maisy1111 - Tumblr blog

maisy1111 · 8 days ago

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This man has been living in my head rent free

love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight

a/n: this was purely inspired by the fact i totally interpreted that final kiss in the film as clark just being so enraptured he didn't even notice he was flying tehe

Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is. spoiler-free, fem!reader, 7k, all fluff babey <3

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You always hear him before you see him—though the ding of the elevator is a dead giveaway.

A glance at the clock tells you it’s 9:07am. Not the latest he's been, but it's definitely getting there.

"You're late, Kent."

"Sorry, sorry."

There's a smattering of murmured apologies being given out behind you, soft, fast footsteps, and then something is placed beside you. An iced latte rings the beginnings of a water-mark on your desk.

You look up, already smiling. "Please don't tell me you were late because you were getting me this."

Clark, ruffled and clutching his briefcase in one hand, balancing a tray of coffees in the other, pauses in his hurried motions. He looks down at you guiltily.

His mouth twists, a poor attempt to hold back a smile. You're thankful, if only for the fact you're particularly prone to your most foolish moments when Clark Kent smiles at you.

"Alright," he says. "I won't tell you."

Your eyes track him as he rounds the desk, slanting up his briefcase to deposit it. His response has only made you smile harder. You hide it behind a sip of your coffee.

Upon first taste, a pleased sigh escapes you. The drink is perfectly sweetened, creamy and icy-sweet. You have to force yourself not to chug half of it in one go.

The logo, forest green, printed across the front catches your attention.

Just to check, you glimpse at the other cups in Clark’s tray. He delivers one to Jimmy, his head buried in his laptop, and one to Lois, who hums her thanks. Another to Cat and one to Ron.

Each of their cups are a boring beige - which he’s gone out of his way for you specifically.

“You shouldn’t have,” You say, as Clark sits down opposite you at his desk, his hands finally free. He looks up, expression innocent, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose.

You twist the cup to face him, the only coffee from a different store than the others. “Really.”

Clark shrugs, nudging his glasses back up almost sheepishly. You can almost convince yourself that his ears are a shade pinker.

“It’s the one you like, isn’t it?” He gestures with a pen.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Is it?”

He’s being unbelievably genuine. As if, of course he’d go the extra distance for you.

“Yes, Clark,” You say, much less firmly than you’re hoping for. Your smile weakens it even more. “It is.”

A ping on your laptop saves you from having the sputter through your exact reasoning on why it’s beside the point.

You tend to it hastily, pointedly ignoring your hot coworkers expression. It’s not smugness — Clark could never be — but it’s something damn close.

He knows he’s right. You know he’s also sort of right too. He's perfectly allowed to do nice things for you. It’s just…

Clark Kent is a man who is too good to be true.

First of all, he’s nice. Awfully nice. Clark goes out of his way to help others.

He opens doors, is always the one with his arm out, holding the elevator, and he never minds the awkward wait for the last person to catch up.

He offers to carry bags, insisting even, then loads them over his arms like they weigh nothing.

You’ve seen him hail a cab for an old lady. He gets coffee for everyone around your corner of the bullpen. He’s nice.

And he seems to do it for the sake of being nice too.

Then there’s also the fact that… Well, you have eyes.

That is to say, he’s handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair and light eyes. He’s double-take-on-the-street-handsome.

He’s a gentleman too, polite and never overstepping. In fact, sometimes you think he’s loud on purpose, rustling as he moves about so he never accidentally catches you off guard.

That combination— the kindness of his character and his attractive appearance —is killer to a girl like you.

And anyone with eyes and a brain, in your humble opinion.

It’s why you’re also 100% sure, without even asking, that he’s already snatched up and locked down.

A man like that, single? In Metropolis? Ha!

Nevermind that he’s never technically mentioned a partner. Clark’s on the reserved side. You know about the same as everyone else; a small town farm boy from Kansas turned big city journalist.

Though, he did mention he was looking after his cousin’s dog to you the other week—after he caught you scrolling the SPCA’s page. You wonder how many people he’s told that to.

Wordlessly, you glance up, peering over the dividers between desks.

Clark’s engaged in his work, as you should be, a furrow between his brows. Despite all that you’ve just outlined, despite him being your coworker, there’s still a tug. You can’t resist the daydream.

Besides, there’s no real harm in a sweet and secret work crush.

No harm other than to perhaps your own ego—which happens every time you catch yourself mooning over him like a muppet.

Nose twitching, you force your eyes down. A new email slides onto your screen, blinking its high priority at you. You sigh, resisting the urge to look back up. It’s a fun daydream, but you have work to do.

You take another sip of your coffee — and in doing so, miss the gaze that lingers on your lips.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Living in Metropolis, two things are a given for all citizens.

1. Some part of your life has been interrupted by intergalactic aliens and 2. You have an opinion on Superman.

These two things usually go hand-in-hand, often when the first thing crashes into your life, forcing the second.

Though, in your experience, most Metropolitans have a handful of words prepared on whether the metahuman is more menace or hero.

As a journalist yourself, you’re surprisingly middle of the road.

Alien attacks suck. Superman does his best to intervene, saving people first, buildings second. Fallout is mitigated, but ultimately inevitable.

You see more of it than usual. You’re the Daily Planet’s man on the ground — out in the fray, it’s generally your notes that veto whatever else is circulating around the news hubbub; Superman action included.

Of course, you’ve not quite managed to snag an interview with the man himself.

That is a Clark Kent exclusive, which infuriates you just a smidge. You suppose it’s good for Superman that Clark favours painting him in a good light.

Today, you’re not even out for a Superman-esque story — your tape-recorder, an old-school thing, whirs loudly on the table to get a quote from the Mayor’s office — but as you track the meteor heading straight for a skyscraper, you figure it’s just one of those days.

“Please excuse me,” You say, reaching out to pause your tape.

The man before you, focus stolen and solely on the incoming meteor through the window, doesn’t respond. His mouth has opened a fraction, in surprise.

You figure he’ll understand you stepping out.

The door chime announces your exit and you get a closer look at today’s threat.

The meteor is a concerning flaming purple colour. A trail, dark and murky, traces its path in the sky. If you strain your ears, you can hear it—a faint whistle, like a shriek picking up volume as it approaches.

You don’t bother taking notes. There’ll be footage streamed online within the minute.

Pocketing your tape-recorder, you straighten your jacket and try to map the trajectory. You squint.

If you had to bet money, you’d guess it’s heading straight for the Harmony block apartments on 7th St - if it’s not intercepted, that is.

Sniffing for the story, you tuck your hands in your pockets and begin to head in that direction.

Dotted throughout the street, people have begun to stop and stare, their worried mutters paired with pointed fingers. Cars screech to a halt and impatient drivers honk their unhappiness.

An odd apprehension tinges the air. A nervous hush settles down amongst the streets.

You wind through the crowds of people easily, keeping a close eye on the violet-coloured projectile. You don’t want to get too close. You’re not stupid — you just need to get close enough to scrape together the important details.

Regular ol’ meteor? Intergalactic version of a catapult flung towards Earth with intent to harm?

Your brows furrow in thought, mind whirring, as you sidestep a halted couple, murmuring your excuse me’s.

Without taking your eyes off the meteor, you fumble around to find your notepad in your bag, You hand bangs against your tape-recorder in your pocket, hitting record.

“Well, what is it?” An older lady remarks.

She’s too blind to see it properly you’d guess, evidenced by her thick-glasses and heavy squint. “Some sort of bird?”

“It’s definitely not a plane,” Someone else in the crowd mutters.

The shriek of the meteor gets louder, its burn transforming to an auburn colour as it tears through the atmosphere. You’re just a couple blocks away from Harmony apartments when you hear it, a familiar sonic boom! that sets you stumbling for a moment.

Something has taken flight.

Just in time as well. An awful crackling noise has pierced through the shrieking of the meteor. Shimmers of light, brighter than the flaming auburn, begin to reach out from within the rock like stretched out fingers.

It’s at this point you have the sense to stop walking toward it.

And as if on cue, the meteor fractures with a loud burst.

The structure crumbles, torn into a handful of pieces and they quickly careen out in various directions. They’re faster now, propelled by the delayed blast.

“Shit.” you say astutely.

There’s a funny thing about things falling right in your line of vision; they can appear to stop moving completely.

You watch, perplexed, as a large chunk of the meteor seems to hover in place, then rise up, then slowly, slowly it dawns on you that it’s rapidly growing in size. You realise with a spike of horror that it’s heading right for you.

“Shit.” you say again, more panicked this time.

This is not what you meant when you said you’re out in the fray. Feet backtracking, you stumble over yourself before realising going backward isn’t your best bet.

You course-correct, before finally realising you aren’t the only one in the crosshairs of this rogue rock.

Your head whips around, left to right. People are staring at the incoming meteor, but not enough have realised what you already had.

“Move,” you say, too quietly. People can’t seem to break their horrified stares. The strange roar of the meteor deafens as it gets closer.

“Move! Everybody move!”

Something in your voice overrides their frozen instincts. A frantic energy surges through the crowd around you, people beginning to move with haste, bleating their fear.

You swallow your relief as the space begins to clear out and you follow them closely, casting another glance around.

Your gaze catches.

A lone child stands in the middle of the rapidly clearing street, a little girl swathed in maroon and confusion. Her little face searches for the reason for the obvious distress washing over the street, despair beginning to sink in.

Limbs freezing, your eyes comb through the crowd desperately, hoping to spot a parent fighting their way back to them - to no avail.

Horror shoves up your throat at the thought of her alone, waiting, unaware of the danger. You move without thinking.

You manage all of one step, then there’s a blur of blue that stops you. Suddenly, the girl is right before you - and so is Superman.

“Hello.” He says politely.

“Hi.” you breathe.

He’s got one hand on the shoulder of the kid, who’s torn between the shock of travelling at super-speed and seeing Superman himself. Her distress has been wiped away by awe.

Superman looks down, smiling kindly, “You’re safe now.”

He looks back up at you. “I trust I can leave this little one with you til the danger is past?”

“Hi.” you say again, foolishly. Your face flames. “I mean- yes, you can.”

When you look back on this interaction, you’ll undoubtedly be beyond embarrassed. Sue you, you’ve never seen Superman up close before.

Superman smiles again, this time his perfect grin on display. He scans the street around you diligently, sweeping for danger.

“You did a terrific job clearing out the street.”

His focus locks onto the now much closer threat with a more serious expression. You secretly take the moment to appreciate the sharp line of his jaw.

“Now, I’ll be right back,” He assures, looking first at the kid, then up to you. You wonder if his curl just does that. “And then we can find this one’s parents together.”

And with a final friendly squeeze on the kid’s shoulder, he turns and launches into flight, heading right for the incoming meteor.

The next few minutes are a bit of daze after that. You snatch moments of the chaos in the sky as Superman juggles between the pieces of the meteor.

It’s unclear if the plan is to let them ground, but given their hideous continued shrieks, you’re rather relieved when he bats them back up into the atmosphere.

Huh, you think, almost amusedly; it’s almost like superpowered baseball.

Just as they had arrived, the pieces streak back up into the sky, their awful shrieks fading as they disappear from view. You spot a familiar blur tracing their paths. Keeping them out of airspace, no doubt.

The girl, who had taken your hand the moment you offered it, still holds it tightly.

“Is he coming back?”

You turn and smile down at her, stooping down to match her height. Truth is, you’re not sure - but Superman seems like a man of his word.

“He said he would be.” You hope that’s assurance enough. “What’s your name?”

“Maisie.” She tells you, smiling enough to show off a slight snaggle-tooth. Adorable.

“That’s a wonderful name,” You say genuinely. “Who were you with today? Who might be looking for you, hm?”

Somewhere across the city, an ambulance siren wails its cry. The crowds are dispersing from their panic, people getting back on track with the danger now averted. This is Metropolis, after all.

Maisie rattles off how she had been with her aunt, ‘cos it’s Tuesday and she spends every Tuesday with her aunt Tess, and they were on their way to get lunch at Alma’s, ‘cos they always get Alma’s on a Tuesday.

It’s a sandwich store only 2 blocks away. She points with a finger in the general direction.

“Hmm,” You hum, following her finger. “I bet if I was your aunt Tess, I would’ve gone to Alma’s to see if you were there. Do you think we should go see if she’s there?”

Maisie nods, her loose pigtails flying with the motion.

“But what about Superman?” She says before you can straighten up.

“Right here.”

You jump a little, having not heard his arrival. Superman at least has the decency to offer you a sheepish look as he steps up on the other side of Maisie, already offering her a hand.

“Alright there, Miss?” He asks her seriously. She openly gawps up at him and nods faintly, her mouth open.

He smiles. “Great.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours intently. “And you, Miss? I think I can handle getting Maisie here back to where she belongs, if you have somewhere else you need to be.”

Maisie’s petite head swings around to face you. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Or closed her mouth. You think she’s even more starstruck that Superman knows her name.

“Y’know, I think I’d like to see her back into safe hands if that’s alright?”

Something flits across Superman’s expression, but he still only smiles and nods. “Two chaperones are certainly better than one.”

So, the three of you walk the two blocks to Alma’s, with both of Maisie’s hands held the whole way. Aunt Tess is tearfully relieved at her safe return and when she blubbers her thank-you’s, you’re surprised when Superman redirects them to you.

“I had help today,” he says.

Between the sincere thankfulness from Aunt Tess and the warm look from Superman, it’s a challenge not to fluster too much.

Maisie waves goodbye to both of you, her little hands still going wildly as she rounds the corner out of sight — and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Thank you for taking good care of her,” says Superman.

You turn and blink, half-surprised he’s still here.

He surely must be busy with, like, …hero stuff, right? But still, he’s taking the time to thank you.

“Of course.” You say. The words stammer a bit as you’re taken aback by his sincerity.

You find he has a very intense gaze when it’s fixed solely on you.

“Not everyone would have stayed with her the whole time. Or stepped in to begin with.” He commends. “It was brave of you to put yourself in danger to help her, so thank you.”

Now you’re really stunned. You flounder for words and end up biting your tongue so nothing stupid comes out.

In the end, you just say, “Of course.” again.

That makes him smile again. Dimples press into his cheeks. It’s enough to threaten to make you swoon.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.” He nods to you, then steps back and readies himself to fly once more.

“Wait,” The sound of your name pulls you up short. “How do you know my name?”

“It’s, uh, on your case.” He nods to it.

Any other questions are swallowed up by the howl of the wind, air tunnelling around him loudly as he abruptly takes flight. He turns to a blur and you watch the sky, even when there’s nothing left to watch.

The street around you dims, softened, and then its noise filters back in slowly. Cars droning, traffic lights flicking, the murmur of conversation. You hadn’t realised how much all of that had quietened with Superman’s attention on you.

For a long moment, you’re simply stumped on how to feel.

If one’s things for sure, you have a much more concrete opinion on Superman than you did this morning — though nothing you can quite put a finger on.

Admiration? Maybe.

Something else twinges in there, unbidden.

You slip your hands into your pockets to mull it over, surprised when your hand bumps into something unexpected. Curling your fingers around it, you pull it out.

Still whirring away, your tape-recorder sits in the palm of your hand, record button blinking.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

The tape clicks as it pauses, then revolves back with a scribbling sound.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

You hit pause, then hit rewind. Your finger hovers over the play button, contemplating if you’re really going to listen to this part of the tape over and over like a lovesick teenage girl.

You certainly feel like one. The tape must be wearing thin by this point.

Eyes screwing shut, you hit play.

“Take care of yourself, y/n.”

Hitting pause, you groan. You chuck the tape softly to the other end of the couch you’re draped across so you can’t be tempted to play it once more. Then you bury your face in your hands.

“This is getting pathetic.” you mumble to yourself.

The rogue meteor and your subsequent brush with Superman had occurred two whole days ago.

You’re rather thankful it had all gone down on a Friday. It has certainly given you ample time to waste. All of yesterday and today has been spent on that god forsaken tape and the graininess of Superman’s voice.

The audio was a little muffled, given the device had been pocketed away. There’s lots of rustling, louder than anything else, when you’d been running.

But your whole easy conversation with Maisie as she dawdled her way to Alma’s had been captured — including her a million questions for Superman, that he’d dutifully answered.

That’s not quite the part you’re stuck on though.

Sighing, you deflate into the couch. The image of his dimples, his smile, floats in. You have to mentally bat it away.

Man, why do you feel almost like you’re betraying your crush on Clark right now?

You drag your hands away and huff again at your own dramatics. There’s no betraying. Those crushes fall into the exact same box: unfathomable and impossible.

Sitting up, your eyes fall on the tape recorder. You regard it thoughtfully for a moment.

Beyond the selfish reasons you’ve been abusing the tape, there’s also the question of using it for an article. The idea has been circling your mind since Friday, since your first listen.

There’s a reason you’re the man on the ground. Sure, you can write but, well, you’re not quite top quality like Jimmy or Clark or Lois.

This one though, this tape, has you particularly inspired.

Plus, you’re not exactly jazzed at the idea of passing off the recording to one of your coworkers.

Jimmy? He’d probably latch onto your part in it all, some Superman-inspires-citizen-to-do-good angle. The thought makes your nose wrinkle - you don’t want to be the focal point.

Clark? Who already got Superman interviews? It’s hardly worth his time.

And Lois? No chance you’d turn the tape over to her. She’s so sharp, she’d probably notice the scratch in the audio from where you’ve paused and rewound — and then you’d never know peace.

Given your choices, or lack thereof, it really only leaves you with one last option.

Feeling more set than you have all weekend, you push up off the couch and retrieve your laptop. You settle it in your lap and get comfy, folding the screen up.

After a moment, you lean across and grab the tape recorder too, rewinding once more — this time from the very beginning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

If someone were to describe you, you bet they'd say that today, you have a pep in your step. And screw it, maybe you do!

It's not every day that you get an article published in the Daily Planet, not with your more lackey-level job on the ground.

But it's more than that too. Not only is it published, but it's on the second page.

For some, that's all in a day's work. For you? It's nothing to sneeze at.

It's your most prolific article published to date in your whole year of working at the Daily Planet. You suppose you have some great inspiration to thank for that

And some of your coworkers are kind enough to take notice of your milestone.

Cat had squealed excitedly her congrats in the elevator earlier, whilst Jimmy had given you a nod of approval from across the bullpen. You're practically walking on air as you drop down into your seat.

For a change, Clark isn't late today.

Glimpsing the time, you watch him subtly out the corner of your eye as he spends the last few free minutes dropping a round of coffee.

The crush in you aches. You bury your yearning beneath your best attempt at looking busy, studying your computer screen.

It's broken instantly when Clark sits across from you and your eyes flit up at the movement.

He's already looking at you. With both hands on the cup, he holds your regular iced latte and presents it forward like a precious gift.

To you, it is. You wonder if it's written on your face, with how you can't bite back your smile.

"I'm sorry I can't get something better to celebrate with." He says as you relieve him of the cup. The condensation clings to your fingers, but you can only focus on the brush of his fingers.

"Celebrate?"

Clark's brow furrows. He regards you with a look that says you know what.

"It's only second page." You downplay.

Like you hadn't done a little dance when you got the email that Perry had greenlit it for the second page.

"Only?" Clark exclaims. If you didn't know better, you'd have no idea he'd copped multiple front page articles for the Planet. "C'mon, you must have some plans for a celebration."

If you're being honest, said plans included curling up on your couch and gorging yourself on Chinese food. Not quite a celebration, but still a treat for you.

"Not really." You admit honestly. The attention from him is making you bashful - and truthful.

Clark shakes his head at that. He plants his hands on the desk and leans forward, looking at you seriously over the rim of his glasses. "That just won't do. Let's do dinner."

After a moment, he seems to realise how pushy that might seem. Clearly (and thankfully), your glee is well-hidden as he retracts in a bit, sitting a bit straighter.

"I mean, that is- if you'd like. Would you?" He clears his throat. "Like to go to dinner?"

You have to wrestle to keep the grin from splitting on your face. Magically, you muster the calm to take a sip of your coffee, pretending to mull it over.

Across the desk, Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - almost nervously.

You get struck with the sudden thought that perhaps, crazily, your crush might not be as one-sided as you once thought.

"I meeean," You drag out the word as if you're still tossing it up. "I was pretty set on the #4 combo from Mr. Go's on my block."

Screw being a journalist, you should be an actor given the little twitch of Clark's brow. You don't let him stew for more than a moment.

"So, you could maybe join?" You offer, nearly holding your breath. "Come to mine?"

Your heart threatens to turn itself inside out from nerves. Somehow, Clark manages to sit up even straighter. He huffs out a breath, then he's grinning, dimples on show. He nods severely.

"To celebrate." He tacks on.

One of his hands has drifted up to fiddle with his tie, but you can't tell if it's tighten or loosen it.

"To celebrate." You agree with a nod. You have to press your lips together to contain your grin. It's a battle you're happy to lose.

And if you spend the rest of the day catching each other's eyes across the desk? That's your own damn business.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

"I can't believe I've never heard of this place before!"

You laugh around your forkful of noodles at Clark's earnest excitement. He's had his first bite of food, and it's quickly been followed by his second, third, and fourth.

He looks up at you from the other side of your couch, eyes wide. "This has gotta be, like, Metropolis' best kept secret."

You laugh again and press a finger to your lips. That makes Clark laugh and the sound makes you feel a bit drunk.

He looks devastatingly at home on your couch. His suit jacket had been shed during your walk from the Planet, his tie loosened and stashed in his bag when you sat down to tuck into your food.

Now he sits, his sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up. The top button or two of his dress shirt have been undone.

You're nearly undone with it.

This is nothing like the Clark you've gotten to know at work, proper and kept. Sitting in your space, he's casual. Relaxed. Domestic.

It's not a stretch to imagine doing this every night.

It's a particularly nice evening too — even the sunset had tinted the colour of love on your walk back to your apartment, reds fading to a blush pink. Clark had held all the food at his own insistence.

The evening is darker now. A coolness blankets your apartment, amber streetlights reaching through the windows. There's some show playing on your television, but it's on low, barely a murmur.

"Last wonton?" Clark says, holding out the box. "It is your celebration night, after all."

Right. It hasn't felt much like a celebration— mainly because it's been feeling like a date.

