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For as long as you've been in the fanfiction space, threaded through self-insert posts and the like, you've had one question.
Why is the 'you' in these stories so… how do you put it? Dainty? Clumsy? Insignificant?
It isn't just in the scrolls of sentences on your phone, either. It's right in front of you, in your every waking moment. Lois, all confidence and charm, is being criticized left and right for being 'stuck-up' and 'egotistical'. Cat is shamed for being messy, too 'unladylike'.
Then you have Superman, and — by extension — Clark. Your nerdy clutz who's also the most charismatic man you've met in your entire life. Pure competence, entirely heroic. These are good traits, they're the reason why you fell for him.
Clark saves cats from trees, lifts heavy boxes, convinces you to go to work when you really don't want to. Superman prevents building collapses, fights aliens, delves into roaring fires and comes out unscathed. They're both heroes of the every day, the kind of man you've dreamt about for their gentlemanly nature.
The kind that people write about in fanfiction.
The kind that gets paired with a nurse, a librarian, a baker — something… womanly, feminine. Something that can be compressed into a box and revolve around a man.
And, that doesn't mean you don't enjoy a good story about a nurse who patches up a wounded vigilante, or a librarian who becomes 'home', or a baker who entices mister tough guy with the scent of cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee. But it gets a little tiring, doesn't it?
To be the woman who has to sit back, relax, and watch the love of her life risk his life, then turn around and tell you that you're all that he really needs? What if you don't want to be this quiet little character who soothes the tribulations of a long day away without understanding it? What if you wanna be the person who gets it and fights alongside him?
"-And it's like, you aren't protecting her by hiding things for her, you know?" You huff, gesticulating in reference to another stereotypical movie that's playing in the background. Clark nods sagely, treating the matter as seriously as you'd expect him to. He always listens to you, even if it's about something like movie tropes, fanfiction, and how it all connects to the patriarchal society you live in.
He shifts, moving your legs so that they're splayed over his lap. His hand massage at your ankles, affectionate and a tad clingy. "I understand why they might hide things… to an extent."
"Okay, sure. Like, if your identity is known to everyone and anyone then maybe. But—" You make an exasperated noise as the male lead turns away from the female lead, leaving her confused— "Oh my god. This. They never trust her! It's like she's just this- this girl, that they treat as if she has no mind of her own!"
"Right."
"And then she's just gonna forgive him, and he's gonna get a slap on the wrist and some haphazard 'don't do it again'." You groan, sitting up from your lax position on the couch. Maybe it's silly to get so upset about mindless media clearly made for teenagers that fantasize about being swept off their feet by a wealthy, dominant CEO.
"I'd never do that to you." Clark murmurs, pressing his temple to yours, his curls framing his face perfectly. His sentiments are serious, and you know he means it because he didn't try hiding Superman from you. He was rightfully cautious, especially with Lex Luthor on his ass. But he'd told you, he trusted you.
You cup his cheeks with your hands, his warmth seeping into your skin. It's like his blood simply runs hot all the time — an excuse he used to use to justify the blush on his cheeks, though that was back when you were just friends.
"You're too smart for that, aren't you, Clarkie?" You coo teasingly, and his face lights up like it's on fire. Your nose bumps against the frame of his glasses, the very ones that make him Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet. You like him with them on as much as you like him without them.
He pouts. "Not 'Clarkie', my love."
"It's cute." You argue, pressing a peck to the tip of his nose before pulling away.
"It's prepubescent." He protests. "Not very manly."
You lean your elbows on your knees, watching the way his breath hitches at your proximity. "I'm sorry you feel that way, sir Kent."
His brows furrow in that cute, dorky way that belongs solely to him. He doesn't press his case further, knowing it'll only lead to more of your stubborn avoidance. It's fun, watching him huff and puff and droop when you tease him. He'll mumble about it, maybe try again later, but he never lashes out.
Not the way that 'alpha' male leads do in these irritating dramas. Why does a man always have to be angry if he's going through something? Always avoidant? You don't remember that last time you saw a vulnerable male lead who actually ended up being end game. You promise to swear off cheesy romcom, soap opera media after this.
"She should leave him and find a new job." You say abruptly, and Clark takes a second to process what you're referring to. "It has to be an HR violation for your company's CEO to be this invested in you."
"Definitely a power imbalance." Clark remarks. You wonder when he learnt to just go along with your train of thought without proposing some sort of arbitrary solution, maybe that's something his mother taught him, sweet woman that she is.
"How much do you wanna bet that the problem is gonna be solved with money?"
"No, they're going to meet in the middle of the night while it's raining and shout their feelings at each other." He grins. "Like all real adults do."
"That's a good one, I should've thought of that…" You mumble as you press your thumbs into his dimples, making his smile spread wider. Very adorable. Very Clark. "When did you get so good at guessing plot lines, hmm?"
"I learn from the best, ma'am." His hands splay over your waist, tugging you closer. He's good at distracting you from the things that frustrate you, even if it's a third rate drama that you chose. He can't keep getting away with this.
Not that you're really complaining.
"A sweet talker I see." You pepper kisses to his face, feigning ignorance to the way he shuts the TV off. Clark presses his lips to yours, tender and gentle as he savors your existence. He's a smitten man, and that much is abundantly clear to anyone unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of him and his cheesiness.
You love that he listens.
You also love that he loves you.
He pulls away just barely and beams at you. His curls stick out, bounce on his forehead with every little movement. He emanates a woodsy, inky scent, and he's got pretty blue eyes filled with the sight of you.
"Only for you." He breathes. "Always for you."
You'll save the rants about the patriarchy and depiction of incompetent women for later, when your heart isn't swelling at his perfection.