Chapter Text
Clark Kent
Professor in the ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
METROPOLITAN GOTHAM ACADEMY
LIT 229
Rating: 2/5
"Professor Kent WILL hijack entire lectures to gush about his husband. Doesn’t matter if we’re supposed to be analyzing Shakespeare—suddenly we’re all trapped listening to how ‘incredible’ his husband looked making pancakes. Apparently, love is real and I’m just failing this class because I couldn’t remember what book his husband bought him for their anniversary.
Also, he laughs at his own puns. Loudly. All the time. The man is unstoppable. He once extended class by thirty minutes because someone asked if his husband also reads Homer, and instead of saying yes or no, he gave us a TED Talk about the importance of communication in marriage. The midterm literally had an essay prompt asking us to compare Odysseus’s longing for Penelope to how he misses his husband when they’re apart. Spoiler: if you don’t phrase it romantically enough, you WILL lose points.
He brings baked goods sometimes but only because, and I quote, ‘my husband says I shouldn’t let my students starve while I’m rambling about Keats again.’ Which would be nice except the cookies come with a ten-minute story about how they were made together, which somehow also becomes relevant for the final exam. I’m convinced half this course is just Professor Kent trying to turn us into a fan club for his marriage. Someone PLEASE tell me who married this menace because I need to know who willingly signed up for this life."
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_________
The wrought-iron gates of the Metropolitan Gotham Academy yawn open like the mouth of an ancient slumbering beast, and Lois Lane feels very much like a morsel about to be swallowed whole.
She lingers just shy of the threshold. The campus seems to pause with her, ivy-draped walls looming expectantly, as if the buildings themselves are waiting to see whether she’ll bolt or break into a nervous sprint. Her sneakers scuff faint, indecisive arcs into the pavement. In her one hand, her freshman schedule has been folded and refolded into a sad, crumpled paper—an origami of nerves with no discernible shape except panic.
At the top of her schedule, one line burns through the paper:
LIT 229: Advanced Literature with Professor Clark Kent.
On paper, it’s harmless. Polite. Even respectable. But in whispered legends, in hushed upperclassmen confessions traded like contraband, that name gleams with warning. Not the type of dry warnings tucked in the pages of orientation pamphlets, nor the carefully worded reassurances of academic advisors, no. This knowledge comes from the true underground archive of student suffering:
Rate My Professor.
That untamed wasteland of truth, exaggeration, and petty vengeance.
Lois remembers it too vividly: scrolling at three in the morning, eyes bleary, the cold blue glow of her laptop turning her into an insomniac moth trapped against the screen. Each review had felt like a flare in the darkness, a warning from survivors who barely made it out of LIT 229 alive.
Half of the reviews crowned Professor Kent like a saint in thick-rimmed glasses. Sweetest professor alive. Gentle grader. Teaches like literature is oxygen. Would follow him into battle.
The other half read like obituaries. Death by close reading. Essays that will grind your soul into footnotes. I now wake up at night whispering Shakespearean couplets.
And then—
There were the bizarre ones.
The ones that mentioned his husband.
"Bring earplugs. He WILL talk about his husband for twenty minutes straight. Exam questions include personal trivia. I failed the midterm because I didn’t remember their anniversary date."
Lois had stared at that last one until the text seared into her retinas. What kind of lunatic turns his marriage into required course material? The thought had haunted her until dawn. She pictured Kent wild-eyed at the lectern, reciting wedding vows instead of Austen, handing out midterms that asked which side of the bed his spouse preferred. In a haze of near-delirium, she half-expected to walk into class and find the syllabus written like a Valentine's invitation.
And now—now she stands before the Academy itself, the grounds sloping toward her like they can smell fear.
The fountain in the quad gurgles with obnoxious cheer, its bubbling spray sounding suspiciously like laughter. Ivy clings to the brick walls, restless in the breeze, green-tongued gossips whispering in low conspiracies. Sunlight ricochets off the tall windows in sly, flashing winks, as though the building itself is in on the joke. Even the pigeons lining the roof beams tilt their heads in perfect judgment, their beady eyes gleaming at her with disdain. Fresh meat, their gaze all but sneers.
Lois inhales. Squares her shoulders. Moves forward.
She didn’t come here to be eaten alive by pigeons or professors. She came here to become a journalist, to sharpen her voice into headlines, to dig into the marrow of truth until it gleams. She is Lois Lane, and Lois Lane does not back down from intimidating professors with questionable syllabi (and apparently very strong feelings about their husbands).
But the paper in her hand does not soften. It only glares harder: LIT 229: Advanced Literature with Professor Clark Kent.
It doesn’t read like a course title anymore.
It reads like a dare.
“Okay, Lane,” she mutters under her breath, her voice stitched together from scraps of bravado. “It’s just literature. How bad can one professor really be?”