It occurs to you that that feeling might not be mutual. You spear the wonton with your fork to give you something to swallow the bad feeling that thought gives you.

You've barely started chewing when Clark starts moving, gathering the plates from your coffee table.

"You don't have tuh—" You protest through your mouthful before you think the better of it.

Clark's already waving you off. The plates quickly form a tall stack and he scoops them up with one hand with remarkable ease.

"Please," He smiles. "I’ve left you with your share.”

He nods to the one plate and one fork still in use in your lap. Then he’s winding his way through the doorway to your kitchen before you can protest further — as if he owns the place!

You chew furiously through your wonton. "Don't do them all before I can help!"

No response beyond a laugh that makes you feel a bit melty. You slow your jaw, enjoying the food, and savouring the swallow.

You sit for a moment, soaking in the moment built around you. He’s here, in your space, and he’s taking care of you - seemingly quite happy to do so.

You’re reaching dangerous levels of hope now.

The plate clinks as you stack the fork atop it, climbing to your feet. You trace Clark’s footsteps to the kitchen.

He’s running the sink, bubbles foaming up in little tufts. He’s already rolled his sleeves back further, exposing the strong muscles in his forearm. His hands hidden are beneath the water, soaking your blue sponge and when he wrings it out, it manages to look extra tiny in his grip.

You take a moment to send a prayer for strength. Or luck. Insane luck. You’ll take either.

Adding your plate to the pile beside the sink, you grab the Garfield tea-towel hanging over the rail and sidle up to take the place next to him.

Wordlessly, Clark lets the suds run off the first plate and then hands it over.

You steal a glimpse at his face. This close you could count his lashes. They kiss together at the end, courtesy of his warm smile.

Side by side, the two of you work in comfortable silence. When passing the next plate, his elbow bumps up your arm and he leaves it there, pressed up lightly against you.

“You know,” Clark says idly, speaking as he scrubs at a pair of forks. “I’ve actually wanted to, uh,” He clears his throat. “Find a way to ask you out to dinner for, well, a long time.”

It’s a miracle you manage not to drop the plate in your hands. That prayer worked fast. Somehow, you recover enough to tease.

“You mean to tell me you hijacked my celebration night for your own gain?”

Without missing a beat, Clark says, “Maybe I did.”

He's completely sincere, nudging his arm against yours again. He rinses off the last plate and this time, instead of handing it over, he plucks the tea-towel out of your hands and starts drying.

With nothing to do with your hands, you’re left to deal with the conversation. You do your best to grasp your courage tightly. You wonder if he'll notice if you pinch yourself, to check if this is real.

“A long time, huh?”

Leaning your hip up against the kitchen counter, you echo his earlier words. Clark’s watching you, something that looks an awful lot like hope in his eyes.

“I…” You start. Your voice is getting quieter as your courage slips away and you can’t quite meet his gaze anymore. “I mean, I- me too.”

You hope he won’t make you spell it out — that he knows what you mean with just those words.

But Clark has never been cruel and he isn’t now. He places the final plate down gently, the tea-towel beside it.

Then he steps closer to you, bracketing you against the counter. It forces your eyes up, because staring at the hollow of his throat is almost as maddening as meeting his expression.

Clark’s smiling, a warmness in his blue eyes you haven’t realised is reserved just for you, til right this moment. His dimples, you bemoan silently. He’s beyond handsome.

He has no right to look like that - to look at you like that.

“Would it be improper of me then,” He begins. “To hope we might do this again?”

You have the sudden urge to throw your arms around his neck and kiss him stupid. Your hands, which have moved to hold the bench for support, are shaking just a bit.

“Not improper at all.” It’s barely a whisper.

His eyes drop to your mouth and that alone makes you feel dizzy.

“Great,” Clark grins, matching your tone with a low murmur. “Because there’s this woman I work with…”

Slowly, he reaches up and gently tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his hand feels like it’s scorching the side of your face. Your heart is in your throat - and in your head, your stomach, pulsing at the end of every fingertip.

“She’s incredible at what she does,” He continues, hand still hovering. “Beautiful too. And whip-smart—though, I’m beginning to question that, given she said yes to going out with the likes of me.”

That laugh startles out of you and it breaks Clark into a grin too. His eyes roam your face, as if he’s drinking in your joy.

He’s entirely too gorgeous. You have to grip the counter tighter to remain upright.

“Shut up.” you say weakly.

Clark’s eyebrows raise. “And a bit bossy too—”

“Shut up,” you say again, a little more breathlessly. “And kiss me, Clark.”

To his credit, Clark doesn’t waste a second.

The hand that had been hovering finds your neck, burying into your hair, while the other finds the edge of your waist.

He tugs you forward, lightly, but even so it’s enough to make you laugh in surprise - so when he presses his mouth to yours, you’re already smiling.

It makes the first kiss clumsy. You’re too smiley to kiss back properly. That apparently makes Clark smile too, his glasses pressing into the bridge of your nose before you break apart.

“That-” He breathes. “Gosh, sorry, I meant- that is, for it to be less,"

He struggles to pick the correct word. You guess for him.

"Improper?"

Clark laughs at that, his eyes shining with an ardent affection. It's enough to make you shiver in his hold. God, those eyes, that mouth.

"Yes, improper." He says, though he sounds utterly pleased. "Will you let me redeem myself?"

In answer, you finally let yourself give in to the urge that's been building. Fingers curling into the collar of his dress shirt, you have to press up on your toes, but Clark's already there, meeting you halfway.

He's tugging you in again, the hand on your waist tighter as he sweeps you up in a kiss that you'll be dreaming of for years.

Clark is an infuriatingly good kisser you're learning.

Plush lips against yours, your head spins. Through an impossible series of events, in your little kitchenette, you're being kissed by Clark Kent like there's no sweeter taste than your mouth.

Your hands slide up, arms winding around his neck, feeling as though you're floating on literal air.

And it's with that thought that the abrupt realisation that your feet are off the ground comes.

Perplexed, you draw back, blinking in your confusion. Has he lifted you up-?

It takes one glance to realise that yes, not only are your feet off the ground—but so are Clark's.

It gives you a violent shock, but instinct has you clinging closer to Clark as a startled yelp escapes you. Then you're on the ground again, so quick you'd think you imagined it, if not for the shock in your legs.

You scramble back in bewilderment, hands clambering for purchase on the counter.

"I-! That-! You can fly!" You exclaim, pointing at the ground where you had just levitated.

Clark starts to stammer. "I-I, it's not- listen, I can explain."

You stare at him, waiting, but Clark only smothers a hand over his mouth. He still looks terribly blushed from the kiss, cheeks pink and mouth undoubtedly the same. His glasses are askew.

Somehow, you know you're staring at a huge puzzle piece.

Screwing your eyes shut, you attempt to process the rolling rampage of thoughts streaming through your mind.

Clark Kent can fly!

Clark Kent kissed you! (Less important, but still a thought.)

Clark Kent is... not human?

Your eyes open again and Clark's still there, his hands now hanging off his neck. He looks terribly stressed, his own eyes screwed shut in thought.

"Okay, listen-" He says abruptly, eyes still closed.

"—No, wait," You interrupt, holding a hand up. You're nearly there, you know it. The realisation is so close you can almost taste it.

Who else do you know who can fly? Technically, there's more than a handful of meta-humans with the capability of flight — but squinting at your hot coworker crush, a particular one is coming to mind.

The moment you consider it, you know it to be true. You straighten up with an incredulous look - and Clark knows that you know.

Clark Kent is Superman! You kissed Clark Kent! You've kissed Superman!

"Oh, man." you say dazedly. Something compels your feet to move and mindlessly, you're walking to the couch. It sinks under you as you flop onto it, still reeling in your disbelief.

That would certainly explains the absences at work. Knowing your name, that day on the street. The same dimples you go crazy for. Now you've figured out the puzzle piece, you can't stop marvelling at how well it fits.

"y/n?" Clark has followed you from the kitchen, a wary look on his face, unsure what to make of your silence.

You blink, taking in the sight of him perched nervously on the other end of your second-hand couch and a delighted laugh is tickled out of you. "Of course, it's you."

Clark tenses up momentarily before he shifts to sit closer to you. "Okay, but, really, you have to listen—" He's pushing a hand across his face, knocking his glasses. Without thinking, he plucks them off his face.

Woah. So, that's why you hadn't picked it - given how when you look at Clark's face clearly, without his glasses, it's obviously Superman staring back at you.

Without much thought, you're clambering forward across the couch, closer, and taking his face between your palms. Clark watches you closely, still distracted with speaking - "—you can't tell anyone, I'm serious- What're you doing?"

You're tilting his face from side to side is what you're doing. "Of course," You say again, this time sounding a little more awed. "I mean, I wouldn't have picked it— it's the glasses, right? They have some sort of—"

Your sentence is cut off, Clark's hands reaching up to encircle your wrists. He holds your hands still and says you name once more, softer.

"You don't seem to be hearing me. Or," His eyes roam your face, searching for something. "You aren't really... responding how I thought you would. You can’t tell anyone."

His worry finally reaches you. You stop your near-frantic moment of revelations and breathe, feeling the concern in his words, shown on his face.

His brow is furrowed, eyes stormy. You can't stop looking at him. It's like you've never seen his face before.

"Do you really think I would?" You ask quietly.

Clark swallows, throat bobbing. After a moment, he answers honestly. "No. I don't think you would."

The truth of his statement sits in the air, blanketing the pair of you in something warmer, tasting of trust. You're looking at Superman —looking at Clark — and all you can think of is how it all makes sense. This, him, you—all of it.

Somewhere within you, the baby crush from Friday’s brush with Superman merges with your feelings for Clark. It fizzles in you, rushing through your veins. God, you like him so much.

"So,” You breathe. “What now?"

"What now?" Clark echoes. He's still holding your wrists, but his grip has softened. As if he's holding them to keep you close this time round. "I mean, I- well, if you still—that is to say... Dinner?"

He sputters through the sentence, landing clumsily on the last word. You're grinning before he's even finished.

"Dinner would be—" You pause for effect. "Super."

"Alright," Clark declares, shaking his head dramatically. "Date invitation revoked for that one. Are you kidding me? Already?"

He's released your wrists, getting to his feet and making a big show of it. Still, he's grinning and you're laughing, hopelessly enamoured. The laughter threads through your words.

"No take backsies."

“Alright, fine,” Clark huffs, crossing his arms. The bulge of his biceps draws your eye and this time, you let yourself look. You think you’ve earned it.

An unexplained question piques your mind.

“You didn’t mean to tell me.” You comment, tilting your head slightly. “Why did you fly?”

Whatever reaction you're expecting, it's not the glorious one that unfolds before your eyes. A blush paints Clark’s cheeks, but it doesn’t stop there. You can see it crawling down his neck, beneath his shirt. His ears are tinted red.

He scratches the back of his neck bashfully, avoiding eye contact. His voice has dropped in volume. “That’s… I… it happenswhenIgetexcited.”

“What?”

“It hasn’t happened for years!” The words suddenly burst out, Clark's hands held out. “It was more, like, when I was younger, yeah, if I got, like,” He begins to stammer. “Too excited, or- or happy, it would- just, oh gosh.”

He buries his face in his hands. You take a moment to process his words, brows rising to your hairline.

“Oh,” You sound pleased as punch. “Oh, okay, that’s just adorable.”

Clark straightens up, dragging his hands from his face and placing them on his hips. His face is still pinker than you’ve ever seen. He seems to accept his fate. “Thank you. I think?”

If he was still beside you on the couch, you think you wouldn't be able to resist kissing him once more. Instead, you lose the fight against your grin. You tuck up one leg and drape your arm across it, pressing your smile into your skin.

“You gonna have that under control in time for our next dinner?” You say.

Clark perks up at you words, as though he assumed the reason for his accidental flight might’ve scared you off. Like being excited could ever be bad.

“Yes.” He nods seriously. "Absolutely."

"Then," you say lightly, as though your heart isn’t pumping molten lava right now. You give a little shrug, aiming for nonchalant and fooling no-one. "It's a date."

Clark nods again, straightening up. He folds his arms, his posture serious, but you can still see it in his face - the joy. The excitement.

"It's a date." He agrees - and it sounds like the promise of much, much more than that.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

tagging sum lovelies i think might be interested <3 but no pressure @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @brettsgoldstein @aarchimedes

#clark kent x reader

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maisy1111 · 8 days ago

Text

Swooning

he's all that.

clark kent x reader. (3.2k)

summary: as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.

content: flufff, clark kent being an adorable loser, still a loser as superman, interview banter, superman as the wingman for clark (cheeky ik), silly coworkers having a crush on each other but having no idea its reciprocated, office romance

author’s note: seeing clark’s frustration in the interview and article scene in superman 2025 got my head spinning 😏

“Okay, but why do you dislike him?”

Clark is on his interrogation case again. You don’t blink an eye as he settles across your desk, squeezing into the office chair with one elbow leaning on the armrest as he waits expectantly, almost desperately for your answer.

Every time you publish a new article with your detailed opinions on Superman’s recent actions, to provide an alternate perspective against the other rose-coloured articles of Metropolis’s favourite metahuman, Clark is always the first in line to question you.

“I don’t particularly dislike him.” Typing away at your computer to polish up one of your drafts, you rehearse the same line you tell everyone. “How could I dislike someone I’ve never met?”

“Then why the title?” He huffs. “I mean, come on. 'Superman’s Ulterior Motives In Recent Metropolis Fire Controversy'? You make him sound like a criminal."

“Come on, Clark.” You give him a pointed look. “You know how article headlines work. If I wrote something like “a critical approach to Superman’s latest actions regarding the fuel explosion”, who would read that?”

“I would.” His response is immediate, and it forces you to crane your neck, away from your latest article that’s been giving you writer’s block, to cast your attention to him.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but one reader wouldn’t exactly meet my paycheck’s expectations.”

“Well, I’m sure there are others who would appreciate a less cash-grabby title.” He retorts.

He realises the error in his words the moment he's on the receiving end of your icy glare.

“I have work to do, Clark.” Placing a metal sign that states "DO NOT DISTURB" on your desk, he doesn't need a hint to get that you're telling him to leave. "Even if you don’t appreciate my efforts, you could at least go distract someone else with your critiques.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

a/n: I love him so much. The movie was so good, I was geeking the entire time. I have so many more fics I want to write for Clark, I can’t wait!

#clark kent x reader

8K notes · View notes

maisy1111 · 8 days ago

Text

sweeter than fiction, isaac lahey

summary: you and isaac have been friends for ages, youre at the park with him painting, with lots of tension

word count: 950

warnings: some light sexual tension, fluff, friends to lvrs, reader wears lipgloss, mention of food, mutual confess, light kissing,

it was a warm afternoon, the breeze just enough to blow hair into your face, as you sit cross-legged with a canvas on your lap, a soft floral blanket, paintbrush in hand, adding soft strokes of pink to the sky, your sitting next to isaac your bestfriend.

you were crushing on him, and it was getting hard to hide. every time he carried your backpack, or brushed hair out of your face, or made you take his sweater when you said you didn’t need it, it made you wonder if he liked you too.

he sat there, eating watermelon the juice dripping down his fingers as he carefully picked it off the small plate between you. he is wearing a hoodie, that once he let you borrow and somehow for some odd reason some of your perfume ended on it, but you told him it was an accident.

“you always look so peaceful when you’re painting” he says, his voice low and warm.

you glance at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, its pretty peaceful.”

his eyes flicker with something gentle, and he gives you a small smile, offering you a slice of watermelon. “here, you need to take a break.”

you take the watermelon, and take a bite, the sweetness filled your mouth, and a drop of juice slipped down your chin, you wiped it away with the back of your hand.

“thank you” you say.

“anytime.” he says, shifting slightly so he’s sitting closer to you, the wind blowing makes your perfume more noticeable.

“here” you say, dipping your brush into the pale blue and handing it to him “help me with the clouds.”

isaac raises an eyebrow, curls falling forward onto his forehead as he leans in. “you trust me with the clouds?”

“i trust you” you say softly, eyes meeting his for a moment before you look away shyly.

he takes the brush“okay” he says, dipping the brush into the paint, and you watch the way his hand moves, steady, delicate, as he drags the soft blue across the pink sky you made.

“you’re good at this” you say, tilting your head.

“i just don’t want to mess up your painting” he chuckles, his eyes flicking to yours, before returning to the canvas.

you shift closer, you point to a spot on the canvas. “there. a little more blue.”

he hums softly, adding a soft swirl of color, and when he looks at you again, you realize how close you are, your faces inches apart.

for a moment, neither of you move, the world quiet around you, the sound of screaming kids and barking dogs was muffled in your head. his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“can i… uh kiss you?” he starts, his voice low, careful

you swallow, your lips parting as you nod. “yeah.”

he leans in, pressing his lips to yours, soft and warm, his lips still had watermelon juice. your hand moves to his jaw, as he tilts his head, deepening the kiss just slightly before pulling back.

you’re both smiling like completely idiots.

“wow” you whisper, breathless.

“yeah “he says softly, letting out a quiet laugh. “i’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

you giggle, brushing your thumb across the corner of his lip to remove lip gloss that was left behind. “me too.”

he looks down at the canvas between you, the pink and blue sky, the soft clouds. his thumb brushes over your hand, his voice warm and unsteady when he finally says

“uh- can i go out with you?”

you bite your lip, grinning, your heart full. “yeah”

his smile is soft and real, and he leans in to kiss you again, this time, his free hand curling around your waist to pull you closer.

you both break into laughter, the tension dissolving into warmth as you pull back, you shift your position, resting your head on his shoulder, the canvas sits between you.

later, as the sun began to set, you packed up your paints, as isaac as he helped you fold the blanket. he picked up your tote bag without asking, slinging it over his shoulder while he held the folded blanket under his other arm.

“isaac, you don’t have to—”

“i want to,” he said, giving you a small, warm smile that made your chest flutter.

you walked side by side, your arms brushing as you moved down the quiet sidewalk. isaac’s hand bumped yours once, then again, until finally, he slipped his fingers between yours, giving your hand a soft squeeze.

you looked up at him, your cheeks warm, and he was already looking at you, smiling.

“is this okay?” he asked softly, swinging your joined hands gently.

“yeah,” you whispered, your heart feeling like it could explode

when you reached your house, you stopped, turning to him. he leaned down, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, sweet and warm, his hand still holding yours.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?” he asked.

“yeah” you whispered, smiling.

you watched him walk down the street, turning back every few steps to wave at you, your heart light as you think of all the romcoms you seen and how it feels like you are living in one, you know the second you reach your bed your going to replay every moment of that special day.

an: he is just a baby and is 3 apples tall 🍎🍎🍎 i wanna give him the biggest hug ever 😚

also i have a fic of a college au like smut but idk if yall like that lolzzzz

#isaac lahey x reader

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maisy1111 · 8 days ago

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ugh i love him! he's so underrateddd 😫

Boyfriend headcanons ❥ Nate Archibald x Reader

warning: MDTI 18+ smut is implied, not proofread

nate archibald masterlist

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Boyfriend!Nate he often guides you with his hand on the small part of your back or just holds your hand, which ever he is feeling like.

Boyfriend!Nate loves to spoil you rotten, always buying stuff you mention to him like books, clothes, makeup, food, jewelry, etc.

Boyfriend!Nate loves it whenever you play with his hair, it relaxes him after a long day. Even more when he is eating you out, he’s a groaning mess when you thug on his hair.

Boyfriend!Nate loves seeing you wear his shirts in the morning after a productive night, especially his dress shirts. It drives him crazy.

Boyfriend!Nate loves seeing you cook dinner, while embracing you from behind. it just makes him imagine how you would look whenever you two start a family. He definitely has a breeding kink.

Boyfriend!Nate that follows the sidewalk rule.

Boyfriend!Nate that carries your heels whenever your feet get sore from walking to your shared apartment after a date night.

Boyfriend!Nate loves to braid your hair, even though he sucks at it, practice makes perfect.

Boyfriend!Nate loves to hear you talk about your day. He just loves your voice in general. Especially your sweet heavenly moans.

Boyfriend!Nate loves kissing you in the rain. He would drag you outside in order to kiss you.

Boyfriend!Nate he loves watching romcoms with you. He might make snarky remarks but it’s all in good fun.

Boyfriend!Nate loves getting you flowers, he gets them every week.

Boyfriend!Nate loves sitting on a park bench while sharing a box of chocolate covered strawberries while enjoying each others company.

Boyfriend!Nate loves leaving you love notes in the bathroom mirror, to remind you everyday he loves you.

Boyfriend!Nate wraps his arm around your waist and whispers sweet nothing into your ear. About what he is doing to do to you later in bed.

Boyfriend!Nate loves it whenever you fix his tie for him after a make out session.

Boyfriend!Nate loves calling you pet names like love, sweetheart, my girl, my angel, doll and princess. Good girl

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

#nate archibald x reader #gossip girl x reader

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maisy1111 · 8 days ago

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sooo sweet!!!!

meeting the cat, rafe cameron

summary: your boyfriend finally meets your pet cat, and thinks she’s out to get him

warnings: pet names, the cat is a girl, established relationship, fluff pure sweetness

rafe cameron was not a cat guy. he’d made that very clear the first time you mentioned you had one. ‘something about them being sneaky, too quiet, not as loyal as dogs’, typical rafe reasoning. but now, standing in the doorway of your apartment, arms crossed over his chest, he looked downright suspicious.

“that thing’s staring at me,” he muttered, barely stepping inside.

you followed his gaze to your cat, who sat perched on the back of the couch, tail flicking slowly as she observed him with disinterest. “she’s just curious,” you said, tossing your keys onto the counter. “she does this with everyone new.”

“im not new,” rafe argued, glancing down at you. “i’ve been here before.”

“yeah, but she hasn’t really met you yet.” you tease him with a a smirk. “i think she’s trying to figure out if she likes you.”

rafe scoffed. “this feels personal, baby.”

you rolled your eyes, walking over to scratch behind your cat’s ears. “she’s not that bad. youre just being dramatic.”

“she looks like she’s planning something.”

“she’s a cat. that’s just her face.”

rafe eyed her, before finally stepping inside, shutting the door behind him. you could practically hear the hesitation in his voice when he asked, “does she bite?”

