dont really relate, or ur family isnt super close or etc, i hope this is a bit comforting and fun to read :3

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