The clock tower above chooses that exact moment to toll.
Its bells echo through the air with a solemn weight, deep and resonant as rolling thunder. The sound shudders across the courtyard, reverberates off the stone walls in menacing waves, dramatic enough to make her flinch.
Lois winces, already regretting the question. Right. Jinxed it.
Still, she takes her first step toward the English Department. Not with the grace of a scholar, but with the reckless courage of a knight striding into a dragon’s lair—if the dragon happened to hoard poetry, puns, and unsolicited stories about his husband.
_________
Clark Kent
Professor in the ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
METROPOLITAN GOTHAM ACADEMY
LIT 229
Rating: 5/5
"He's literally sunshine incarnate. Like the human embodiment of a golden retriever in glasses. Once saw him rescue a wounded squirrel on campus and cradle it like a Victorian orphan until animal services arrived. I had to sit down. I almost passed out. I am not exaggerating. I swear to fucking god.
It's a crime against the student body that he's happily married, lol. Whoever Kent’s mysterious husband is, can you even fight, bro?”
98 likes • 16 dislikes
_________
Lois slips into LIT 229 with her nerves wound so tightly they thrum beneath her skin, a low, insistent current she cannot quiet. Her palms are damp against the slick coil of her spiral notebook, and the pen in her grip quivers as though caught in the same current.
The classroom itself is nothing remarkable at first glance: rows of desks worn smooth by restless hands, a chalkboard waiting in silence at the front, tall windows filtering in pale shafts of the afternoon light. Yet to Lois, the air feels heavier here, saturated with the residue of academic terror.
This room has seen things. This room has survived Clark Kent.
And then he walks in.
Clark Kent is not at all what she expected. Not the grim reaper of essays conjured in her midnight readings on Rate My Professor, but something gentler, almost startlingly so. He’s tall and slightly awkward, glasses perched precariously on his nose, strong arms full of books that look moments from toppling. There’s a certain air of earnestness about him, the kind that feels amiss beside the academia’s sharp edges. And when he smiles—open, guileless, unguarded—it lands with the disarming force of sunlight through storm clouds.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, voice warm and steady, a baritone that hums through the lecture hall with a calming resonance.
Instantly, the room shifts: freshmen lift their chins, upperclassmen ease into their seats, and Lois swears she hears an audible ripple of relief pass through the rows.
The opening minutes slip by in deceptive ease. Kent unfurls the syllabus with patient clarity, walking them through essays, presentations, quizzes. Each daunting requirement is cushioned with encouragement—gentle reminders that it may look heavy now, but “we’ll get through it together.” Against her will, the iron band clamped between Lois’s shoulder blades loosens.
He’s kind, she thinks, and startles at the realization. Definitely kind. Maybe the reviews exaggerated.
Then Kent pivots to the day’s material: a close reading of a Shakespearean sonnet. The transformation is immediate—his eyes brighten, his voice gains momentum, and his gestures unravel into an animated rhythm. He leans casually against the desk, chalk in hand, sketching ideas on the board while fielding students’ hesitant comments with nods and encouragement. He stands and teaches with the poise of a man in love with literature, alive in it.
And then, midway through a passionate explanation of a metaphor, he drops the first bomb.
“Of course,” Kent says casually, like he's commenting on the weather, “this reminds me of something my husband said once.”
A ripple goes through the room.
Pens pause mid-scribble. A cough ricochets off the back wall.
Lois tilts her head as if that might clear her hearing. Husband?
But Kent barrels on, utterly unconcerned, folding the anecdote seamlessly into the fabric of the lecture. He recounts how his husband once compared the act of translation to a mirror with a crack running through the surface—still reflecting, yes, but fractured, its image tinged with distortion. The class nods at this sentiment, thoughtful. Lois, however, is reeling.
Five minutes later, another slips out: “My husband and I were debating whether this line is romantic or tragic—he insists it’s both, and I can’t quite disagree.”
By the fifth anecdote, Lois’s pen trembles in protest beneath her tightening grip. This is not an accident. This is a pattern. The reviews were right.
The rest of the period unspools in a blur. Lois dutifully scribbles notes on poetry and pentameter, but beside them, a separate column begins to form—fragments about Kent’s mysterious spouse. A husband with an eye for detail, a dry humor sharp enough to challenge Kent in debate, and a man who, apparently, scowls at Shakespearean sonnets as though they have personally wronged him.
By the time the class is dismissed, Lois gathers her things with the disorientation of someone unsure what class she has just attended. Literature 229, or an unadvertised seminar in Clark Kent’s married life.
_________
Clark Kent
Professor in the ENGLISH DEPARTMENT
METROPOLITAN GOTHAM ACADEMY
LIT 229
Rating: 3/5
ok so like… mr. kent is actually an amazing professor. dude explains novels like he’s sprinkling fairy dust on the syllabus. i walked in thinking “ugh, another lit class” and walked out crying over oxford commas. respect.