“only if she doesn’t like you.”

his eyes snapped to yours. “not funny...”

you giggle, grabbing his wrist and pulling him over to sit beside you on the couch. he hesitated but gave in, keeping a suspicious eye on your cat, who had now turned her attention to lazily grooming herself.

“she’s messing with me,” rafe muttered.

you leaned into his side, smiling. “she’s quite literally ignoring you.”

“exactly.” he shot you a look. “she’s plotting.”

you sighed, “baby, she’s not plotting anything. you’re just intimidated by a ten-pound fluff ball.”

he huffed. “am not.”

“then prove it.”

rafe groaned, tilting his head back before finally, hesitantly, reaching a hand out toward your cat. she paused mid-lick, sniffed his fingers, then to both your surprise—nudged her head against them.

he blinked. “wait… is that good?”

you smiled. “ya. she doesn’t do that with just anyone.”

he smirked slightly, rubbing his hand down her back. “guess she knows what’s up.”

you rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, your cat stretched lazily. then, without warning, hopped straight onto rafe’s lap.

his whole body tensed. “oh—okay. uhm, is this a setup?”

you giggled as your cat circled once before settling, curling up comfortably against his stomach. “nope. it means she likes you.”

rafelooked down at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be honored or betrayed. “huh.” he carefully rested a hand on her back, rubbing his thumb along her fur. “she’s… kinda soft.”

“ya, rafe. she’s a cat duh.”

he shot you a playful glare but didn’t stop petting her. after a moment, he sighed, shaking his head. “okay. she’s not the worst.”

you smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek. “told you”

rafe sighed dramatically, but you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips. “great. now i have to compete for your attention.

#rafe cameron x you

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maisy1111 · 9 days ago

Text

wait a darn minute!

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: While cooking for Clark, you dramatically realize you’ve been “made a victim of patriarchy” :))

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: fluff, kissing, teasing, fuck the patriarchy lol

A/N:

This was a request by the loml @fire-joestar !!!! Babe, I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it xxx

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

Cooking was your love language.

It was no doubt about it that cooking came to you naturally, that you could undoubtedly speak it fluently. It was where you found comfort, passion, but also patience and love. The act of chopping, stirring, simmering — it all soothed you. The sight of your loved ones gathered around the table, eating what you’d made with warmth and admiration, filled you with a kind of joy nothing else could touch. No food you ate outside of your own kitchen could ever fulfill you the way their smiles did.

And Clark — your other love, though you’d never quite admitted it aloud — absolutely loved you, and your cooking.

The kitchen smelled like something out of a dream. Garlic and butter melted into golden perfection, simmering tomatoes burbled softly on the stove, and rosemary so fresh Clark swore he could hear the farm fields back home rustling in approval hung heavy in the air.

He sat at the counter, glasses on, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, the world’s most wholesome picture of a man watching someone he adored. His blue eyes followed every flick of your wrist, every careful stir, like you weren’t just cooking — you were performing magic.

“Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble?” he asked, voice soft but tinged with genuine disbelief. He glanced at the spread already laid out: roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, golden bread cooling on a rack, and a dessert-in-progress that had required your absolute devotion and at least one near-elbow injury from all the whisking.

You turned, spatula raised like it could scold him on your behalf. “Clark, you’ve literally fought aliens, robots, and probably some other terrifying things I don’t even know about. The least I can do is keep you from surviving on coffee and diner pie.”

“Hey,” he protested lightly, dimples flashing, “I like diner pie.”

“You inhale diner pie sweetheart,” you corrected sharply, tossing him a look that made him grin wider. “That’s not the same as liking it.”

He leaned forward on the counter, resting his chin in his palm, eyes soft and warm in a way that made your stomach flip. “Still. You’re… kind of amazing, you know that?”

Your chest jolted, heat creeping up your neck. Quickly, you turned back to the stove, stirring with newfound intensity. “You deserve to eat well, sleep soundly, and—” you hesitated, catching yourself before your heart betrayed you with something far too vulnerable. “—have an actual vegetable once in a while.”

For a blissful moment, the only sounds were the pan sizzling and Clark’s quiet, deeply content sigh. He looked like he belonged here, sitting in your kitchen, watching you, safe.

And then — it hit you. A revelation. A cosmic truth.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered against the pan. Dramatically, you spun on your heel, dropped to your knees on the linoleum like you’d been struck down by fate itself, and pointed your finger at him as though it were the sword of justice.

“You!” you cried, voice ringing with all the passion of a Shakespearean tragedy. Pots rattled faintly on their hooks. “You’ve made me a victim of patriarchy!”

Clark blinked. Once. Twice. His brows drew together behind his glasses. “…I’m sorry?”

“You sit there,” you accused, jabbing the spoon at him, “all tall, broad-shouldered, and earnest, making me want to cook you elaborate meals when cooking is a basic human survival skill! But nooo, suddenly I’m over here hand-making bread like I’m auditioning for a Food Network show in 1953!”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked utterly lost. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t you dare say you didn’t ask for this,” you cut him off, your spoon raised as high as your righteous indignation. “That’s what makes it worse! I wanted to! Patriarchy tricked me into wanting to feed you!”

The silence that followed was thick. Then—

Clark broke.

He laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a little smirk. But a full, chest-deep laugh that rolled out of him in warm waves, so contagious that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing too. His shoulders shook; his glasses slipped halfway down his nose as he wiped at his eyes, dimples carved deep into his cheeks.

“Patriarchy—” he wheezed between laughs, barely able to breathe, “tricked you into baking bread? That’s your supervillain origin story?”

You scrambled back to your feet, clutching the spoon like a scepter of justice. “Do not mock the gravity of my plight, Kent.”

He pressed a hand to his chest like he was swearing an oath, though his grin betrayed him. “I would never.”

“Liar,” you huffed, spinning back toward the stove with the dramatic flair of someone betrayed by their closest confidant. The pan sizzled indignantly in your absence, as if siding with you.

Clark was still chuckling as he slid off the counter, footsteps soft against the kitchen floor. A moment later, he stood beside you, leaning close enough that you felt the warmth radiating off him, like he was its own gravitational force. He peered over your shoulder, blue eyes flicking between the pan and your face like he wasn’t sure which was more mesmerizing.

“For what it’s worth,” he said gently, laughter fading into something earnest, “I think you’re the strongest, kindest and prettiest person I know. Spoon-wielding revelations included.”

You cut him a sharp side-eye. “…Flattery will not save you.”

“Noted,” he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were twitching with the effort of suppressing another laugh. Then, with a boldness that made your heart stumble, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your temple. His voice dropped low as he straightened, warm and teasing: “But maybe helping with finishing the dessert will.”

He reached across the counter and snatched the whisk with a suspiciously eager grin.

“Clark Kent,” you intoned gravely, “you don’t know what you’re signing up for.”

“How hard can it be?”

Twenty six seconds later, there was flour dusting his shirt like snow, chocolate smudged across his nose, and your counter looked as though a small tornado had passed directly through a bakery. Clark stood in the middle of the disaster, whisk still in hand, valiantly stirring with a determination you were fairly certain he usually reserved for saving Metropolis.

“Okay,” he admitted sheepishly, setting the whisk down in defeat. “Maybe harder than punching robots.”

You doubled over, laughter bubbling out of you uncontrollably. Grabbing a towel, you reached up to wipe his face, shaking your head. “You’re hopeless.”

He grinned, leaning just enough that you had to chase the smear of chocolate across his skin. “Hopelessly devoted to dessert?”

“Hopelessly messy,” you corrected, though the words came out softer than you intended. Not when his eyes softened like that. Not when he looked so at home in your kitchen, like this was where he was always meant to be.

And then, as if to prove your point, he reached over without shame and plucked a roasted carrot straight off the tray with his fingers, ignoring the fact that it was still steaming. He popped it into his mouth, chewed slowly, reverently, and hummed like you’d just handed him ambrosia.

“You know,” he said around the mouthful, entirely unbothered by manners, “this is better than diner pie.”

You gasped theatrically, clutching your chest. “Blasphemy.”

“Truth,” he countered, already reaching for another piece.

You slapped his hand away with the towel. “Dinner first.”

He gave you a look — all wide-eyed innocence, the kind of look you suspected had gotten him out of trouble with his mom more than once. “But I’m starving.”

“Then maybe you should’ve spent less time declaring war on flour,” you retorted, waving the towel at him like a weapon.

“Worth it.”

The way he said it — soft, simple, but utterly sincere — made your chest tighten. His grin hadn’t faded, and neither had the warmth in his eyes. It was the kind of look that could unravel you if you let it.

You turned back to the stove, shaking your head with exaggerated exasperation. Still, you caught it out of the corner of your eye: the way he snuck another vegetable, thinking he was stealthy. You pretended not to notice, choosing instead to sigh dramatically,

“Truly,” you said, voice dripping with theatrical despair, “how is one supposed to feed a man who treats vegetables like contraband candy?”

Clark froze mid-bite, eyes wide, carrot half-disappeared between his fingers. Then, with the guileless innocence of a man who had clearly been caught red-handed more than once in his life, he chewed slowly. “…Was that rhetorical?”

You turned just enough to give him a withering look. “Yes.”

He smiled sheepishly, swallowed, and leaned against the counter like it was all part of his plan. “Then my answer is: very easily. I’m not picky.”

“Not picky,” you repeated flatly, gesturing at the near-empty tray that had been full of roasted vegetables ten minutes ago. “Tell that to the tray.”

Clark winced, caught, then reached out to gently nudge the towel hanging from your shoulder. “Tell you what—why don’t we call it even if I, uh… set the table?”

You arched a brow. “The mighty Superman, offering to set plates and forks. Be still, my heart.”

“Hey, I’m serious!” he protested, but his grin betrayed him. “I promise, no one’s ever set a table faster. World record speed.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, turning back to stir the pan again. “As long as you don’t break my dishes in the process.”

He gave you a look over his glasses, and then he rolled his sleeves a little higher, squared his shoulders like he was preparing for battle, and got to work.

To his credit, the plates stayed intact. He moved through your kitchen with surprising care, big hands delicate as he lined up silverware and even folded napkins into vaguely triangular shapes. He hummed while he worked — some low tune you didn’t recognize but that felt old, maybe something his Ma used to sing in Smallville.

By the time you finished at the stove, the little table in the corner looked downright cozy, warm light spilling across the plates, steam rising from the dishes he’d managed not to sample. Clark stood proudly beside it, waiting for your inspection.

“Well?” he asked. “Passable?”

You crossed your arms, pretending to scrutinize. “Barely. You only cheated by stealing half the carrots.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s called quality assurance.”

“Uh-huh.”

You carried the last pan over, sliding it into place, and before you could pull out a chair, Clark had already stepped forward to tug it out for you.

“Chivalry?” you asked, eyebrow arched.

“Damage control,” he said with a grin, sliding in opposite you.

The first bite you took was good — really good. Not just because you’d spent hours cooking it, but because Clark’s quiet, satisfied hum across from you made it taste better. He closed his eyes, savoring, and you realized why you loved cooking so much again.

For a while, you ate in companionable silence, punctuated by him occasionally reaching for more bread or sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Finally, he leaned back in his chair with a sigh, one hand resting on his stomach.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he said.

“Oh?” you teased, sipping from your glass. “Big, invincible Clark Kent, ruined by a roasted chicken and some bread?”

He gave you a lopsided smile, eyes crinkling. “Completely. You cook like this, I’m never going to want to leave.”

Your heart skipped, your fork hovering halfway to your mouth. He hadn’t said it like a joke. He’d said it like a truth.

“…Then don’t,” you said lightly, trying to mask the way the words carried a weight you weren’t ready to admit out loud.

Clark’s smile softened. He didn’t push, didn’t tease. Just looked at you with that endless patience of his, like he could wait forever for you to mean it.

And then, with perfect timing, his hand shot out across the table and snatched the very last roll from the basket.

“Clark!” you yelped, scandalized.

He grinned around his mouthful, dimples deepening, and shrugged. “Patriarchy made me do it.”

You nearly threw your spoon at him.

Clark only grinned wider, chewing with the smug satisfaction of a man who had both super-strength and the last roll. You narrowed your eyes, spoon still poised like a dagger.

“Don’t test me, Kent. I have a cast-iron skillet within reach.”

He swallowed, raising both hands in mock surrender. “And I know better than to underestimate you with cookware. You’ve already taken down the patriarchy with a spoon.”

“That’s right,” you said proudly, twirling it in your fingers like a baton. “And you’ll be next.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he murmured, but the mischievous glint in his eye betrayed him. Because the second you looked down at your plate again, his hand darted across the table—lightning fast, though deliberately slowed so you just managed to smack it with your spoon before he could steal another bite.

“Clark!”

“Ow,” he said, though you were fairly sure he didn’t even feel it. He rubbed his hand dramatically anyway. “Assault with a deadly spoon. Guess I had it coming.”

“Deadly accurate spoon,” you corrected primly.

He chuckled, low and warm, and leaned his chin into his palm, just watching you with that unbearable softness that made it impossible to stay mad. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“Don’t sweet-talk me after food theft,” you muttered, though your lips threatened to curl upward.

Dinner wound down in fits of laughter and threats of utensil-based justice. And when the last plate was scraped clean, you sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Alright. Time for dishes.”

Before you could stand, Clark was already pushing his chair back. “I’ll do them.”

You snorted. “You’ll do them?”

“Of course.” He started stacking plates with the self-assuredness of someone who clearly had no idea what he was doing. “Consider it—patriarchal reparations.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably helpful,” he corrected, carrying a precariously high stack of dishes to the sink. For about five glorious seconds, he looked competent. Then one plate slipped, teetering on the edge.

“Clark—!” you yelped.

With reflexes faster than thought, he snatched it midair before it could shatter. When he turned back, he wore the guiltiest look you’d ever seen. “…Saved it.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You’re going to give me gray hair.”

He laughed sheepishly, setting the plate down much more carefully this time. “Then I’ll cook next time. Balance things out.”

That made you pause. Slowly, you turned toward him, arms crossing. “Clark Kent… can you cook?”

There was the briefest hesitation, then: “…How hard can it be?”

You groaned. “Those are famous last words.”

Twenty minutes later, after the dishes massacre and one heroic rescue of a smoking pan, you had surrendered entirely on letting Clark “balance things out.” Dinner had been followed by laughter, dessert had been a valiant disaster, and cleanup had devolved into a suds fight that left bubbles floating like tiny moons across the kitchen floor.

By the time you finally flopped onto the couch, breathless from laughing and hair damp from his surprise sprayer attack, Clark was beside you, one arm draped casually across the back like he owned the place. Which, honestly, he kind of did.

For a long moment, you just lay there, chests rising and falling.

Then he tilted his head, eyes soft, electric. “You know,” he said, voice low and steady, “I wasn’t joking earlier. About your cooking.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head back against the cushion. “What, the roasted veggies I caught you eating like stolen treasure?”

“All of it,” he said, shaking his head with a laugh. “Bread, dinner, dessert—even though technically that cake batter was more like… edible chaos.”

You covered your face, laughing through your fingers. “Don’t remind me.”

When you finally lowered your hands, his expression had changed. Still warm, still Clark, but softer, quieter, a little vulnerable. The kind of look he reserved for moments he didn’t often allow himself.

“It’s not just that it’s good,” he murmured, leaning slightly closer. “It’s the way it feels. Eating your food… it’s home. Mom’s kitchen. Safe. Something I don’t get to feel a lot anymore.”

Your chest squeezed. “Well, then you should know,” you whispered, nudging his knee with yours, “everything I make… I make with love.”

A mischievous glint flickered across his eyes. “Even the cranberry sauce?”

“Especially the cranberry sauce,” you said, with all the solemnity you could muster.

He laughed, low and soft, then leaned in. And suddenly, the couch, the bubbles, the messy kitchen—everything shrunk to the space between you. His lips brushed yours, tentative, testing, before you leaned in, giving him permission. That’s when he deepened the kiss, one hand cupping your cheek, the other winding around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

Your breath hitched, fingers tangling in his shirt. Heat pooled low in your belly as the kiss became more urgent, teasing, exploring. Clark’s lips were warm, insistent, asking questions only your own lips could answer. You couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips when his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

He broke the kiss just slightly, foreheads resting together, and whispered, voice husky, “…I love your cooking…”

You blinked up at him, pulse racing, heart hammering. He smiled, leaning in again, slower this time, dragging his lips across yours, “…but I think I love the taste of your lips more.”

You gasped, swaying back only to have him chase your lips like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Clark!” you breathed, half-laugh, half-swoon.

“What?” he murmured, eyes darkening with playful intent, hands still on you, pulling you impossibly close. “It’s true.”

You pressed your face against his shoulder, melting into him, groaning. “How am I supposed to survive you saying things like that?”

“Easy,” he whispered, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your temple, then your jaw, down to your collarbone. “I’ll keep feeding you lines, and you keep feeding me dinner.”

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, though your smile betrayed you completely.

He nipped gently at your earlobe, grinning against your skin. “And maybe… I’ll help cook next time,” he murmured, his lips ghosting along yours again. “But only if you promise I get dessert first.”

You groaned, laughing and groaning all at once, surrendering completely to him. And there, tangled up with Clark on the couch, with his warm, soft kisses still lingering on your lips, you realized the patriarchy could keep its arguments. Clark, his laugh echoing in your chest, his lips tasting like home and heat and everything dangerously perfect, was absolutely worth every single breadcrumb.

#clark kent x reader

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maisy1111 · 10 days ago

Text

perfect doesn’t even begin to describe this

just my type

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: when you realise your crush on your roommate is getting out of hand, you decide it’s time to start dating again. but nobody on any dating app comes close to being as perfect for you as clark kent is. tags: roommates to lovers, mutual pining, dating can be rough but at least you have a clark kent at home warning(s): men suck sometimes (not clark), reader described as being shorter than clark, no spoilers for superman (2025), gender neutral reader, slightly suggestive content (no smut) word count: 10k note: this gif is so roommate!clark waiting up for you to get back from your date to make sure you’re safe coded. also, i’m trying a different tone for this fic, more rom-com and less poetic. i hope you enjoy it!

masterlist

The moment you caught yourself smiling at the mere mention of Clark’s name, you knew it was time to start dating again.

Not him, obviously. That would be complicated.

Complicated, as in you’d have to sit in front of your future therapist and explain how you ended up living in a run-down apartment with roommates you found on Craigslist after being kicked out by your former roommate, who once handed you a fork and you mistook it for a declaration of love.

You’d been living with Clark for over a year now, and somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing exactly when the shift happened.

At first, he was just your new subletter, the one who carried a couch up three flights of stairs without breaking a sweat. Clark was the guy who treated organising the fridge shelves like an Olympic event, who insisted on splitting the electric bill down to the cent, who made terrible coffee but somehow made the perfect cup of tea for you before you woke up.

And then one day, Clark was the guy you were laughing with on the couch until midnight, even though you had both sworn you needed an early night. He was the one pressing a warm mug into your hands when you came home shivering, the one humming under his breath when he worked at the kitchen table, the one who somehow managed to make your apartment feel like a place you wanted to be.

You had fallen for him so quietly it was almost impressive.

Clark was currently in the kitchen committing what could only be described as breakfast-related food crimes. The pancakes on the skillet were a strange shade of brown that no cookbook would approve of. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling.

“So,” Clark said, flipping one pancake with a spatula so large it could double as a snow shovel. He caught your raised eyebrow and grinned. “Today’s special is Experimental Pancake Surprise, now with thirty percent fewer fire hazards.” He angled the spatula toward his mouth like a microphone. “Order up, folks.”

Having just gotten home from work, you leaned against the kitchen counter, unbuttoning your coat and laughing.

The coat was a soft wool blend in a colour you never would have picked for yourself, but you loved it. Clark had given it to you for your birthday, claiming it was “just practical,” but it was the kind of thoughtful gift that meant he had noticed how often you forgot a scarf in winter. You wore it constantly.

Clark turned back to the stove, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter as one of the pancakes slid into the pan at a dangerous angle. You stepped in automatically, holding the plate steady. Your fingers brushed his, just for a second.

It was nothing, except that you could feel the warmth of his skin even after you pulled your hand away.

And then, in a tone so casual you almost missed it, Clark said, “We should do breakfast for dinner more often. There’s something kind of intimate about it.”

Your laugh came out too quickly, too loud. “Right. Romantic smoke alarms.”

Clark grinned, but his eyes flicked to yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual, and it was enough to send your heartbeat stumbling.

Which was why you needed to meet someone else. Literally anyone else.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of Clark’s coffee.

When you walked into the kitchen, he was humming some old song you half-recognised. His hair was still mussed from sleep, the curl over his forehead rebelliously out of place.

Steam curled into the air as he set your tea on the counter in your usual spot. He knew exactly how you liked it, right down to the splash of your preferred milk.

Living with Clark for over a year had made your routines fold together without you noticing.

You reached for plates while he moved aside without looking, a sidestep you both knew by muscle memory. You slid past him to get to the toaster, and he leaned back just enough to let you through. When you reached for a high shelf, Clark hovered nearby, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Need a hand?” he offered. And before you could answer, he scooped you up by the waist and shifted you over so he could grab what you needed. “I’m stronger than I look, remember?”

You felt your stomach flip, but of course, you didn’t tell him that. “You’re hogging the counter again,” you teased, opening the fridge and grabbing the butter.

Clark tilted his head and tried not to smile. “That’s a really odd way to thank someone for using their superior height to come to your aid,” he replied.

You laughed, closing the fridge and hip-checking Clark as you popped bread in the toaster.

You hadn’t planned to live with him this long.

A friend of a friend was looking for someone to rent a room from, you needed to escape your previous roommate’s very vocal bedroom situation, and you thought, why not?

When you first met him, he’d been towering, slightly awkward with an oversized sweater and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, hair untamed in a way that suggested a small tornado had conspired against him. Yet beneath that imposing frame was a sweetness you didn’t know how to measure—you wanted to stare in surprise and hug him all at once.

By the second week, you’d caught yourself smiling like an idiot when you heard him unlocking the door, and by the second month, you knew you were in trouble.

And then there was the night that erased any possibility of pretending Clark was just some guy living in your apartment.

You had been curled on the sofa with a blanket, halfway through an episode of your comfort show, when one of the floor-to-celing windows in your living room slid open, and Superman flew in like he owned the place.

He was still in the suit, scratches marring the iconic fabric, a faint burn on his sleeve. His hair was dishevelled, eyes dark-rimmed, tired in that way you’d only seen on people after really hard days.

You’d just sat there, frozen mid-bite of your ice cream, and said, “Well, that explains why you can carry five grocery bags in each hand despite never going to the gym.”

Clark had laughed tiredly, and that was that.

From then on, you were the only one who got to see him without the glasses. Seeing him without the disguise made mornings like this worse. Or better, depending on how much you enjoyed torturing yourself.

Clark was already dressed, though he just wore socks instead of shoes, and a neatly folded pile of your laundry sat on the sofa. He must have decided to do a load for you while you slept.

You told yourself it was just a roommate thing, no different than you buying his favourite biscuits when you went grocery shopping. Still, your stomach swarmed with traitorous little butterflies. Seeing your sweater on top of the pile, folded with the care you couldn’t quite summon for yourself, made your pulse quicken.

No matter what plans you had for the weekend, you and Clark always sat down to have breakfast together. It was one of the things you cherished most about living with him, especially on weeks when work kept you both so busy you hardly saw each other at home.

Clark grinned as he buttered his toast. “You’re quiet this morning. That’s suspicious.”

“I’m not quiet,” you denied, though you were.

You watched the way the morning light caught in his black hair, the cornflower blue of his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders. All the parts of him that no one else got to see up close—the raw, unmasked Clark.

Despite you willing it not to, your heart thudded harder. It was getting a little ridiculous how your body responded to him. You could feel your stomach tighten in that familiar, dangerous way that it only ever did for Clark.

You needed to do something about your crush before it became a real problem.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, you pressed your hand against the counter and leaned forward. Saying it out loud made it real, but you couldn’t let your brain spin the daydreams into something else any longer.

So you said it. “I’ve got a date tonight,” you announced, making your voice as casual as you could manage.

There was a pause—long enough for you to catch a flicker of something odd in Clark’s expression—before it was replaced by a broad, genuine smile. “Oh yeah? Anyone I know?”

You shook your head, trying to sound like your heart wasn’t about to leap out of your chest. “Just someone from an app. First time I’ve opened it since you moved in.”

Why did you have to say that? your brain scolded. Too much information. Too revealing. Too close to the truth: that you hadn’t wanted to date because meeting Clark felt terrifyingly close to meeting the elusive “one” everyone always raved about.

Clark raised his brows. “Guess I’ve been keeping you too busy for romance.”

“Or maybe I’ve just been too traumatised by your cooking experiments,” you countered, the ease of your usual banter beginning to settle the knots in your chest.

He laughed, and it was warm enough to make you forget your own name for a moment. “Fair enough,” Clark conceded. “Do I get to vet this guy? Make sure he’s not a criminal?”

You pretended to think it over and took a sip of your tea. Perfect, as expected. “You can interrogate him if we ever get to a third date,” you allowed. “I think calling in Superman for a first date might be a little over the top.”

Clark leaned back into his chair, pretending to consider it. “I’ll settle for a background check, just to be safe.”

“You’re absurd,” you said, sugared with affection.

“Protective,” he corrected, grinning. Perfect dimples surfaced, and you felt your knees betray you and were glad to be sitting down. “There’s a difference.”

You rolled your eyes and pretended the heat in your face was from your tea. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The truth was, you’d never met anyone who made you feel safer than Clark. He picked you up and walked you home from late shifts even if he was busy, regularly checked in and called if plans changed, and checked the locks before bed without a word.

But that was just Clark. That was just what he did for people he cared about. It didn’t mean anything beyond friendship and good manners; you were sure of it.

As you finished breakfast, tucking into your slice of toast, a quiet part of you wished Clark had told you not to go on your date.

Not as a test—just a whisper of hope that he might feel the same. But he didn’t. Clark would probably never say the words you were counting on, and yet, you kept wishing he would anyway.

You shoved your hands deep into your pockets and tried not to think about the night you’d just suffered through.

Your date was half an hour late, without a hint of apology, and a smile that said, I am the way I am, deal with it. The man had talked about himself so much that you started drafting a mental bingo card: cryptocurrency, fantasy football, anecdotes about his LinkedIn connections.

None of these things were inherently bad. It had more to do with the way he was forcing his every opinion on you without asking you a single thing about yourself.

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes, cry, or invest in his bitcoin predictions just to make him stop talking.

And then came the cherry on top: he apparently forgot his wallet. He’d said it like it was a charming quirk rather than a ploy to make you pay. You never minded splitting the bill on dates, but going on a date without a way to pay for your meal was just obnoxious.

At that point in the evening, you didn’t care about money or pride. You were just relieved to escape that smug asshole, so you paid with a sweet smile on your face.

All you wanted was to go home, yet your date’s blissful ignorance led him to think he was going with you. You had rejected him quickly and firmly, then walked away before he could protest.

And now here you were, trudging home with your gut winding tight, replaying the evening like a tragic film you couldn’t switch off.

As always, the constant pang of absurd, inevitable comparison wormed its way in.

How was it even fair that the man you lived with—who made cereal for you when you were late for work, who never failed to ask about your day, who laughed at your terrible jokes and somehow made you feel like the most loved person in the world—even existed?

It wasn’t just that you loved Clark; it was that he had created an entirely impossible blueprint for every man in the world. The dating apps were cruel by comparison. Here you were, brave enough to put yourself out there after a year of domestic bliss, and this terrible date was your welcome-back gift.

Every time you thought of your night, you couldn’t help but tally up all the ways Clark was unavoidably singular in comparison. He held doors open, carried groceries for strangers, made the corniest jokes, and asked questions that actually mattered.

Meanwhile, you were stuck with a date who was rude, self-absorbed, and apparently allergic to basic human decency.

The absurdity of it all made your lips twitch with a wry, helpless smile. You shook your head, muttering to yourself about how Clark had ruined your expectations for men. Even as you tried not to, you couldn’t stop imagining how different tonight could have been if he had been there instead.

You were halfway to your apartment, trying not to think about every awful word your date said, when a sudden gust of wind tousled your hair.

You looked up, and there was Superman, red cape fluttering in the evening wind. The streetlamp caught his slicked back hair in an almost absurdly heroic halo of gold. He landed lightly on the pavement beside you, offering a concerned tilt of his head.

“Evening, Miss,” he said, voice carrying that familiar warm lilt, with just the right amount of self-important gravity. “Rough night?”

You blinked. “That’s putting it lightly. How’d you know I’d be here?”

Clark shrugged as though locating you on your walk home was the same as spotting a pedestrian in distress. “You looked like you needed rescuing.”

You raised an eyebrow, suppressing a laugh. “Right. Rescuing from what, exactly?”

“From the crushing weight of life’s terrible dating choices,” Clark said solemnly, placing a hand over the emblem on his chest. “I’ve saved many damsels from worse, but none so tragically exposed to cryptocurrency lectures and fantasy football politics.”

You snorted, impressed that he’d had the time to read the text you’d sent him in between Superman business.

“Oh, thank goodness!” You pretended to swoon, “I thought I was doomed to a lifetime of mediocre men! And here comes Superman.” You giggled, the fun of pretending not to know Clark lifting your spirits. “How ever can I repay you, Superman?”

Clark shook his head theatrically. “I accept gratitude in all forms, though smiles are encouraged.” His gaze softened just a touch, and you caught the tiny slump of his shoulders, subtle but unmistakable. Something in him lingered on the sadness of your evening, even while you were joking.

You laughed, pretending to clutch a non-existent pearl necklace. “Well, that’s a first for me: being saved from a terrible date by a guy who can literally fly. Most men just talk endlessly and forget their wallets.”

Clark took a step closer, voice still carrying that playful, heroic cadence. “Unfortunately, those men seem to congregate on dating apps. It’s all very sinister, I’d stay away,” he advised. “There are good men out there just waiting to show you how great you are. I’m sure you’ll find one.”

You smiled at that. “You’re the only guy who seems to be doing that tonight. You’re really setting an impossible standard, Superman,” you teased.

Clark grinned, shrugging in mock modesty. “Well, it’s impossible to notice someone that beautiful and not look for their smile.”

The two of you walked the rest of the way home side by side, keeping up the act of strangers meeting for the first time. You told him about your terrible date in exaggerated tones, and Clark offered mock outrage and gallant sighs. Together, you constructed a little bubble in which Superman had swooped in just in time to prevent your night from being ruined.

Beneath the jokes, though, Clark listened. You could feel it, his concern, his wish that tonight had been different, that you didn’t have to go through this at all.

By the time you reached your building, you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, breath uneven and cheeks sore.

“Thank you, Superman,” you said with mock solemnity as you fumbled with your keys. “For saving my night—and making me smile.”

He gave a half-bow, arms folded across his chest, cape stirring in the breeze. “Anytime. I live to serve. Especially against terrible first dates.”

You slipped inside, letting the door swing shut on him, your laughter still caught in your throat.

A minute later, the living room window slid open. Superman slipped through silently, and by the time he straightened, the superhero stiffness was gone. Just Clark stood there, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. He had his habitual, slightly crooked smile—the kind that always made your chest flutter.

“Hey,” he said, voice finally stripped of all heroic gravitas. “I got your text. How was your date?”

And just like that, you doubled over, clutching your stomach, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. The silliness of it all was the perfect balm to help you get over your terrible date, and you finally felt like yourself again.

Clark just watched, amusement twinkling in his eyes, a hand brushing back a strand of dark hair from his forehead.

You shook your head, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous. I can’t even—” Another peal of laughter cut you off, and Clark chuckled softly, letting you get it all out.

“You know I’d do anything to make you laugh,” he reminded you fondly. Clark wiped at the tears streaming down your cheeks as you looked up at him, still giggling.

“Well, congratulations. You officially get credit for walking me home, cheering me up after a terrible date, and somehow making my evening not completely miserable,” you said. “Should I get you a thank-you card, or…?”

Clark pursed his lips, mock-thoughtful. “I accept gifts, but only if they come with chocolate. And maybe a promise not to date terrible men while I’m on duty.”

Your heart stuttered, but you forced a casual shrug and smirked instead. “A promise? You’re asking a lot from a person just trying to survive dating apps.”

He stepped a tad closer, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, warmer, brighter. “Well,” Clark said softly, gaze locked on yours, “I think you deserve better.”

Your breath caught. Not quite panic, just that strange, fluttering, stomach-tied-in-knots feeling you always got around Clark.

You both laughed, nervously, awkwardly, but neither of you moved away. The teasing had softened, and in the quiet pause, the almost-touch of his hand brushing past yours sent a spark up your arm. It couldn’t even be considered contact, but it was enough to make your brain scream Why are you like this?!

“Alright, I promise,” you whispered, shaking your head with a grin. “Whatever you say, Superman.”

“Good,” Clark said, voice low. He smirked, casual and utterly himself again. “Bet you wish I’d done that background check, huh?”

Pushing the cart down the aisle, you tried not to laugh at the nonsensicality of it all. Grocery shopping with Clark was, somehow, exactly like living with a Grandpa who could also bench-press a car.

“Pasta sauce,” you said, holding up a jar with a flourish. “Red or—”

Clark, squinting through his glasses, reached for another jar across the shelf. “Oh, but this one has less sugar.”

“‘Less sugar,’” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “It’s pasta sauce, Clark. It’s tomato paste and sadness in a jar. We survive on red sauce, not heart-healthy spreadsheet analysis.”

He blinked, genuinely considering your words, and then picked up the jar you wanted. “Okay, fine. But only if you promise to eat something green tonight. Even a leaf would do.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “A leaf? I’m not going to force myself to eat vegetables, I’m an adult.”

Clark grinned, clearly pleased with your quip, and nudged your shared cart gently with his elbow to line it up with the shelf. The movement was so slight, so perfectly timed, that you didn’t even have to adjust your step.

Then disaster struck.

Clark, ever heroic, tried to reach for a high shelf of cereal. The stack wobbled dangerously. “Whoa—” he muttered, a hand shooting out. One box tumbled to the floor. He let out an embarrassed laugh as several other boxes followed, domino-style. Crouching to gather them, he mumbled, “I swear I didn’t mean to start an avalanche.”

You joined him, picking up a stray box. “You really are capable of saving the world and destroying breakfast in the same motion,” you mused.

Clark grinned sheepishly. “It’s a gift.” Then he stood and started pushing the cart down towards the produce section.

By the time you reached the fruit aisle, he was carefully inspecting apples like a scientist studying a rare specimen. “These look good,” Clark said, holding one up at eye level. “Not too bruised, not too shiny.”

You leaned closer, suppressing a laugh. “You realise these are for eating, right? Not models for an oil painting.”

Clark chuckled softly, putting the apple back and nudging the cart just enough to give you space. “I know. But it’s fun to pretend everything is important when I’m with you.”

You shook your head, an affectionate grin tugging at your lips. “That’s a cute line.”

Clark looked up at you, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, and gave you that crooked, half-smile that made your stomach lurch for reasons you absolutely did not want to unpack in a public grocery store.

You turned the corner of the aisle, cart squeaking slightly on the floor, when another shopper’s cart came barreling toward you from the left. It bumped yours hard enough to send you stumbling sideways.

Instinctively, Clark’s hands shot out—one catching the edge of your cart, the other sliding around your waist to steady you. You collided gently with him, chest to chest, and froze, breath hitching.

The other shopper muttered a quick, embarrassed apology and shuffled past, completely oblivious to the tension they’d created.

“Golly,” Clark murmured, voice low and tight. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, fixed on you, and just a fraction too aware of how close you were.

You bit back a laugh that threatened to escape. “Golly?” you repeated, the word tumbling out with a twinge of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Well, it’s a very versatile word,” he said, trying to sound casual, but the faint hitch in his voice betrayed him. He kept his hands lightly at your waist, just enough to steady you and not enough to let go entirely.

You shook your head, laughter spilling out. “You’re funny, Kansas,” you said, pressing closer against the cart instead of moving away. “I think the danger’s past.” When you tilted up to whisper in his ear, you didn’t see the way Clark’s throat tightened as he swallowed. “You can let go now, Superman.”

He leapt back like he’d been burned and blushed. “Right, sorry, I just—” Clark cleared his throat and motioned for you to push the cart toward the register. “Golly,” he whispered softly, just to himself.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was overflowing with the evidence of a week’s worth of groceries: bright bell peppers, an embarrassing number of snack items, and a suspiciously large tub of your favourite ice cream you hadn’t put in the cart.

The cashier, a middle-aged woman with a sunny disposition, greeted you both like old friends. “Well, look at you!” she said, scanning items with practised speed. Then, she motioned to Clark as she addressed you, “Shouldn’t your husband be paying for all this, gorgeous?”

You paused mid-step, hand hovering over the wallet in your open bag. “Uh—”

Clark let out a deep, hearty laugh that made heat spread across your cheeks. “You’re absolutely right,” he declared, reaching for his wallet and swiping his card with exaggerated flourish.

You blinked, still stunned, and muttered, “Clark—really—”

He ignored your protest, leaning on the counter as he bagged the groceries.

The details of his appearance made your brain short-circuit. Clark’s glasses—which you so rarely saw him wear, since he didn’t need them at home—gave him that perfect mix of handsome and nerdy charm. The dark curls at his temples were shaggier than usual, and his blazer was a little wrinkled at the elbow.

He was arranging your groceries with the same intense concentration he used to save cities.

“You know,” the cashier said with a knowing smile, “he’s a good one. The way he jumped to pay—he must really love you.”

Your breath caught, and a tiny voice in your head argued fiercely about how to respond. Don’t say anything. Play it cool. Don’t melt into a puddle and declare your undying, unrequited love for your roommate.

Clark noticed your silence and grinned, nudging you slightly with his shoulder as if to say, See? Told you so. The gesture was casual, but the warmth in it, the effortless familiarity, made your chest ache painfully.

“Thank you,” he said to the cashier as she handed him the receipt. “I think we make a pretty good team, don’t you?”

Back at the apartment, you kicked off your shoes and placed the singular grocery bag Clark let you carry on the kitchen counter. Your coat, the one he got you for your birthday, was still slightly fragrant with the faint scent of his cologne. The wool always seemed to absorb his smell when you spent time together.

You slid your hands down the wool, letting the fabric smooth over your fingers. It was warm in a way that wrapped around you like a protective hug. The sleeves fit perfectly, and the collar was just high enough to make you feel cocooned against the world. Every stitch, every soft seam, felt like it had been made with care.

You held it for a moment longer and thought about the first time you’d worn it. How Clark had handed it to you like it was nothing, and yet it had felt like a quiet declaration. It had become your comfort piece; a little boost of courage, a little shield against anything that could rattle you.

But after the grocery store—after the cashier’s comment about Clark being your husband, and how he must really love you—and the routine of walking and bickering and brushing elbows, the coat felt heavier.

You wondered if she had mistaken Clark for your husband because even she could see how much you loved him.

Maybe you were wearing a little piece of your heart on your coat sleeves.

With a soft, reluctant exhale, you eased the coat off your shoulders. Before Clark got home—he’d gotten side-tracked helping one of your neighbours find their cat—you carefully hung it in the closet, straightening the hanger as if it could keep your feelings tucked away for a while.

“Secret’s safe another day,” you whispered to yourself with a self-deprecatory smile.

You knew you’d wear it again. You just needed to wait until your heart stopped skipping every time Clark laughed at something only the two of you would find funny.

It had been a few weeks since you’d plunged back into the unpredictable waters of dating.

Not that it was anything special.

You’d been on a handful of first dates that were mostly forgettable, some with men who talked exclusively about themselves, some who were nicer but ultimately incompatible for one reason or another.

You were starting to think dating apps were some cruel, algorithmic joke. Then, amidst the bad conversation and awkward silences, you met Harry.

Harry was unremarkable in the best possible way. No dramatic quirks, no bombastic life stories, no one-sided debates over cryptocurrency or fantasy football leagues. Just a kind, attentive man who laughed at your jokes, asked questions you actually wanted to answer, and paid when the check arrived without making a big deal about it.

Your first date had been perfectly simple: pizza at a quiet little place you’d never been to before, followed by a stroll around your favourite park. Just two people walking and talking under the soft glow of streetlamps. It was comfortable and fun, so you didn’t hesitate to agree when he asked you on a second date at the end of the night.

So here you were, standing at the threshold of date number two, waiting for Harry to pick you up and feeling a cocktail of anticipation and nervous excitement.

It was pleasantly surprising to feel it again after a string of unimpressive dates.

You adjusted the sleeves of your buttoned baseball jersey and debated bringing a jacket when Clark walked into your room, face free of glasses and hair rumpled like he’d just gotten home from work.

“That’s quite a look,” he said, raising an eyebrow and giving you his usual lopsided half-smile. “Full Metropolis Meteors regalia? What’s the occasion?”

You chuckled. “I’m going on my second date with Harry, he has tickets to the game tonight. He’s coming by to pick me up soon.”

Clark’s expression dropped, like someone had sucked the air out of the room. His shoulders slumped slightly, and for a beat, he looked completely deflated.

“Clark?” you asked, taking a cautious step closer. “What happened?”

He waved a hand, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, unconvinced. You studied him carefully. “What’s going on? Come on, spill.”

Clark hesitated, jaw working as if forming words were suddenly a Herculean task. Finally, he let out a small, almost embarrassed chuckle. “I guess,” at the last second, his tone turned humorous, “I’m just surprised someone from the dating apps is impressive enough to warrant a second date.”

You paused, immediately recognising the joke for what it was. A shield, a mask, an attempt to hide exactly what he was feeling. Your gut swirled, but before you could press him, there was a knock at the door.

Harry. Timing, as always, was unkind to you.

Clark’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he straightened abruptly. “Well, go get him,” he said, clapping a hand on your shoulder a little too firmly, a little too quickly. You blinked in surprise. “Have a nice time.”

You nodded, stepping toward the door. “How do I look?”

Clark’s eyes softened, a quiet intensity breaking through the playful mask he tried so hard to keep in place. “You look beautiful, like always.” He paused, gaze lingering longer than it should have. “I hope he makes you laugh as hard as I do.”

Your stomach did that impossible flip.

Clark was being too sincere, too heavy for it to be just casual encouragement. You forced a bright, teasing smile, hiding the ache in your chest, and opened the door to Harry, stepping out with a wave and a glance back at your roommate.

Clark already looked smaller in the room without you, his smile faint but still there. Little did you know it was all a brave front for the friend he loved too much to admit he wanted for himself.

The stadium was alive with the kind of energy that made your chest thrum and your ears ring: the roar of the crowd, the sharp crack of bats against balls, the waft of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with freshly cut grass.

Meanwhile, you were freezing.

You hadn’t worn the coat Clark got you since that day at the grocery store. At first, you told yourself it was helping—like maybe putting it away had cleared some strange fog you hadn’t noticed you were in.

After all, not long after, you’d met Harry, and here you were, on an objectively good date.

But sitting in the chill of the stadium night, your breath puffing white in the air, you wished you’d brought your coat. More than that, you wished you were here with Clark instead, his warmth cutting through the cold in a way no jacket ever could.

Harry was animated beside you, pointing out players and making guesses about the next play. His enthusiasm would have been infectious if you weren’t so distracted.

You clutched your fries a little too tightly, the paper corners digging into your palms. You tried your best, nodding at all the right moments, laughing a second too late at Harry’s jokes. The noise of the crowd should have heightened your own excitement, but you felt oddly hollow.

It was as if the anticipation belonged to everyone but you.

“You okay?” Harry asked, lowering his voice slightly over the cacophony. His brow furrowed. Concern softened the features that, moments ago, had been enlivened with excitement.

You forced a smile that wasn’t reflected in your body language. “Yeah, yeah, just… a little stuck in my head tonight.”

Harry studied you for a moment longer, deciding whether to push or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Want to talk about it?”

You hesitated, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. You’d been trying not to overthink things tonight—to let yourself enjoy the date—but honesty was creeping its way forward despite your better instincts.