BUT. i did not sign up for the Clark Kent Cinematic Husband Universe™ !!! this man mentions his spouse EVERY. SINGLE. CLASS. at first it’s cute (“haha wholesome prof loves his man <3”) but by week 5 i managed to somehow learn the mystery husband’s usual coffee order (half-caf/decaf peaberry non-fat latte, steamed to 145 degrees, not too much cinnamon, short of butterscotch fUCK), his collection of antique art and weaponry, or that his favorite movie is The Mark of Zorro (all of this I learned AGAINST my will) THAN I LEARNED MORE ABOUT DOSTOEVSKY
to be fair though he actually gives good grades and offers a lot of constructive feedback. he's also incredibly considerate and encouraging to his students. which is important to me, because my lit class from hs gave me nothing but a lifetime of crippling academic trauma (fuck you, mrs. dolores!!!). but that’s a story for another day…
overall, mr. kent’s a great professor. but also like the biggest simp you’ll ever know.
so yeah. take his class if you wanna learn literature and accidentally minor in Husband Studies.
699 likes • 26 dislikes
_________
The first month of LIT 229 passes in a soft, bewildering blur, and by the second week Lois is no longer entirely sure what the course is about. Literature, presumably. Texts. Themes. Possibly the human condition. What it is definitely about, however, becomes clear by the second lecture: Clark Kent’s husband.
It starts innocently enough, smuggled into a discussion of narrative voice like a contraband snack. You should hear how my husband tells the story of how we met, Kent says, chalk tapping thoughtfully against the board. He insists I came up to him looking like a lovestruck paparazzi, but the truth is—
Whatever the truth might be, it dissolves beneath the audible shift of fifty-something students leaning back in their chairs, too tired or too polite to catch the rest. Lois, however, feels the words lodge like a pebble in her shoe, impossible to ignore.
A week later, she storms in armed with coffee and an ironclad resolve: she will not be distracted by irrelevant anecdotes. Kent is already at the board, diagramming a passage, chalk dust smudging his fingertips. Without warning, he quotes his husband’s interpretation of Macbeth. It is completely off-tangent. It is also devastatingly insightful.
Lois scribbles it down on reflex. Then freezes, pen hovering.
Why do I care what some faceless man thinks of Lady Macbeth? she demands internally. Her hand, traitor that it is, refuses to cross out the notes.
By the fifth week, the whispers have started to bloom.
Lois catches fragments before class:
"Do you think the husband’s real?"
"What if it’s just a teaching gimmick?"
"What if he’s, like, Professor Luthor from Business Management?"
Lois smothers a laugh in her notebook, but later, when the room has gone quiet and Kent is halfway through an analysis of enjambment, the question needles its way back into her thoughts, persistent like a fever she cannot break.
The seventh week brings the first long test, and with it, sabotage. Lois stares down at the paper in disbelief:
Explain the importance of metaphor in Sonnet 116. Bonus: What does my husband always say about it?
A wave of outrage ripples through the classroom—groans, muttered curses, one student audibly whispering “This is unethical.” Lois can only gape. The universe, she decides, has a cruel sense of humor.
And then, the ninth week: Kent arrives nearly an hour late, rain-soaked and apologetic, jacket dripping onto the linoleum, curls damp and unruly at his temples. He looks rumpled yet incandescent; the storm seemingly powerless against the inherent light he carries.
“Sorry, everyone," he says cheerfully, "my husband insisted on walking me in the rain.” He says it with such guileless ease, like it’s the most natural confession in the world. Lois has no idea what to do with that particular shard of information, except let it lodge and glint in her mind like glass.
By the end of the second month, Lois is entirely gone.
She knows more about this unseen man—his reading habits, his appetite, the way he laughs at her professor’s worst jokes—than she knows about her own roommate. She finds herself splintered somewhere between fascination and absolute delirium. Each time the word “husband” leaves Kent’s mouth, it crackles in the air like static, a charge that makes her sit straighter, listen harder.
Other students take Kent’s anecdotes in stride, like background noise, no more disruptive than the hum of the radiator. But for Lois, every casual mention is a spark against flint, striking her curiosity ablaze. She pictures the husband as a rotating cast of characters: a rugged lumberjack, a stern vigilante, a man who can quote Gilgamesh from memory. She tries to overhear scraps of gossip in the cafeteria, but it’s all maddeningly vague: “Oh, Professor Kent’s husband? Yeah, he’s… something.”
Every class ends the same way—Lois leaves with her head buzzing, less about Homer or Eliot than about the greatest unsolved mystery of LIT 229: Who is Clark Kent’s husband, and why does he talk about him like he’s the sole axis of the universe?
And Lois Lane, who cannot resist a mystery if her life depended on it, knows one thing with absolute certainty.
She will find out.