“I haven’t been completely honest with you,” you said carefully, trying not to grimace. “I started going on dates because I was trying to get over someone else—my roommate. I still have feelings for him. And being here with you tonight, it feels like I’m not giving you a fair chance.”

Harry didn’t interrupt, just nodded for you to continue.

“You deserve someone who can show up fully, and I can’t do that right now. You came looking for a real connection, and I’m not in the place to offer that,” you confessed.

Harry gave a small, easy smile—no surprise, no hurt, just quiet understanding. “Thank you for being honest with me,” he said softly. “I really do get it. Dating’s complicated enough without having to untangle old feelings on top of it.”

You let out a breath, a little tight, but relieved all the same. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’m really sorry. I wanted tonight to be fun—and you really are a rare find on those dating apps—but you’re not the person I’ve been thinking about all night.”

Harry just shrugged, calm and unbothered. “No hard feelings. It’s better to be honest than to spend the evening pretending.” He held out a hand, guiding you toward the exit with the same quiet attentiveness he’d shown all night. “Let me get you home—to that roommate of yours.”

When he pulled up outside your building, Harry insisted on walking you to your door since it was already dark.

You gave him a genuine but apologetic smile. “Thanks again. I appreciate you getting me home safe. You’re a really great guy.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Well, thank you. That means a lot.”

You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for you and Harry to see Clark standing in the hallway that leads to your rooms. He looked like he’d been expecting you. His shirt was buttoned neatly, sleeves slightly rolled, hair tousled in that somehow-stylish way he always managed.

Notably, Clark’s eyes tracked you the moment the door opened.

There was a beat of silence as Harry and Clark sized each other up. Harry—far away enough to not connect the dots to Superman, but close enough to see that Clark was handsome and clearly cared for you—gave you a subtle nod and smirk.

Clark straightened, the faintest grin on his face, and inclined his head toward Harry. “Hi, you must be Harry. I’m Clark, the roommate.” His tone was a little formal but warm.

Harry offered a wave with a friendly smile. “That’s me. Nice to meet you.”

Clark’s posture shifted, arms crossing lightly in a protective line, but his gaze softened the moment it found you. That faint, private smile stayed just for you, and your chest tightened in a way that felt entirely inevitable.

Harry noticed, and he gave a nod, his voice low but amused. “Yeah,” Harry said quietly, intending it for your ears only. “I get it. No hard feelings.”

You laughed awkwardly, panic rising in your chest. Clark, having caught it thanks to his superhearing, raised an eyebrow in mild confusion.

“Goodnight,” Harry said after a beat. “Take care of yourself.”

You waved, stepping inside as he headed back down the stairs. Then Harry was gone, leaving you alone with Clark. Slowly, you closed the door behind you, feeling uncharacteristically shy in your own apartment.

Clark’s eyes held yours, unreadable and steady, before that familiar smile appeared.

“Hey,” he said, voice laced with warmth. “Everything okay? I wasn’t expecting you until a little later, the game’s still on.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and for once, the lie felt almost impossible to maintain.

Clark tilted his head, eyes soft, and stepped just a fraction closer. For a heartbeat, he said nothing, letting his gaze roam over your face as if he couldn’t look away. Slowly, his eyes drifted downward, and a faint furrow appeared between his brows.

“You were outside without a jacket?” Clark asked, his voice carrying that you know better than that note you’d heard before.

Normally you’d call him mother hen Clark for that, but this time you refrained.

“It’s not that cold,” you said automatically, even as the faint shiver in your fingers betrayed you.

He shook his head, lips curving downwards. “It’s freezing out there. And you—” Clark stopped, his eyes flicking toward the closet for just a second before returning to you. “You haven’t worn your coat in, what, a few weeks now?”

There was a sharpness in his tone—light, teasing on the surface, but with a thread of quiet disappointment woven through it. It made you shift your weight, guilt curling low in your stomach.

“Does that bother you?” you asked, tilting your head.

Clark pretended to consider it, scratching the back of his neck and frowning dramatically. You knew that was just him buying himself time to come up with a response.

“Bother me? Well, I suppose someone could say it’s mildly irritating. Or horrifying. Or—” He held up a finger, mock serious. “A crime against meteorological common sense.”

You chuckled, but the sound was a little tight. “A crime against common sense, huh? That sounds serious.”

Clark shrugged. “Very serious. I might sentence you to a life of wearing coats from now on, even in the summer.”

“That doesn’t sound like meteorological common sense,” you countered, trying to hide the pang in your chest. “I can survive a night without my coat, Clark.”

“Survive, yes,” he said, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “But you’d be far less…” Clark trailed off when he couldn’t think of any more jokes. His whole body deflated, like he couldn’t physically keep the facade up any longer. “Protected.”

You blinked rapidly, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone.

Clark stepped back as if nothing had happened, brushing it off with a chuckle. “Not that it matters. Silly me, worrying about coats.”

You hated his sudden and uncharacteristic self-deprication. “It seems like it matters, though,” you pressed, shifting your weight from foot to foot. “That coat—”

Clark cut you off quietly, his playful grin slipping into something more tender. He looked like he might brush it off, the way he did with most things, but then he let out a quiet sigh.

“I like it when you wear the coat,” he admitted. “I like it a lot.”

The casual teasing had disappeared, leaving only that quiet, earnest Clark you always felt but never expected to hear so plainly.

You opened your mouth to reply, but Clark held up a hand, a faint flush painting his cheekbones pink. “It sounds strange, but I like knowing you’re out there, wearing something I got you,” he explained, “Something that keeps you warm. It means that, in a way, you’re warm because of me.”

The way he said it made your heart squeeze.

You blinked at him, lips slightly parted, breath catching in that uneven way you always did around him. Your stomach had taken up permanent residence in your throat, twisting in ways that were entirely unfair and entirely too familiar.

Clark’s blue-eyed gaze lingered on you—just a little too long, just a little too intense—and warmth bloomed in your chest. You noticed the way his hands twitched at his sides, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, and the faint flush on his cheeks was darkening. The same way your fingers itched to reach for him, to close that invisible space between you.

Clark rocked gently on his heels as he leaned just slightly closer, though he kept his tone light. “I know,” he said softly, as if reading your thoughts, “it’s a little foolish to care about somebody else’s fashion choices this much.”

You laughed, but it came out breathy, your chest tightening. “No, no, it’s—I wouldn’t say that it’s foolish,” you admitted, heart thundering behind your ribs.

Clark grinned, small and careful, and you felt the pull of it. That half-smirk that said he was thinking ten things at once, most of which involved you, and that little spark in his eyes that dared you to meet it.

You took a tiny step back, almost instinctively, and he mirrored you, just enough to keep the distance tantalising, teasing.

In that space, in the rhythm of his small gestures and the heat of his gaze, you realised what you’d known for so long but kept buried: Clark felt it too. The same pull, the same quiet craving that had made you so painfully aware of him for the last year.

It was a delicate dance of proximity and hesitation, of teasing words and nearly-touching hands, and every second felt like a challenge. Your heart raced, your mind spinning, and you wanted him to stop pretending that nothing had changed between you.

Clark crossed his arms. Though he leaned casually against the doorway leading to the kitchen, you could see the tension in his shoulders. “You never told me why you’re home so early,” he said, eyebrows raised. “Was the date so horrendous that you had to flee?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Hardly. Harry was a complete gentleman,” you assured him. “I just think we’re better off as friends, that’s all.”

Clark tilted his head, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. “Better off as friends, huh? So, basically, you met the only guy who actually got a second date and immediately hit the brakes?”

“We just realised that even though we like each other, it’s not going to work out.” You paused, realising, “Actually, he could be a perfect match for one of my coworkers. Maybe I can—”

“Wait—what?” Clark’s eyes widened, mock-indignant. “Did you just suggest setting up your perfect date with one of your friends from work?”

“It’s logical!” you protested. “It’s not like we’ve been dating a long time, it was one and a half dates. It’s perfectly civil to offer to set him up with someone more compatible.”

Clark shook his head, stepping a fraction closer. “‘Civil,’ huh? That’s your rationale for ending the only dating-app experiment that actually went well?” His tone was teasing, but there was a slight edge beneath it now.

“I’m not ending anything,” you said, a little more flustered than intended. “I just— he’s really nice, but we’re better off keeping things friendly!”

“‘Friendly,’” Clark repeated slowly, almost incredulous. “‘Friendly’ is why you ended things? ‘Friendly’ is why you’re sending away the only guy who didn’t make you want to run screaming?”

“Stop repeating everything I say,” you grumbled. The absurdity of Clark’s protests hit you: his expression wasn’t just teasing—there was a flutter of genuine panic in the way his jaw clenched. “Why is this bothering you so much? If you think he’s so great, you date him.”

Clark ignored your quip. “I’m not just repeating everything you say,” he said quickly, voice rising a fraction. “I just mean— I don’t think you should give up on someone who could be a great match for you just because you’re friends! Friendships can be a really solid foundation, right?” Clark rubbed his forehead. “I’m just saying, you know, you’ll miss out on something great if you never let it get past friendship.”

“I never said I’d never let a relationship go beyond friendship,” you defended yourself, frowning.

Clark ran a hand through his dark curls, exhaling sharply. “I know, I know, but…” He paused, gaze flitting to the floor for a second, then back up, voice softening. “It’s not just about Harry; I feel like you’re missing the potential for a really great relationship. Not that it’s anything like… never mind.”

You blinked at him, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Clark. I never said I would count anyone out because of a friendship. Harry’s just not the guy. That’s all.”

“Good,” Clark nodded. “That’s… Yeah— I… Good.”

“God,” you murmured, the words catching in your throat, “…you just want me to date anyone but you, don’t you?”

Clark froze, eyes widening in sheer disbelief. “What? No! No, that’s not it at all!” He clenched his fists, struggling to find the right words. “I’ve been trying to explain for the last few minutes that friendship—our friendship, everything we’ve built for the last year—is exactly why you shouldn’t settle for anyone else! That’s why I’m perfect for you!”

You gaped at Clark in disbelief, not quite sure if he’d really confessed or if this was all a dream.

“Perfect for me?” you repeated, your voice breaking around the words. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

Clark rubbed his temples, flustered. “Of course I hear myself! You think I’d just say something like that if I didn’t mean it?” His voice wavered, the usual steadiness undercut by nerves. “I’ve been trying to tell you without telling you, but you never—” He broke off, groaning under his breath. “Gosh, you drive me insane.”

“Me?!” You pressed a hand to your chest, incredulous. “You’ve spent weeks pushing me toward anyone who so much as smiles at me, and somehow I’m the one driving you insane?”

Clark stepped close enough that you felt the heat radiating from him. “What was I supposed to do?!” His voice dropped, thick with frustration. “Be a bad friend and tell you not to put yourself out there? You think I wanted to sit there and watch you force sparks that aren’t there while I—” Clark cut himself off, jaw tight and breath ragged.

Your pulse skittered wildly. You didn’t move when his hand twitched at his side, then finally, as if against his better judgment, brushed the back of yours. The touch was feather-light, almost accidental, but it set you ablaze.

The air between you thickened, your chest rising and falling too quickly, every nerve stretched tight. The fight had cracked something open—rage bleeding into desire, sharp and unstoppable. You turned your hand over, letting your fingers graze against his, and a shiver ran through him at the contact.

“While you what?” you breathed. Every ounce of fight collapsed into raw, trembling awareness.

He met your gaze, eyes burning with equal parts fear and want. His thumb grazed your knuckle, a touch so small it felt catastrophic.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Clark challenged softly. “Tell me I’m imagining this—that you don’t feel it too.”

You opened your mouth, but no denial came. Just his name, fragile and aching on your lips, “Clark…”

That was all it took.

In the next heartbeat, his hand was on your jaw, the other splaying across your back as if he couldn’t stand another second of distance. You surged up at the same time he pulled you in, the kiss colliding out of you both—messy, furious, and desperate.

It was teeth and heat and the sharp gasp you gave when his mouth claimed yours like he’d been starving for it. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer, and Clark groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you like lightning.

Every protest, every half-formed argument between you shattered into the kiss. His thumb stroked across your cheekbone, frantic and tender all at once, while your lips parted, answering him with a hunger that had been buried too long. The air around you buzzed, alive with something you’d both tried too hard to ignore.

When you finally tore apart for breath, foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping, Clark’s voice was wrecked, “Tell me I’m wrong now.”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gently caught his dark curls in your hands, tugging Clark back down before either of you could think. His mouth opened against yours, and you let him in, your heart ricocheting as his arms crushed you closer, lifting you slightly off your feet as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him, the way his breath stuttered when your arms hooked around his shoulders, the addictive press of lips that had only ever said your name but never tasted it until now.

When you finally broke apart again, it wasn’t with distance but with your noses brushing, your lips still trembling against his. Neither of you moved away, both of you caught in the impossible gravity of what you’d just done—what you couldn’t undo even if you tried.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your shared apartment had gone utterly, terrifyingly still—save for the thundering of your heart and the feel of his breath fanning across your lips.

When Clark carefully set you back on the floor, you pulled back just enough to look at him. He stood before you flushed, his curls mussed from your hands, lips kiss-bitten and parted like he couldn’t remember how to breathe.

The sight hit you like a tidal wave: this was real.

Not some half-formed daydream, not a cruel trick of your imagination.

You’d kissed him, and he’d kissed you back.

Your throat went dry. “I—”

But Clark shook his head, voice low and frayed at the edges, the words spilling out like he’d been holding them in too long. “I thought—Golly, I thought you felt it too. And then you started going on those dates, and I figured I’d made it all up in my head. I thought I wanted it so badly I was seeing something that wasn’t there.”

The confession opened something deep in you, raw and undeniable. You let out a shaky breath, your fingers curling into the fabric of Clark’s shirt again, desperate to anchor yourself.

“No. That’s not—” You swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “I only went on those dates because I was trying to get over you. I thought if I kept putting myself out there, it would fade, or at least stop hurting so much. But it didn’t. It never did.”

His eyes widened, the pain and disbelief in them giving way to something softer. Clark’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his hands still holding your waist like you might disappear.

“You were trying to get over me?” he echoed, half-disbelieving, half-thrumming with a hope he didn’t dare let loose.

You nodded. “And failing, miserably.” A shaky laugh escaped you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to sit across from someone, trying to listen, when all I can think about is you? Or what it’s like to wish every stranger would smile the way you do?”

Clark lifted a quivering hand, cupping your jaw and sweeping his thumb behind your ear. You leaned into it without meaning to, your body betraying the truth you’d just confessed. Your breath caught, eyes locked on his mouth again, desperate and dizzy with it.

“Clark,” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure what you meant to say.

“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t say my name like that unless you’re sure you’re not going to take it back.”

Your chest constricted, lips parting on another breathless laugh. “You think I could ever take this back?”

That was all it took. Clark surged forward, catching your mouth in his. His hands were everywhere, steady and desperate. He could hardly believe that he could finally hold you without restraint.

You gasped against his lips, hands pulling him closer, needing him closer. And Clark gave in, kissing you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for permission.

Then he broke, grinning against your mouth. With a boyish laugh, Clark swept you off your feet. You yelped, the sound swallowed by his mouth, before he spun you around and set you on the kitchen counter. His arms circled you tight, burying his face against your shoulder for just a beat, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Golly,” Clark murmured into your skin, his voice light with relief, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You tugged him away just enough to see the flush on his cheeks, the wrecked and radiant smile tugging at his lips. You kissed him again—softer this time, giddy and sweet—because now that you had him, how could you not?

Clark laughed against you, the sound low and dazzled, and pulled you in tighter. “I think it’s time we get rid of the space between our bodies,” he suggested. “Permanently.”

The words knocked another shaky laugh from you, equal parts wonder and disbelief. “Clark Kent, what are you proposing?”

“That when I tell my coworkers I’m heading out for the day, it’s because I’m going home to the person I love, not just my roommate,” he said. His knuckles brushed gently across your cheek, reverent now where he’d been desperate moments before. “I’ve wanted this for so long… I just hope it’s what you want too.”

Your breath caught, chest tightening with something warm. “I was never going to get over you,” you admitted. “Every date was just me trying not to feel this.” You pressed your palm over his heart. “Not to feel you.”

Clark’s expression softened, the fire in his eyes settling into something deeper, steadier, no less consuming. “Then don’t get over me,” he whispered, forehead lowering to rest against yours. “Stay right here with me.”

Your smile was wide and irrepressible. “Like I’d want to be anywhere else.”

He kissed you again, chastely this time, a promise more than a question. And when he pulled back, you could see it all written across his face. His relief and devotion were so unguarded that it made your knees tremble.

“I’m yours,” Clark said simply, utterly certain. “Finally.”

And then he hugged you again, arms tight around your waist, as if he could fuse you to him and never let go. You allowed yourself to sink into him completely, laughing against his shoulder. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, everything felt exactly as it should.

You sighed. “Can you believe we yelled at each other over… what exactly?”

Clark chuckled, voice rumbling low and warm. “I think it was your fault,” he teased, though the smirk in his voice betrayed how ridiculous he knew it all had been.

“Me? I was perfectly reasonable,” you shot back.

“‘Reasonable’?” he repeated, mock scandalised, leaning back to press a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “Absolutely terrifyingly reasonable.”

You both dissolved into giggles, the kind that left your ribs aching and your cheeks sore, and he pressed another giddy kiss to your mouth just because he could. You grabbed his face with both hands and returned it with all the silly, uncontainable joy you were feeling.

When you finally parted, Clark’s gaze flicked downward. His brow furrowed, then lifted with amused recognition. “You know this is my jersey, right?” he asked.

You glanced down at the buttoned baseball jersey you’d thrown on earlier. “What? No it’s not. It’s mine.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head, grinning. “Remember that game we went to with Lois and Jimmy? You got cold, so I gave it to you. Check the back.”

You twisted to look, and sure enough, bold red block letters across your spine read KENT. Your laugh came out half-giddy, half-incredulous. “Oh my god, how did I not notice that? I’ve been walking around wearing it all night—I went on a date with another guy wearing it!”

Clark just grinned, flushed and smug all at once. He leaned in until his forehead bumped yours, voice dropping low. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, all warmth and cheekiness. “If there’s one thing I like you wearing more than that coat I gave you,” he brushed a kiss against your temple, then whispered against your hair, “It’s my last name.”

You huddled slightly in the soft warmth of the coat Clark had given you, glancing at your phone for the third time in as many minutes. The evening air was crisp, but mercifully not biting. At least you were bundled up in the perfect combination of warmth and comfort.

You told yourself you were being perfectly patient, rational even—but inside, your stomach was doing a little drumline of anticipation.

It was likely that your date would be late. After all, you knew he had a pretty demanding side job with unexpected hours.

And then, like a scene from a rom-com, Clark came barreling around the corner, slightly out of breath, his hair tousled in that impossibly charming way of his. “Sorry! Sorry, There was a bridge collapse I had to help with, and—” He skidded to a stop in front of you, hands slightly raised, blue eyes wide with earnest panic.

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you brushed a strand of hair out of his face. “It’s okay, really. You didn’t keep me waiting too long.”

Clark gave a sheepish grin, straightening just enough to look halfway composed, though the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “Good. I’m just glad you’re wearing your coat, it’s cold tonight,” he said.

Sliding your arm through his as you headed toward the restaurant, you felt that familiar easy rhythm of being together. You let yourself relax into him, the humour of the moment washing through you.

Seated across from him at the table, the lights of the restaurant casting soft shadows over his strong features, Clark leaned back with a mock-serious expression. “So… before we order, tell me: cryptocurrency? Are you into it yet, or—”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, because honestly, after everything, words seemed almost too clumsy. You leaned across the table and pressed your lips to his, shutting him up instantly.

Pulling back just enough to catch your breath, you whispered, “I love you.”

Clark’s eyes went wide for the briefest moment before a blush spread across his face. “I love you too,” he said. And then grinned, dimples on full display, utterly himself again.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent imagine #clark kent x reader fluff #clark kent x you

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maisy1111 · 10 days ago

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Me when I get to the part of a fanfic that has me giggling and kicking my feet

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maisy1111 · 10 days ago

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Rock Me, Sway Me

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader

summary: superman accidentally reveals his secret identity through a hug

word count: 2.9k

content: fem!reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, minor angst (if you squint) but mostly comfort, clark and reader are kinda sappy, use of pet names, kinda sorta follows a plot point in the movie

a/n: this is the first fanfic i've ever written! feedback is appreciated. i love clark so much, he's such a sweetie pie. not sure how consistently i'll write, if i do write more, but i hope you enjoy! dedicated to dina <3

Clark knows you like the back of his hand.

He thinks he's pretty good at reading most people's emotions in general, but with you it's like he's got this psychic sixth sense.

He can tell how you're feeling with a single glance. Nobody's sure how he does it. Clark isn't a prideful man by any means, has no intention of ever becoming one, but he allows himself this one thing. Sometimes he imagines that knowing and loving you manifested itself as part of his special abilities. It's simply something he was born to do.

For example, he knows when you're happy before you can even smile. Your posture is straighter, you've put extra effort into styling your hair, and you're wearing your favorite office outfit. You'd look beautiful sitting atop your desk, hands flying around as you enthusiastically explain ideas for your next project to Cat, who nods along as you speak. He'd stride over, politely clearing his throat before talking.

"Mornin'! Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt." He'll hand over your coffee, made just the way you like it. He'd memorized your order the day you told him. Once you grab the cup, he'd put a hand over yours and squeeze, eyes twinkling. Then he'd wave goodbye to you and Cat and walk over to Lois and Jimmy.

"How cute." Cat would comment, crinkling her nose as you stick your tongue out at her.

When you decide it's time to make your big announcement, he'd pretend to be as surprised as anyone else. He would've already known—super hearing and all—but he doesn't mind listening to you tell your small group of friends how, after months of hard work and sleepless nights, you'd finally landed front page. Lois nods in approval, Jimmy gives two thumbs up, and Cat squeals in delight. Clark reaches under his desk, where he's hidden a bouqet of flowers, and offers it to you. You take the flowers and he takes you.

"Well done, sweetheart." He'd say as you giggle in his arms.

He knows when you're irritated, too. It's as obvious from this side of the street as it would be if he was standing right in front of you. Your arms are crossed, your foot is rapidly tapping against the pavement, and you're trying to control your breathing but he can almost visualise the smoke coming out of your nostrils and ears. Plus, you're allowing yourself to be soaked by the merciless downpour of rain. Perhaps irritated is too light a description. You're pissed.

He'd brace himself before crossing, thinking whatever happened to him would be rightfully deserved, though getting hit by a car would be less painful than knowing he'd hurt you. He really hadn't meant to leave you hanging but he'd gotten caught up handling a hostage situation a continent away. He'd stick a hand while weaving through oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding being run over by some stupid luck. He'll sweep his suit jacket off in one smooth gesture and unsuccessfully attempt to shield you from the rain.

"I'm so sor—"

"You stood me up." You'd snap, maneuvering away from the giant of a man towering over you and his ill fitting excuse for proper work attire.

"I can't apologize enough for being late but you know that I would never stand you up. Take some cover, you'll catch a cold." He'd insist, shooing you beneath the roof of a nearby bus stop.

"Oh please, like you care." You'd shoot back, turning away from him.

"Gosh, how can you say that? 'Course I do." His voice would crack as he'd step back into your line of sight, trying to plead his case. "No amount of apologies could ever express how sorry I truly am, but please allow me to spend every waking moment trying to make up for it."

Above all, he's most grateful to possess this gift when you're feeling down. He'd knock on your door, brows knitted in concern. Stare past the piece of metal at your hunched form, knees pressed to your chest, hugging yourself, and will you with all his might to get up and come over to him. You'd take so long he'd consider bursting through, hand grasping the doorknob so tight it should've broken. You'll open the door shortly after, eyes red and puffy, cheeks flushed. Your hair would be toussled and you'd be wearing an oversized t-shirt of his, for comfort, he'd assume. Upon seeing his face, your eyes would cloud over with tears.

"Oh, honey," he'll say as he folds you into his chest, blanketing you from the world with his broad form. An open palm splays against your back, rubbing in slow circles. The other hand reaches for your hair, petting in a steady tempo while he periodically presses kisses to the crown of your head. He'll rock you side to side, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, remind you that he's got you and you're safe in his arms.

When your tears begin to slow, he'll pull back just enough to see your face and flash you a gentle lopsided smile as he works at wiping the damp stains on your cheeks with his thumbs. After deciding that he's done a satisfactory job, Clark will place a chaste peck on your left cheek, then your right, then prompt you with, "do you wanna talk about it?"

He won't pry, of course, but he makes it a point to always ask. That's Clark for you, ever the gentleman.

Today, Clark is especially chipper. Even after being sternly reprimanded by Perry for his late arrival, he still manages to carry that dopey smile across the bullpen, all the way to the cluster of desks that belong to you, Lois, and Jimmy. He's brought a cupholder with four drinks inside, each cup of coffee tailored specifically to your respective tastes. He hands yours out last, letting your fingers touch for longer than necessary. When you turn it over you find a sticky note on the side, where he's written a small message with a heart at the end. Lois and Jimmy notice and exchange a knowing look.

"What's gotten you so giddy today, Smallville?" Lois inquires, taking a sip of her sugar loaded drink.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lois." He replies. You can really see his dimples when he smiles like that.

She narrows her eyes but waves him off, choosing to focus her energy on continuing the research for her latest article. It's not like you and Jimmy aren't curious too, but the three of you have surmised that it's easier to move a boulder than get him talking once he starts acting all mysterious. You figure he'll tell you later in private if you ask nicely. For now, you're content with watching him walk to his desk, adjusting his clothes before settling into his seat. You suppose you should get to work too.

At first the words come easy, flowing steadily as your nimble fingers fly across the keyboard, but then the creativity slows and eventually stops. You've hit a roadblock. You're questioning if your tone is right, if you've used the best quotes, if your voice is clear and assertive. Scanning over the entirety of this draft, you wonder if it's up to the standards of the Daily Planet or slop better suited for its lesser known competitors. You groan, trying to shake the doubt from your mind. You're good. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. You just need to focus.

Your gaze drifts over to Clark. His face is scrunched up and his lips are pursed, an adorable display he puts on when he's deep in thought. His curls are looser now, falling messily over his forehead. He must've been playing with his hair. You've found that he does that when he's nervous or unsure. He probably doesn't know what to write next. You and him both.

He twitches, just slightly, so inconspicuous you doubt anyone else would notice. You were only lucky to have caught it because you'd been studying his features, a habit you'd gotten into whenever you were feeling uninspired. Whatever's got his attention has halted his work entirely. He's stopped typing in favor of placing a hand under his chin to think, furiously clicking a ballpoint pen he's picked up from his stash.

Then he's leaping out of his chair so abruptly it makes you flinch. He glances at the window, then looks at you. Your eyes meet for a second before you're drawn away by the gasps and hushed chatter of your colleagues. The building trembles. You follow their gaze, landing on a creature of monstrous proportion breathing fire and barelling towards the Daily Planet, leaving mass destruction in its wake.

Chaos ensues. You watch as your coworkers shove files in their shoulder bags and briefcases, scrambling towards the nearest exits. By your side, Lois is wasting no time trying to preserve all the progress she's made this week. Jimmy, on the other hand, has grabbed the bare essentials. You can tell he's itching to join the others and get away, but he refuses to leave his friends behind. You whip your head around to check where Clark had just been standing, but it's like he'd vanished into thin air. It feels like you're stuck in a bad dream. You fight against the crowd, calling for your boyfriend, but there's no response.

The wall begins to collapse as the beast crashes into it, though it doesn't get very far thanks to Superman, who gives it a forceful push. You'd been knocked over from the impact, coughing as dust and debris scatter around your workplace, but you weren't willing to give up. You find your footing, ready to continue your search for Clark, but someone grabs a fistful of your blouse and starts dragging you backwards. You yelp in surprise, rearing your head to give the perpetrator a piece of your mind, but when you look back you find that it's Lois pulling you along. You spot Jimmy by her side, worry written all over his features.

"Are you out of your fucking mind? We need to go!"

"But Clark!"

She offers a regretful but resolute look. "You have to trust that he's okay. Maybe he got swept into that sea of people and was forced to leave with them. Maybe Superman got to him. Whatever the case, we couldn't find him but we found you, and I will not allow you to die here alone."

You can't accept that. You permit Lois and Jimmy to usher you down the staircase, but once you reach the last floor, you break free from Lois' hold. You shove your friends towards the exit while you sprint back up the steps you had just crossed. You can hear them shouting your name in protest but you don't dare to look back. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins. Your legs move on their own accord, propelling you at lightning speed up each flight. By some miracle, you aren't hit by the huge pieces of rubble that are starting to fall. You push back your worries about the building's structural integrity to the back of your mind.

You finally reach the right floor, lungs burning from a mix of overexertion and the inhalation of all the dust in the building. Your throat hurts but it doesn't stop you from shouting Clark's name over and over. The Planet continues to crumble, a chunk of the ceiling falling overhead. You try to run but you're getting tired and sluggish. You close your eyes and think of Clark, calling for him one last time.

You're shaking so much that Superman seems afraid to let you go. When you finally open your eyes, he's positioned in front of you, strong arms underneath your own, palms cupping your elbows. The iconic "S" symbol is at eye level, glistening in the sunlight. You lift your gaze. He's watching you with such an intensity that you can't help but squirm.

It's hard to talk, let alone breathe crying like this. Your shoulders heave with each sob, you're about to choke on your own spit and you're certain that snot is running down your nose. You look absolutely disheveled right now but you couldn't care less. You were going to find Clark Kent, even if it was the last thing you did.

"Deep, slow breaths, ma'am." Superman instructs, eyes never leaving your face. "You're gonna be fine."

"No!" You wail, shaking your head furiously.

He furrows his brow at this, confused. Immediately he's squinting his eyes, darting his head around, checking for injuries he must have missed. He only stops when you shove him backwards, forcing some distance between the two of you.

"My boyfriend. He's out there. Save him."

He can't help but wonder if this message is more for him or for you. He watches you take a few wobbly steps forward and push past him, looking at the wreckage of the Daily Planet as if you could fly over and save him yourself. It breaks his heart.

One step is enough for Superman to be in front of you again. He looks guilty, as if he is the reason your precious Clark is missing. He rests his hands on your shoulders, touch light as a feather, like he's afraid to hurt you. He opens his mouth to speak but as soon as your eyes meet his, something in you bursts. You break down, sobs drowining out any words he might've had to say. You can't bear to look at him for some reason, opting instead to examine the floor, hugging yourself for much needed comfort.

"Oh—" he breathes out, as if he just got punched in the gut.

He says nothing else as he pulls you into his chest. He's warm. Big. You're completely enveloped in his arms. He rubs your back in slow, soothing circles. Pets your hair just the way you like. You start to crumble in his embrace. He just holds you closer, swaying you back and forth in a way that is so sweet, so familiar. There's a puff of breath that tickles your ear, Superman reassuring you in hushed tones that he's got you and that Clark is safe.

You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. Your shoulders relax and your breathing evens out. Eventually, the tears stop flowing. Superman pulls back to study your face. He's got this silly lopsided smile, dimples peaking out, as he wipes away the dampness on your cheeks with his thumbs. He attempts to wipe the dirt and grime away too, dusting you off as best he can. When he's done he gives you a look, like you are everything. More than the sun, the moon, the stars, the universe. Then, suddenly, his face is inching closer to yours. Just as quickly, he reels back, blinking down at you with wide doe eyes like he's shocked himself with his actions.

You blink back, ghost of a smile on your face, like you've just been told a secret you weren't supposed to know.

He gives you a different look this time, one you can't quite place, then clears his throat. "Your boyfriend is fine, please don't worry."

"Right," you respond, nodding slowly. "I forgot. You two know each other quite well."

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging his shoulders. "Sure, I guess you could say that."

A booming roar scares you out of the moment. Seems like the Justice Gang is here, and they're giving that Kaiju hell. It's a mangled mess of bright green constructs, feathers, and T-Spheres mixed with a giant blob of teeth and horns. Superman springs into action, hooking an arm under your legs and carrying you bridal style as he floats from the roof of the skyscraper to the roads below. He drops you off near Lois and Jimmy, who are taking shelter with the rest of your coworkers, and offers one last smile before vanishing into the sky, nothing but a red blur.

You take your time walking over to them, still recovering from your near death experience and the weight of the discovery you've just made.

Once Lois and Jimmy catch sight of you, they rush over, obviously relieved to have you back.

"God, I'm glad you're okay." Lois says, clutching your shoulders. "That was some reckless stunt you pulled back there."

Jimmy nods in agreeance, patting your back. "Had us real worried."

"I'm sorry." You whisper. "I had to."

They don't nag any further. They understand, they've seen how you look at each other. Lois and Jimmy sit you down. They keep close, comforting you while keeping an eye on the battle that is unfolding. After a while, the Kaiju is rendered limp and lifeless, thanks to a finishing blow by Mister Terrific. You watch as it's carried off by the Justice Gang. Since you're no longer under threat, Lois and Jimmy stand off to the side, debating the next course of action.

"Maybe we should call him again. There's no way he's gone." Jimmy suggests, though he's already dialing Clark's number.

Ring, ring, ring.

"Goddammit, Clark. Pick up the phone."

It's like they've summoned him just by speaking of him. There he is, emerging from some alleyway, waving timidly at you and your friends. His curls are running wild, his glasses lay crooked on his face, his tie is missing, he's covered in dust, and he looks perfect. You run to him with no hesitation and he scoops you up in his big arms, where you belong. He rocks you gently, the way he always does. You hide yourself in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

"I know, darlin'. I know. We have a lot to talk about."

#clark kent x reader

2K notes · View notes

maisy1111 · 11 days ago

Text

so cute!!

the other man (clark kent x fem!reader) -- one shot

I saw Superman twice in one week so it is absolutely no surprise that I had to write a lil silly goofy one shot!! (I don't want to promise anything but I might write more for him aka some smut bc THE VOICES!!!!)

Warnings: angst, being stood up, this fic made me giggle a lot, fluffy + happy end!

Summary: You think Clark is seeing someone else. That someone? Superman.

WC: 4.7k!

You watch, miserably, as the clock ticks past the time Clark said he’d be here to pick you up for dinner. He’s always late for work, so, you think, five minutes past is fine. Until it’s ten. Until it’s twenty. Until it’s forty-five. Until you’re taking your shoes off, changing into sweatpants, and taking off your makeup.

It shouldn’t surprise you, it really shouldn’t. Though this was supposed to be your first date, it isn’t the first time Clark has mysteriously canceled plans, or promised to meet you somewhere and not shown, sending a text instead to say he can’t make it.

Like clockwork, you hear your phone buzz. You don’t even grace it with a glance. You know it’s Clark, apologizing for needing to cancel. It’s fine.

It probably wasn’t even meant to be a date, it just seemed like it might be. It was the first time the plans included him picking you up rather than the two of you meeting somewhere. It was the first time a reservation had been made at this tiny little restaurant the two of you always passed together and always said, “We should go in there.” It was the first time he had said, though you thought it was kind of a joke, or at least not totally serious because it is a phrase people use without meaning it literally, “It’s a date.”

You grab your tub of ice cream from the freezer and a spoon, not even bothering with a bowl. You step out onto your fire escape and plop down, stabbing the ice cream with your spoon.

On the next escape over, your neighbor’s orange cat licks his paws, ears perking when he hears you.

“I sure know how to pick ‘em, eh, Lou?” you scoff, licking the ice cream off your spoon. “Why can’t I just sleep all day like you?”

Lou trills and lays his head down with a big sigh. All you can think is me too, buddy. Me too.

You eventually drag yourself inside after eating half the tub, figuring you shouldn’t eat all of it tonight. Clark will be at work tomorrow and you’ll have to face him -- and his apologies, that are, frankly, starting to get old -- so you’ll probably want that other half tomorrow night.

Before you crawl into bed, you finally give your phone a look, seeing it’s just as you expected. Clark is apologizing. Apparently Superman was fighting something and wrecked Clark’s route to get to your place. Rain check? He asked. And then, just a few minutes ago, Please?

You read them but you don’t reply. You don’t have it in you.

It’s always Superman.

That’s his excuse. It’s always Superman did this or Superman did that, and you honestly think you’ve reached your limit for Superman-related excuses. You mean, sure, the guy has saved the city countless times, and he makes sure there is minimal damage both to civilians and to the city, but why is Clark always bringing him up? He’s always interviewing him, too, and you have no idea how, because as far as you’re concerned, Superman just shows up when the day needs saving.

Not that you’re complaining, because you’re not. You’d much rather the day be saved than some monster from another planet destroy everything you’ve ever loved. You just.

You’re not jealous of a superhero. You are not.

And yet, the more you try to tell yourself that, the more it seems like you’re not convinced at all.

You bury your face into the pillow with a groan. You can’t compete with Superman. You’re you. No wonder Clark is always making excuses to cancel on plans with you. If the options were you and Superman, you’d pick him, too.

God, how did you not see it before? You never thought Clark was interested in men, but clearly he is -- which is fine, you have no problem with it, you just wish he had said it to your face instead of these vague messages and signals.

Or maybe they haven’t been that vague, you’ve just been too blind to see it. Maybe the excuses were his way of trying to politely and gently tell you he wasn’t interested, and you just weren’t getting it. That doesn’t seem like something Clark would do, because he does seem the type to tell you to your face in a direct, but not unkind, way. But still. Maybe he’s been trying to let you down easy this whole time, and you’ve been a fool, believing his excuses, and thinking nothing of them.

You can be so ridiculous sometimes.

+++

You barely sleep. Between crying and being frustrated with yourself for it and tossing and turning every five seconds, you think you manage a measly four hours of actual sleep. You know you look a complete state, but after half an hour of trying to mask it with makeup, you give up.

You stop for coffee on your way in, grabbing one for Lois too, because the coffee at The Daily Planet is…well, it’s really not coffee at all. You feel like you’re insulting all coffee by calling it that. You can hardly stomach it even with all the sugar Lois pours in it.

“Rough night?” the doorman asks when he sees you still have your sunglasses on.

You flash a tight smile, knowing he means well. “Yeah, you could say that.”

He winces. “I’m sorry, kid.”

“It’s alright,” you wave him off, handing him a doughnut. You had meant to eat it, but truthfully, you’re already feeling nauseous. “Here.”

He accepts it with a smile. You head into the newsroom, spotting Jimmy hunched over his desk and Lois looking up at you with a smile that quickly morphs into an alarmed expression.

You, like a fool, had told her about your “date” with Clark. And you, like an idiot, had forgotten until this exact moment that you had told her.

God, you should’ve called in sick.

“Hey,” she says gently, joining you at your desk. “How’d it go last night?”

You let out a weak laugh. “It didn’t, so.”

Her eyes widen. “What happened?”

You hand off her coffee to her with a shrug. “He canceled. Said something about Superman fighting something, I don’t know, I--” You shake your head, bringing your coffee to your lips. “I didn’t answer his texts.”

“He didn’t even call?”

You shake your head again, finally working your sunglasses off the bridge of your nose. “Be honest, how red do my eyes look?”

Lois tilts her head with a sad smile. “Noticeable.”

You snort. “Thanks, Lois.” You expected nothing less from her. “Do me a favor, when he comes in-- if he comes in, tell him I lost my voice or something?”

Her eyes dart to the side and she grimaces. “I don’t think that’ll work. What about if I punch him instead?”

You let out another laugh. Thank God you have Lois. “Why not? Go for it.”

She doesn’t, though the look she gives Clark might as well be lethal when he comes silently walking over to your desk, looking every bit the role of a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he says quietly. He’s well over six-foot tall, but right now he looks half that. You don’t know if you find comfort in it or not. “Apology coffee? You’ve already got one, but I thought…well, I know you like it, so, here.” He places it on your desk. “I have an apology croissant, too, if that��ll help, I just-- I’m really sorry.”

You offer a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, and it kind of hurts to even pretend. “Thanks. Don’t worry about it.”

He makes a pained noise, opening his mouth, his lips already forming your name, but you shake your head at him. Jimmy calls out to him with some joke and you focus back on your notes, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does.

You watch out of the corner of your eye as Clark crowds into his desk chair, and you try to get some work done.

Every word you write sounds wrong, and even the edits you make to Jimmy’s piece are complete crap -- and you tell him so in your apologetic email back to him. He asked for your help and instead he got…whatever that was.

It doesn’t help that you can practically feel Clark looking at you all wistful and sad, and you really don’t understand it. Why is he so bothered by your mood if he’s seeing someone else? Shouldn’t he be relieved that you finally got the hint? It only took it being a bright neon sign smacking you square across the nose, but you’ve got it now. Clark just doesn’t see you in that way, and that’s fine. You just wish he had enough guts to say that to your face, but it’s fine. It doesn’t really matter. The date never happened, so the two of you never “dated,” therefore he owes you nothing. It’s fine.

Except, it’s not fine, because your eyes are burning from never moving them from your computer screen, your head hurts from having only had caffeine all morning and no food, and you really wish Clark would stop looking at you.

Lunch is a nightmare, but the food does help. Clearly your blue mood has gone noticed by, well, everyone because Jimmy buys your sandwich and Perry gives you an extension on the piece you should’ve turned into him by the end of today. Lois acts a bit like a protective shield, talking to you about her piece and asking Very Important questions, even glaring at Clark when he tries to interject.

The end of the day can’t come fast enough, and you’re gathering your things and scrambling out of there before anyone can catch up. You think.

Because then you’re halfway down the sidewalk and you hear someone calling your name, someone whose voice sounds suspiciously like the person you least want to speak to right now.

Tears are springing to your eyes because they’re burning from staring at a screen and you’re just so tired. You just want to eat the rest of your ice cream and go to bed. You just want to ignore Clark for the rest of the week, or at least until he admits to your face that he’s seeing someone else and didn’t know how to let you down easily. You just want this day to be over.

“Wait! Wait up! Ple-- Sorry! Please!”

You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, tilting your head toward the sky. You compose yourself and turn around just in time to see Clark dodging all the people and nearly tripping and falling over in the process of trying to reach you. He exhales in relief when he sees you’ve stopped to wait for him.

“Hey,” he breathes, pushing his glasses up onto his nose as he skids to a stop in front of you. “Are you-- Did you see my messages last night?”

You chuckle without meaning to, and his eyebrows furrow. “Yeah, Clark, I saw them.”

All around you, people move on the sidewalk, heading home, parting for the two of you when you wish they’d carry you away like a riptide.

“Can we-- Sorry,” he steps out of the way of someone else, moving closer to you in the process. “Can we try again? Tonight?”

It’s tempting, you admit, to agree and go somewhere with him right now. Because he’s right in front of you. Because you know he’d make it if you two go right now, together.

But you know it’s not where he really wants to be.

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s okay. We don’t have to.”

He frowns, adjusting the strap on his bag. “But I want to.”

Do you? You want to ask, but you don’t. Instead, you give him a sad smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Have a good night.”

Just like that, you disappear into the crowd, and even with all his might, Clark can’t seem to find you.

+++

Things go back to normal. Kind of. Mostly. Sort of.

Clark keeps bringing “apology coffee” as he calls it, and if it weren’t for the jet fuel they try to say is coffee at Daily Planet, then you might tell him to stop. But you don’t. You accept each cup with a smile, and dodge all of his questions expertly.

He still comes in late, and he still blames it on Superman. The two of you have a standing hang out at a museum in the city every month, but this time you cancel before he can. It feels cruel, doing it when you have no real reason to, but you can’t bring yourself to leave your apartment and hang out with him when your feelings are so obviously unrequited.

He does another interview with Superman. You try not to turn your nose up at it.

It’s awkward, this new air about your friendship with Clark. It’s tense. You can tell he wants to ask you about it, to ask about another raincheck maybe, but he never does. You don’t know what you’d say if he did.

It comes to a head when you cancel on yet another standing hang out the two of you have, using feeling sick as an excuse this time, and Clark just won’t let it go.

Can I bring you some soup? Tissues?

I’m fine, you tell him. Just need to sleep, that’s all.

He texts something else, but you don’t reply. You lay on the couch in front of your TV and shovel pretzels into your mouth in between sips of coffee -- that you definitely shouldn’t be drinking this late, but you don’t care.

You’re jolted from your stupor when you hear knocking on your door. Knocking that you know, unmistakably, is Clark.

You debate faking sleep until he goes away. But you can’t quite bring yourself to do it.

So, you wrap a blanket around your shoulders and answer your door.

“Clark?” you croak. It’s a weak -- and honestly awful -- attempt to fake being ill, but it’s all you’ve got. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought soup,” he says innocently, holding up the takeaway containers. “Your favorite, from the place down the street. And some, ah, bread, tissues, pain medicine, cough syrup-- You didn’t answer, so I went a little crazy at the store,” he says with a sheepish smile, holding up the grocery bag that is nearly bursting with cold remedies. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, but I’m just,” you clear your throat, half from your act and half from emotion clawing at your windpipe from him being so sweet, “watching TV and dozing.”

“I won’t stay long,” he promises. “Just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Clark.”

He narrows his eyes in what you hope is a playful manner. “I don’t believe you.”

You let him inside with a sigh, retreating to the couch. He can probably tell you aren’t really sick, and he’s probably just being nice by not calling you out on it.

You hear the rustling in the kitchen as he puts things away and then as he pours a glass of water that you think is for himself, until he sets it down in front of you. He sits in the chair beside your couch, clasping his hands together and looking at the floor instead of you.

“You’re not really sick, are you?”

His voice is timid, and a bit hurt. Like he’s upset you’re lying to him and he can’t figure out why you’re doing it, but he sort of has an idea.

“What gave me away?” you chuckle bitterly. “My brilliant acting?”

“You never drink coffee when you’re sick,” he says seriously, nodding to your cup. “It’s how I know when you’re not feeling good.”

You blink. You hadn’t expected that answer, let alone the fact that he would notice something like that. “Oh.”

“What’s going on?” he asks desperately, finally looking up at you, and why are his eyes glassy? “I miss my best friend. We used to talk every day, but ever since that dinner--”

“That you stood me up for,” you remind him, the words leaving your lips before you can stop them and, as a result, having a bit more heat behind them than you want them to.

“I know, but I--” He wrings his hands, the words getting caught in his throat. “I’m sorry, I-- It was Superman! He was fighting, and it was everywhere--”

“Oh my God, Clark, it’s always Superman,” you laugh, not necessarily at him, but maybe you are. It’s cruel, but it hurts, the way he keeps dragging this out. “It’s always Superman destroyed the train or Superman--”

“Because he is! He’s keeping the city safe, but sometimes that means he’s--”

“Clark, stop it,” you turn your entire body toward him, giving him a look. “I know.”

He freezes, stutters, starts. He pushes his glasses up on his nose, his blue eyes wide behind the lenses. “You know?”

You nod. “You don’t need to keep lying to me. I’ll keep your secret. I just wish you had told me first, you know?”

He chuckles awkwardly, shaking his head. “I just-- I wasn’t sure how you’d react, and--”

“I don’t care that you’re dating him, Clark,” you interject, a small smile creeping onto your lips. “It’s cute, actually.”

He blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Opens it. “Wait.” He tilts his head, smiles a little. “You-- What?”

“Come on, it’s obvious!” you start to grin from the sheer absurdity of it. “You’re always getting interviews with him when he won’t do an interview with literally anyone else! And you’re always talking about him, always defending his actions and defending him when Jimmy makes a joke about him! You don’t need to be ashamed of it, I mean, I know the two of you probably can’t be public about your relationship, obviously, but--”

Clark says your name, tries to get a word in, tries to tell you to stop and that you’ve got it all wrong, but you keep going. “Seriously, it’s fine. You don’t need to hide it, not from me at least.”

“Right. Um.” He shakes his head, laughs. “I should-- I’m gonna go.”

“Go,” you shoo him away. “I’m fine, seriously. Go spend time with your hot superhero boyfriend.”

Clark’s cheeks go pink at that, which is basically all the confirmation you need, and you giggle after him, feeling much lighter now that the truth is finally out in the open.

Once Clark leaves, you finish your coffee and search your freezer for some more ice cream. Thankfully, you have a little bit left -- you sort of stocked up on it when The Incident happened -- and you head out onto the fire escape to enjoy the night air.

“Well, hello there,” you reach down and pet Lou’s head. He rarely sleeps on your fire escape, but today is one of those days.

He’s not all that interested in the space once you’re sharing it with him, though, so you watch him scurry away to your neighbor’s fire escape and you roll your eyes after him. Typical.

It’s strange, being on the other side of it now. Sure, it still stings a little, but come on, you can’t compete with Superman. And Clark seems happy. As his friend, you should want nothing more than to see him happy.

And you do. You do want that. Even if it’s a little sad that he can’t be that happy with you. But you’re sure the sting of it will go away in time, as will the crush you have on him.

You’re enjoying the sunset and your ice cream, still laughing to yourself in slight disbelief about Clark and Superman when the latter flies in front of you.

Your spoon clatters onto the metal stairs, scaring Lou and yourself shitless. Superman, however, floats in front of you, unfazed.

“Um,” you come up empty in the words department. You have no clue what to say to your friend’s boyfriend who is also a metahuman who you also, up until about half an hour ago, felt ridiculously jealous of. “Hi?”

“Hello,” Superman replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the empty space beside you. “Do you mind if I…?”

“Oh! Not at all.” You stand up and step to the side, and Superman takes up every bit of the free space. “Look, if this is about you and Clark--”

Superman laughs, the sound light and airy coming from such a large man. “It’s not about me and Clark-- Well, I guess it kind of is.”

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise!” You hold up your right hand as if you’re swearing before a court, your left hand still holding onto the now-melting ice cream. “Actually, should we go inside? Should we be, you know,” you lower your voice, “talking about your relationship out in the open?”

He chuckles again. “Sure, let’s go inside, if that’s okay with you?”

If that’s okay with you. Of course it’s fine, even if a bit weird, and where is Clark? If he went and told Superman that you know about them, why didn’t he just come back with him?

“Sorry for the mess,” you call out as you head through the living room into the kitchen to put the ice cream away. “I wasn’t feeling well,” you grimace, the lie just sounding stupid now, but you’ve said it, so.

You shut the freezer and spin around to find Superman standing in your kitchen, and on the counter next to him are…Clark’s glasses?

You roll your eyes, muttering, “Did he seriously leave these here?” But you swear you saw him leave with them on. “Wait. Is he here?”

“He is,” Superman replies, picking up the glasses and opening them. He laughs, almost only to himself, before working the frames onto the bridge of his nose.

“What are you--?” You blink and narrow your eyes, watching Superman’s face become…Clark’s? That makes no sense. Those are Clark’s glasses, and this is Superman standing in front of you. Two completely different people. “Wait, but--”

“I’m not dating Superman,” Clark, or Superman, says with an amused smile. “I am Superman.”

“But you--” You shake your head, still reeling from the fact that Clark’s face is on Superman’s body. “But you said--”

“I didn’t think you’d believe me without the suit,” Clark explains, dragging the glasses off his nose and setting them down. “You seemed pretty convinced that I was dating him.”

“What else was I supposed to think?” you cry. “You stood me up and blamed it on him!”

Clark-- Superman’s face twists up in genuine remorse. “I know, I’m sorry, and I wanted to make it up to you, but you just kept getting further and further away, until I didn’t even know if you wanted to be my friend anymore.”

“Of course I want to be your friend, Clark, I just,” you shake your head, a bout of dizziness coming over you. You rub your forehead with your fingertips. “Sorry, I don’t--”

“Shoot, no, I’m sorry, here, let’s get you to the couch.”

You have no clue what he’s sorry for, but you let him help you over to the couch all the same. The dizziness passes and you look up at him, at the bright red and blue of his suit, and the fact that he looks like Clark but doesn’t at the same time.

“I don’t usually take them off and on so much around people,” he explains. “They’re these glasses that Four made for me, so I could still have a normal life. They make my face look a little different.”

You nod slowly, because sure, yeah, makes sense, why not?

“I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he says, cramming himself into the same chair he was in before, but somehow, now it looks like he doesn’t quite fit. “I thought I was keeping you safe by not telling you, but then I saw how sad you were, and--” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re crying, or frowning, or anything like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

You stare at him, at your best friend, at Superman sitting before you with such an obvious ache in his chest over you being sad, and you can’t help but smile.

“Come here,” you tell him, patting the open space next to you on the couch.

Timidly, he stands and walks over to join you, just narrowly avoiding knocking over the coffee table.

“Sorry,” he whispers, plopping down beside you with a giddy, albeit sheepish, smile.

You throw your arms around his neck, clinging to him, taking a deep breath into his neck. He smells the same as Clark, but slightly different. It’s the suit, you think, but regardless, he smells good. Familiar. Safe.

“I take it you’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, his arms finally tightening their hesitant hold on you when you don’t let go.

You snicker into his hair, pressing a kiss to his cheek before pulling back to look at him. “I was never mad at you, Clark. It’s impossible for me to be. I was just…sad. I thought we were finally going somewhere, finally getting over ourselves and going on a date, so when that didn’t happen, I just…” You shrug, realizing now that just because he’s told you the truth about who he is doesn’t necessarily mean the two of you are going to date.

He frowns again, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again, fingertips grazing your own frown lines and furrowed brows. “I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

“It’s fine,” you murmur, peeling yourself off of him with a little smile that can’t figure out if it wants to be sad or not. “I can’t imagine that you’ve told anyone else.”

“Ma and Pa know,” he says. Then, with a grimace, he adds, “And…Lois.”

“Lois?” you lean away from him. “Lois knows?”

“Only because she figured it out and confronted me one day after work!” he rushes to explain. “She had connected the same dots as you did, except,” he pauses to laugh, “instead of assuming I was dating him, she figured we were the same person. But I told her she couldn’t tell anyone, no matter what.”

You understand that. It’s his secret to share after all, but still. She didn’t even try to defend him once when you told her that he stood you up. She seemed so angry with him on your behalf that you assumed it was for that reason alone.

“If it helps,” Clark lets out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, “she threatened me quite a lot when I told her I hadn’t told you yet.”

That causes you to bark out a laugh. “Why?”

“Because she knows I like you. A lot. It’s embarrassing, honestly, or she tells me it is,” he smiles. “Apparently I uh, looked like a kicked puppy when you wouldn’t talk to me that day.”

You giggle at that, having had the exact same thought. “Yeah, you did.”

“Well,” he breathes, like he’s psyching himself up. “Can I have that raincheck now?”

You hum, trying and failing to tuck the stray curl on his forehead back with the rest of his hair. When it falls back down defiantly, you smile. “Depends. Can we work around your saving-the-world schedule?”

“We can,” he says with a firm nod. “I can be flexible. Can I ask another question?”

You lean your arm onto the back of the couch, your palm cradling your head. “Sure.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks softly. “Or should we wait until after our date?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think I can wait that long.”

“Thank goodness,” he breathes, leaning forward, one arm snaking around your waist. “Me either. But if you had wanted to, obviously I would’ve, I just wanted to ask first--”

“Clark,” you laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Just kiss me.”

He grins then, and you pull him in despite it, both of you a giggling mess through the first kiss that has been months in the making. After so long of dancing around one another -- in more ways than one, you come to realize -- you’re finally holding his face gently, finally kissing him slow and sweet like honey, and his arms are snaking around you, pulling you into him, almost into his lap entirely.

#clark kent x fem!reader #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you

4K notes · View notes

maisy1111 · 11 days ago

Text

‘cause i can see you

pairing: clark kent/superman x reader summary: it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you tags: slow burn (ish), trying to pretend they’re not acting thirsty at work, corenswet!clark yearns and pines and nobody can tell me otherwise warning(s): making out/slightly suggestive content, comments like “i felt like i was going crazy,” nothing else that i can think of but correct me if i’m wrong! word count: 13.2k (it’s worth it i promise <3) note: reader is a tea drinker, gender neutral reader, no use of y/n, no spoilers for superman (2025). also, this is my first time writing for clark so i’m still learning how to portray his character. this fic was heavily inspired by i can see you by taylor swift!! david corenswet as clark kent is so speak now coded, i hope you all see my vision and enjoy x

masterlist

You hadn’t meant to look at him—again.

But there he was, adjusting his glasses as he hurried through the bullpen, entirely unaware that you were watching him. He’d just bumped into the edge of someone’s desk, muttered a flustered apology, and fumbled the stack of notes he was carrying.

Clark Kent had a talent for not being seen. Perhaps that was why nobody but you seemed to realise he was chronically late to work.

Even after two months at The Daily Planet, you still hadn’t figured out if it was a cultivated art or just who Clark Kent was: unassuming and clumsy in a way that didn’t quite add up. You still remembered how Lois had described him on your first day: “A walking apology,” she’d teased.

Clark had stuck out a hand with a crooked smile and the kind of politeness you only ever encountered in strangers’ grandparents or vintage films.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” he’d said, with far too much sincerity for someone working in journalism.

Within minutes of meeting you, Clark had offered to carry your boxes of belongings up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken, and you’d let him, more curious than surprised. When he didn’t even break a sweat, you filed that moment away, like a bookmark.

Now, you sat at the desk directly in front of his, which came in handy given how often you seemed to be sharing bylines. You were both on a slow-boiling investigation into voter suppression in Metropolis’s south district. While you handled most of the fieldwork, Clark had a talent for getting people to talk that you didn’t quite understand.

“Hey,” you greeted, watching him slide into his chair and holding out a stack of annotated transcripts. “This is everything from the Liberty Street polling station interviews.”

Clark glanced up at you, startled—but not really. You could swear there was a half-second of anticipation in the way his shoulders had already started to turn, like he’d known it was you before you spoke.

“Oh—great,” he said, reaching for the stack. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then added, “You know, we’d probably be halfway through a draft if you didn’t show up an hour late every morning.” It was more of an observation than a complaint, but it hung there in the space between you.

You’d been trying really hard since you transferred to the Daily Planet—trying to be taken seriously, trying not to look like you were trying. You were still on a mission to prove that you belonged, and you definitely weren’t part of the inner circle with big-timers like Lois and Clark yet.

You were still new.

Clark blinked at you for a moment, and then something in his expression shifted. The defensiveness you half-expected never came. Instead, his features softened—eyebrows pulling together just slightly, mouth curved in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but more of a sheepish frown.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice gravely and heavy with guilt. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Clark looked at you then, and it was different from every glance he’d sent your way before. Like he’d just noticed something about you for the first time. Or maybe like he’d known it all along and hadn’t decided what to do with it until now.

Your hands brushed when he took the papers from you. Just barely, and you still felt a static spark shoot up your arm. You tried not to look at him, watching the way his fingers stilled over the corner of the packet instead.

“You’ve got notes in the margins?” Clark asked, softer now, as though something between you required quiet.

You were the first to pull your hand away, leaning back into your chair and opening your email. “Mhm,” you replied, scanning your inbox. “Any inconsistency is highlighted in blue, red is outright contradictions. I didn’t have time to colour-code the voter lists in detail, but I circled the ones with duplicate addresses in yellow.”

Clark nodded, mouth twitching upward, like you’d just said something funny. You finally looked up at him, and there it was again—that flicker. The charged moment that passed between you more often than it should’ve.

Not quite a glance or an invitation. Just an acknowledgement of I see you. And without meaning to, you returned it with a grin of your own that said, I know you do.

He cleared his throat, dimples disappearing as he tapped his pen on the edge of your notes like it could ground him.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong?”

“No. Just—uh, impressed. You’re fast.” Clark smiled again, smaller this time. “And thorough.”

“Someone has to be.” You said it casually, but the corner of his mouth tugged again, and this time, you didn’t look away so quickly.

When your phone buzzed, Clark looked back down at the documents, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to stop staring at you.

You wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if you asked him to stop holding back.

You weren’t sure when it started—when the sound of Clark Kent’s laugh began to unravel something in your chest, or when his small kindnesses started to stick with you. It had only been a couple of months, but somewhere along the way, you fell into a rhythm with him. Easy. Natural.

Strange, considering how different the two of you were.

Clark was always running late, shuffling in with his tie askew and hair a little mussed, mumbling apologies as though the world might end if he interrupted someone’s concentration. He held doors too long, thanked people too earnestly, and gave compliments like they cost nothing.

You—sharp, composed, observant—hadn’t expected someone like that to catch your interest. But Clark Kent did. Thoroughly, quietly, and seemingly out of nowhere.

There was something oddly magnetic about him. The way he listened, really listened. How he remembered the kind of granola bar you liked, or that you couldn’t stand the Planet’s terrible coffee and always preferred tea. How he never made you feel like an outsider, even when everyone else sort of did.

It crept up on you, the way attraction always does when it’s built on noticing. A lingering glance across the bullpen. Late nights editing together, your chairs angled just a little too close. The way Clark looked at you sometimes, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say.

You weren’t sure what it meant. Maybe nothing, but maybe something. And that second maybe was the one that stayed with you. The way it hummed beneath every shared glance, every brush of hands, every unfinished sentence hanging between you like a dare.

Maybe.

The office changed at night.

Gone were the ringing phones, the shouted questions across desks, the clatter of keyboards and deadlines. All that was left was stillness—a low hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, the soft click of your fingers against laptop keys, and the occasional creak of Clark’s chair shifting in the quiet.

You could hear the city beyond the windows, muffled horns and distant sirens, but inside the bullpen, it was just you and Clark.

He sat across from you, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie long since abandoned. Something about him always looked too ruffled in the daylight. But here, in the hush of after-hours, he looked real. Still a little out of place—too polite, too clumsy—but softer at the edges.

Almost like a different person entirely.

You glanced up from your screen and caught him already looking at you. Again. Clark didn’t look away fast enough this time. Just blinked, letting his gaze linger indulgently, then dropped his eyes back to his notes.

Your pulse kicked at the base of your throat, like it knew something you didn’t want to name. You tried not to smile, but your cheeks still rose anyway.

“Your handwriting’s atrocious, by the way,” you said, nodding toward the transcript between you. The messy margin scribbles he’d added to your voter fraud transcript were almost impossible to read.

Clark looked up, mock offended. “That’s expressive shorthand, thank you very much.”

You arched a brow. “It looks like you wrote this in the middle of an alien attack,” you countered.

He laughed, low and quiet, and it moved through you like a shiver. The sound of it settled low in your chest, reverberating deep like the first roll of thunder before a storm.

Clark shifted back in his chair, the quiet creak of the frame drawing your eyes—broad shoulders stretching beneath his button-down, long legs unfolding with a casual ease that only made it harder not to look.

“Well, this is Metropolis,” he pointed out. “That’s statistically probable.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, like it was a terrible comeback.

It was always like this with Clark. You shared the kind of rhythm that made the air feel softer, more forgiving. His presence never filled the room too loudly, but it always filled it entirely.

Every once in a while, you caught yourself watching Clark. From the way his hands moved to the way he pushed his glasses up when he was focused, to the way he leaned forward slightly when you spoke—a silent assurance that your words mattered.

Every time his eyes lingered on you, you felt it, like a static current under your skin; tingling, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

You stood to stretch, trying not to feel the heat of his gaze and reached beside you for the stack of background checks the printer just spat out. As you did, one of the pages slipped from your fingers and slid beneath the hulking machine.

“Of course,” you muttered under your breath, crouching to peer beneath it.

The printer was ancient and stubbornly heavy, its tray crooked again and wedged halfway out. You braced a hand against the side and tried to lift it just enough to slide the paper free, but it didn’t budge. Not even a millimetre.

“Need a hand?” Clark’s voice came from behind you, and before you could say anything, he was already lowering into a crouch beside you.

His hand brushed yours, warm and steady, and then he lifted the printer with one hand. Clark made it look like it was made of something thin and flimsy, cardboard.

You blinked, gaping in shock. “Seriously?”

Clark gave a small, sheepish smile. “Farm boy strength?” The way he said it sounded more like a question.

Your laugh came out slightly stunned. “Okay, Kansas,” you quipped. “You got strong enough to lift a printer with one hand from—what? Moving hay bails?”

“Not exactly,” Clark replied, quirking his lips in amusement.

“Well, thanks anyway,” you said, reaching for the freed paper.

You didn’t stand up just yet. Not with Clark still crouched beside you, close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating from his arm and chest. Not with the printer still suspended effortlessly in his grip, or with your pulse still jumping from the casual way he’d done it.

You could feel the whisper of his breath near your cheek, and your heart thudded against your ribs in answer, way too loud in the quiet.

Clark was close. Closer than he needed to be to help you out. You could feel the heat of him on your skin, and the sharp, impossible awareness of him settled into your spine.

He set the printer back down with a soft clunk. “Any time,” he murmured.

His arm brushed yours, and you felt it like a spark. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second, maybe to your mouth, maybe to an ink stain on your chin. Either way, it made your pulse thrum wildly at the base of your neck, and you were glad to have your desk to lean on.

You looked away first, standing and brushing the dust from your trousers. “You’re always around when I need help. I’m starting to think it’s not a coincidence,” you teased.

Clark grinned, all dimples and brightness. “I like to be useful.”

“I thought you liked being late.”

He made a sound in his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m not always late.”

You gave him a look. “Clark, you didn’t show up until nearly eleven this morning.”

“I was… delayed,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. A bashful flush warmed his handsome face.

“Uh-huh. You’re lucky you’re charming.” You shook your head, flipping through the printed pages. “Although if you showed up on time, we might already be done with our article. Maybe Perry wouldn’t be breathing down my neck, and I wouldn’t be—” You cut yourself off.

Clark waited. He was always patient, offering you room to speak up and prompting you when you didn’t. “You wouldn’t be what?” he asked.

You hesitated. This conversation was broaching things you and Clark usually avoided, things that hovered under the surface of every quiet moment and almost glance.

His seniority at the Planet wasn’t official. Clark held the same title you did, but you felt it regardless. It was etched into the way people deferred to him, the stories they remembered, the name he’d already built long before you ever walked through the newsroom doors.

He wasn’t just any colleague. He was Clark Kent. The only reporter Superman trusted with an exclusive, a future Pulitzer Prize winner—the list of his accolades was endless.

And letting yourself open up to him felt like stepping off a ledge. You didn’t do that, not with anyone.

Clark frowned a little, understanding shining in his gaze. His voice dropped. “You worry too much about impressing people,” he said.

You sat back down slowly, fingers finding the edge of your desk just to keep from floating off somewhere. “That obvious?” Your voice came out defeated, even though you had intended a casual, witty tone.

Clark stood beside your chair and leaned back against your desk, muscled arms crossed. “Only to someone who knows what it’s like to feel like you don’t belong,” he assured you.

That cracked something open in your chest. You couldn’t imagine Clark not fitting in anywhere, but you also knew better than to question his sincerity. Staring down at your notes, you let the silence thicken.

“It’s just…” You shook your head. “The others all know each other. They’ve got their rhythms and inside jokes. I’m still an outsider here, no matter how welcoming people are.”

“You’re not,” Clark said, gently but firmly. “Maybe they don’t say it, but they like you. You’re good. Smart. And brave—especially in your writing.”

Your eyes flicked up to his. He wasn’t teasing; he actually meant it. There was a prickle behind your eyes, a sudden tightness in your chest you hadn’t expected. You swallowed hard.

“Perry wouldn’t be breathing down your neck if he weren’t eager to read your work,” Clark went on. “And Lois can’t stop praising your article on the housing board corruption. She said it was sharp, called it unflinching. She doesn’t say that about anyone.”

You gave a surprised smile. “She said that?” Lois was someone you considered a work friend, and you looked up to her professionally more than anyone else at the Planet.

Clark nodded. “You’re good at this. Really good. And I’m not just saying that. Everyone respects you, and that’s hard to earn here.”

“And you?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Do you respect me?”

He was quiet for a long moment. The silence, however brief, was too loaded to be casual. “More than respect.”

That caught you off guard.

Clark offered a lopsided smile, but his voice didn’t match it. “I see you.” His words were heavy with honesty. “I pay attention. Probably more than I should.”

The weight of his words landed on you like gravity, and your body obeyed before your mind could; angling slightly toward him, breath slowing to match the cadence of his. Your fingers curled around your desk. If you moved, something might happen that you couldn’t undo.

You sat in it for a beat too long. Just the two of you and the sound of your own heart, thudding like it wanted to be heard.

Then you cleared your throat. “We should finish,” you broke the tension. “Perry wanted the draft by ten.”

Clark exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, too. “Right. Let’s get back to it.”

He moved back to his desk, and while the space between you widened, the air stayed charged. Your skin buzzed as if every molecule remembered where he’d stood, and your breath never quite evened out.

You didn’t look at Clark again, but you felt the way he watched you. And you didn’t want him to stop.

You turned back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing yourself to focus. The draft was three-quarters finished, the structure still wobbly, and Perry didn’t tolerate a flimsy first submission. But as your eyes flicked to the side, they caught on the printer.

It sat beside your desk, dull grey and immovable. You remembered trying to shift it yourself, how it hadn’t so much as budged. Two weeks ago, that thing took three interns and a maintenance guy to fix.

And Clark had lifted it one-handed, effortlessly, as if it weighed no more than a box of doughnuts. That wasn’t farm boy strength.

Your fingers paused over the keys. You stared at the printer a second longer before blinking hard, forcing your eyes back to the glowing screen of your laptop.

You had work to do. Explanations could come later.

Later that night, wrapped in your softest pyjamas with a mug of tea cooling on the coffee table and a half-eaten biscuit in hand, you weren’t really watching the news so much as letting it play in the background. One of the many occupational hazards of being a journalist.

The anchor’s voice drifted over the hum of your radiator, clipped and calm.

“…Superman rescued a child trapped beneath a collapsed construction site in Metropolis’ warehouse district. Witnesses say he lifted a full steel scaffold with one arm…”

You sat up straighter. The footage was a short video taken on a bystander’s phone of Superman crouching, then hoisting the twisted frame into the air like it weighed nothing at all.

Exactly like Clark lifted the printer earlier that night.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“That’s ridiculous,” you murmured, wondering why your mind immediately went to Clark. “…Isn’t it?”

Your tea sat forgotten as you reached for your phone, thumb hovering over your notes app. You paused, feeling embarrassed for even thinking there was some kind of connection between Clark and Superman beyond the occasional interview.

And yet… Nobody ever had to know about your absurd theory. What was the harm? So you typed: Superman lifting scaffolding = Clark lifting printer??

You stared at it, then locked the screen and let it go.

For now.

You weren’t expecting him to be early the next morning. In fact, you weren’t expecting him to be close to on time. But when the elevator dinged at 8:50 and Clark Kent stepped into the bullpen with two drinks in hand, you actually stared.

He was freshly shaven, his hair slightly damp and glasses clean instead of smudged for once. He looked like someone who’d slept a full eight hours and still had time to pick up breakfast for someone else, even though you’d both still been at the office less than ten hours ago.

Clark made a beeline for your desk.

“I thought I’d spare you the breakroom sludge,” he said, setting a warm cup down next to your keyboard. It wasn’t the paper cup from the Planet’s vending machine. It was real, thick-rimmed cardboard, the kind that the upscale coffee shop around the corner with absurd wait times and fancy non-dairy milks used.

Your brows lifted, just as you spotted the Post-it note stuck beneath the cup. His handwriting was neat, compact, and nothing like his usual barely legible margin scribbles.

In case no one tells you today: you’re doing great. –C

You glanced up at Clark, something between a smile and a question blooming on your face. Before you could say anything, he brushed a thumb against your hand while reaching to straighten the stack of printouts beside your laptop.

The contact made your pulse jump. A small, traitorous part of you hoped Clark noticed, even though that was impossible.

But it felt like he did. His cerulean eyes lingered, warm and unreadable behind his glasses, just for a second. Then he moved back.

“Thank you,” you said quickly, warming your palms on the tea. “I owe you one.”

Clark’s lips curved, slow and tender. “You really don’t,” he denied.

Across the bullpen, a chair squeaked. Someone cleared their throat. The spell broke. You didn’t even have to look up to know that people were watching your interaction.

Perry had always said the Daily Planet was one big glass box. No secrets. The newsroom was open-plan by design. Anyone with eyes could track every step you made, every look you gave. And yet somehow, things between you and Clark had always managed to stay just on the edge of invisible.

Until now.

You glanced over your shoulder casually and caught Steve from Sports quickly averting his eyes. Someone else murmured something near the copy machine and laughed under their breath.

You put your tea down, cheeks warming at the attention.

This was still a job. Clark was still your colleague. Maybe your friend. Maybe something else. But everyone was watching now. Everyone could see something shifting, and so you both did what you always did: sat down, kept your eyes on your screens, and moved on like nothing had happened.

This wasn’t just a shared article anymore. This wasn’t just late nights and printer mishaps and takeaway dinners in the breakroom.

Every time Clark laughed at something you said, you felt the ripple of it in your skin. Every time his chair creaked just slightly too close to yours, your body knew before your brain caught up.

Something had changed, and you liked it.

Still, as you stared at the blinking cursor in your draft, your gaze drifted toward the printer. Clark had lifted the whole bulky thing yesterday, as if it were made of styrofoam.

Now, in the brightness of the newsroom, with the tea he’d brought still warm and his Post-it note stuck to your corkboard, it all felt ridiculous.

Clark Kent? Superman?

You must have been sleep-deprived. That was all.

You took a sip of the tea. It was perfect, exactly how you liked it.

Still, you didn’t delete the note on your phone.

A few weeks later, you pushed open the doors to the bullpen, still half-scrolling through last night’s draft and wondering if you’d remembered to respond to that source from the city clerk’s office. It was early enough that you were still craving the caffeine from your tea, and you expected to slip in quietly like always.

Instead, the floor erupted into scattered applause.

You blinked, freezing as several people stood up from their desks to clap for you. Someone whistled, others cheered your name.

Lois was the first to reach you, waving a copy of that day’s issue of The Daily Planet like a victory flag. “Look who made the front page,” she declared proudly.

You blinked at her. For a second, your brain didn’t process the words. You were still halfway between half-asleep and thinking about your to-do list, and now people were looking at you.

Lois shoved the paper into your hands before you could respond. Your eyes dropped to the print, and your heart skipped a beat. Front and centre: your byline.

Your name, at the top of the page, in bold black ink. Not under a co-writer. Not buried in the continuation section. A solo piece. You scanned it once. Then again. You knew the words, obviously—you’d lived in that article for months, chasing after zoning maps and shell companies and anonymous tips—but it looked different in print.

Cracks in the Foundation: LutherCorp and the Shadow Subdivisions.

The room hummed faintly around you, but it felt far away. Your jaw went slack as your gaze stayed fixed on the headline. You weren’t even breathing for a moment. You just stared.

By the time you looked up again, Perry was standing in front of you, arms crossed. His expression was neutral, which was basically glowing praise for him. He clapped you on the shoulder once, firmly.

“Hell of a job,” Perry said. “You’ve got good instincts, kid.”

The impact of it all hit in stages. At first, it felt like confusion, then disbelief. And then, suddenly, like something warm cracked open in your chest.

You nodded quickly, barely managing a quiet “Thank you,” though your throat felt tight. Your face was hot. You weren’t sure if it was adrenaline or all the praise or both. You swallowed hard, still clutching the paper like someone might take it away.

For so long, you’d felt like the outsider, still proving yourself, still catching up. Today was different.

Lois was already watching you, arms crossed, a smug little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth like she’d known this would happen. It was as if she could tell you belonged here from the start, even before you dreamed of believing it.

Clark approached last. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t insert himself into the moment. He waited until the crowd had thinned again and the bullpen turned back to its usual controlled chaos.

Then, without a word, he held out a paper cup. “For the star reporter,” he said, smiling softly. “Extra hot. No sweetener. Just how you like it. Congratulations, rookie.”

You looked at the cup, then back at him. “How do you always—?”

Clark shrugged, like it was nothing. “Like I said, I pay attention.”

You took the tea carefully, overwhelmed with all the affection you received first thing in the morning. “Thanks,” you said. “But you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said simply.

You were still clutching the paper in your other hand when you reached your desk. You sat down slowly, like your limbs were still catching up with everything else, and set the tea beside your keyboard. Carefully, you smoothed the front page open again and traced your name with your eyes.

Your heart was still beating fast, but it was starting to settle. Not because the excitement was fading, but because it was starting to feel real. You were earning your place, and with Perry’s approval, Lois’s quiet satisfaction, and Clark’s constant support, you didn’t feel like an outsider anymore.

“Hey,” Clark said softly, his voice low enough not to carry past your desk. “You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah—yeah. Just…” You let out a breathy chuckle. “It’s a lot. In a good way.”

“I read it twice this morning,” Clark admitted. “You nailed the structure. The pacing. The way you laid out the zoning trail so clearly—it’s not just good reporting, it’s honest and poignant.”

You stared at him for a second. “You read it twice?”

“Well,” he grinned sheepishly, “once last night when I proofread it, so I guess three times? I wanted to read it again in print. You really earned that cover story.”

Your eyes lifted to meet Clark’s, and you couldn’t look away. Your chest tightened, but not in a bad way. Just enough to make you aware of how close he was. How warm his voice sounded when he wasn’t trying to make a point.

Then your smile tugged wider, crooked. “Not even a direct quote from Superman got you the front page this time,” you teased, tapping the paper.

Clark gave a quiet laugh, nudging his glasses up with one knuckle. “Ah, well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You blinked, amused. “What?”

“It’s a Smallville thing,” he said, shrugging, still smiling. “Means I’ve been there before. Done the work. Sometimes someone else gets the cover, and that’s exactly what should’ve happened today. Your story mattered.”

Your teasing faded into something quieter. “Thanks, Clark.”

“Don’t tell Superman,” he said, mock-serious. “I still want those exclusive interviews, after all.”

You both laughed, his low and warm, yours caught somewhere between surprised and touched. The morning may have been chaotic, but none of it could puncture this tiny pocket of quiet the two of you had built around your desk.

Then Clark leaned just a little closer, his voice dipping again. “You’ve got ink on your jaw.”

You reached up automatically, but he shook his head. “Right—here.”

His hand lifted before he finished the sentence, slow enough that you could’ve stopped him, but you didn’t. His thumb brushed gently along the curve of your jaw, deliberately soft.

“Got it,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, not entirely steady. He pulled his hand back, but your skin burned where he’d touched you. You didn’t move an inch.

You swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

His eyes met yours one last time, steady. “Any time,” Clark said.

And then he did look away, slipping back into the noise and movement of the room like nothing had happened at all.

You stayed still, staring down at the paper in your hand, your name in bold, your fingers trembling just slightly beneath it.

You hadn’t meant to stay at the office so long. Most of the bullpen had already emptied out, the lingering clatter of keyboards and low conversation gradually replaced by the distant ding of the elevator.

You were only a few minutes behind the others, still in your chair, slowly collecting your things like you had all the time in the world. For the first time in a long while, you didn’t want the day to end.

Your name had been on the front page, and you’d written something that mattered. People had stopped by your desk to say good job all day long, and you could feel yourself starting to connect with your coworkers beyond the journalists in the bullpen.

So you lingered, half-sorting your notes for tomorrow’s pitch, tucking them neatly into your bag just to take them back out again, riding the quiet high of finally feeling like you belonged here.

Your coat was already slung over one arm, your bag half-zipped on the desk, but you kept finding small things to do. Straightening your notes. Flagging a source to follow up with. Staring a little too long at your name in that morning’s front page byline, still propped up on your desk.

It had been a really good day at The Daily Planet.

You slid one last folder into your bag, just as the muted buzz of the bullpen TV caught your ear. You turned your head absently, just in time to hear a voice say—

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

Slowly, you turned to look at the screen.

The TV, hung above the bullpen near the break room, was showing a clip from a press conference Superman had given earlier that evening. The volume was low, auto-captions flickering beneath his image. He stood at a cordoned-off site, Metropolis police lights flashing faintly behind him, giving a statement about a fire that had started underground and nearly spread to the rest of the block.

You reached for the remote on the edge of a nearby desk, fumbling slightly as you turned up the volume and pressed rewind.

“—but we were able to contain it. No civilian injuries.”

A reporter off-screen asked, “Superman, you had no hesitation before diving underground. How is it that you never seem to need a second to pause or think of a strategy?”

Superman smiled faintly, his eyes strikingly calm. “Well, it’s not my first barn fire.”

You rewound it again. And again.

Same smile. Same rhythm. Same exact inflexion.

Your heart skipped. A nervous laugh escaped your throat.

You told yourself it was nothing; it had to be a coincidence. Lots of people said stuff like that, right?

Except no, they didn’t.

You’d never heard it before in your life. And this morning, Clark had said it, all casual and warm and Kansas-charming, like it was something normal. Something familiar. Something only someone from Smallville would say.

You stared back at the screen.

Superman wasn’t from Kansas. He was from Metropolis. From space. From everywhere.

You sat down slowly at your desk, lowering your bag to the ground like you were moving underwater.

What were the chances? Clark had said it so offhandedly. Just a passing joke. A quiet, kind moment. But it was identical. Not just the phrase but the way he’d said it. And now that you were thinking about it—

That time with the printer. And the way he never got winded on your first day, running up and down the stairs to help you with your boxes.

Silently, you set your coat down again. You pulled your notes back out, opened a new tab, and searched “Superman Smallville,” then “Superman phrases,” and then “Superman voice analysis.”

And just like that, you weren’t going home anymore.

You searched for the news clip and played it for what had to be the tenth time, fingers clenched and bottom lip pulled between your teeth.

“Well, it’s not my first barn fire,” Superman said again onscreen, eyes glinting faintly beneath the press lights, mouth curling at the edges in something warm and easy.

You paused the frame. Superman had that same head tilt that Clark had given you this morning—eyebrows lifting just a little, like he was inviting you in on a private joke.

Then you opened a new tab and started digging. You weren’t doing anything serious, not really. It wasn’t a real investigation. It was just curiosity, you kept reminding yourself. That was all.

Another clip loaded. Superman at a relief site last winter, wrapped in ash and dust, smiling faintly at a reporter. You paused it. Zoomed in. Did he have the same mouth as Clark?

You dragged a photo of Clark into a side window, him mid-laugh at Jimmy’s office birthday party last month. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but his mouth was open in surprise, and his smile was lopsided. You lined them up next to each other.

Same jaw. Same smile. Same expression, even if their faces weren’t the same.

You sat back in your chair and stared.

“No,” you muttered. “No, that’s—no.”

Superman stood like he knew he belonged in the sky. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t blink. He gave press conferences with the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn’t so much as shift his stance.

Clark, on the other hand, flinched when people looked at him too long.

He got flustered. He stammered when you complimented his leads. He once dropped his entire coffee order because you accidentally touched his hand. Superman had caught a crashing shuttle with one.

There was no way they were the same person.

You clicked away from the photo comparison and pulled up Clark’s archive of Superman exclusives. There were so many, more than everyone else at the Daily Planet combined. You’d always chalked it up to luck or thought that Superman just liked him.

But the timing was too convenient to be a coincidence.

You checked a few timestamps. A devastating building collapse, three blocks from the Daily Planet. Clark had arrived twenty minutes late that day, drenched and a little out of breath.

That time Superman took a hit so brutal it actually left a crater in the pavement? Clark had been missing for almost an hour after his lunch break. And then there was the time an alien attack caused a local high school to flood. Clark had shown up thirty minutes later, hair wet, shirt rumpled, claiming he’d had to reroute his walk to avoid road closures.

You rubbed your eyes tiredly. You were going in circles.

You clicked into another Superman video and listened to his voice. Warm. Calm. A little higher than Clark’s, less gravely. More grounded, no soft-spoken asides. Just unwavering steadiness.

Clark had a cadence like he was trying not to edit himself mid-sentence. Superman did not.

Unless that was the point.

You scrolled back up. Watched the “barn fire” clip one more time. Played Clark’s laugh beside it. It was the same rhythm. The same warmth.

You looked down at your shaking hands. This was impossible.

You took a deep breath, then another, and opened a fresh document to start typing out notes. Dates. Locations. Timelines. Everything you could remember. If you were working on a theory with actual, substantial evidence, then you needed to be sure.

You weren’t saying Clark was Superman. You just needed to prove to yourself that he wasn’t.

And if you couldn’t? Well, you’d cross that bridge when you got there.

The roof of the Daily Planet building was quiet. Just you and the stillness of a city holding its breath beneath you. It was past midnight, and you should’ve gone home hours ago. Metropolis still roared below, car horns and rumbling trains threading through the night air, but up here, the noise was distant and muffled.

Wind stirred the edges of your coat as you leaned against the low wall that ringed the building, one hand still curled around your phone. All you’d meant to do was catch your breath. Instead, you were standing at the edge of the rooftop like you were trying to piece together the world from the sky down.

The screen of your laptop had started to blur half an hour ago. At some point, you realised you hadn’t taken a proper breath in hours. Your shoulders had crept to your ears. And so you’d come here.

Clark had told you about the roof after your second week at the Planet. You’d been overwhelmed by your first deadline, having strung together quotes on three hours of sleep with too many people talking too loudly and too close by. Clark had noticed, and he’d told you about the roof access from the north stairwell and how it always helped him get a moment to himself.

Now you stood exactly where he had gestured months ago, gazing out over the glittering sprawl of the city.

You rubbed your hands over your face, tired enough that your vision blurred when you blinked too hard. The cool night air stung in your lungs in a good way. Still, your mind wouldn’t slow down.

What exactly were you doing?

You weren’t just researching Superman or chasing down a good story anymore. It wasn’t even about Superman, not at the core of it. It was about Clark.

Clark, who had always been kind. Who had laughed with you in the break room and looked away politely when you got teary at morning meetings after rough interviews. Who you felt something real for.

You’d pulled up his old articles, notes, and timestamps on when he’d submitted pieces. You found yourself cross-referencing news reports of Superman sightings with every time Clark had disappeared during a crisis. The overlaps were too frequent to ignore.

But every time you got close to feeling like you’d figured something out, reality yanked you back. Superman stood like a soldier; Clark slouched like someone trying to disappear. Superman’s voice held a certainty that filled rooms; Clark’s was soft, like he was always making space for other people to speak.

And yet.

When Superman spoke, sometimes there was a lilt at the end of a sentence that made your stomach flip. The exact same way Clark sounded when he was making a joke just for you. You’d never thought much of it before, but watching Superman interviews was a small comfort. It felt familiar and safe.

Now, you couldn’t help but wonder if Clark was the reason for that.

You stared out across the city, and your heart was pounding again, like it couldn’t decide if it was from anxiety or adrenaline or something else entirely.

The breeze shifted. A buzz filled your ears, too low to be natural. Then—light. A flash of metal slicing through the dark.

Something hurtled straight toward the rooftop, shrieking like a comet. Not a meteor, too angular. Machinery. Drone tech, maybe, or debris from some off-course alien skirmish. It spun through the sky with fire trailing behind it, its path chaotic—and heading right for the Daily Planet.

Your stomach dropped. You stepped back, heart leaping, too slow. The wind surged. Your hair whipped. Then a rush of air slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs. A solid weight followed, warm and immovable.

You flinched, braced for impact.

But instead, arms wrapped around you. A body shielded yours. Heavy, bracing, steady.

There was a sound like thunder cracking the sky. The rooftop trembled below your shoes. Shrapnel exploded like fireworks. You ducked, your muscles locking, breath trapped high in your chest.

Nothing so much as grazed you.

When you opened your eyes, lungs heaving, Superman was in front of you.

Hovering just a foot in the air, with one hand raised from where he had caught whatever was about to crush you. The other arm was still slightly extended as if part of him was ready to steady you again. He gently dropped the smouldering hunk of metal over the edge of the roof, down into the empty alley, and turned to face you.

Superman’s cape fluttered gently behind him. There was still a faint hum of energy in the air, the kind that seemed to cling to him wherever he went.

And he was looking at you. Not past you, not through you, but at you. Like he could really see you.

You didn’t speak at first; you couldn’t after what had almost just happened. Superman touched down soundlessly, and your breath caught in your throat when you met his glittering blue eyes.

“Are you alright?” His voice was low and even, but you were trembling too much to answer right away. Your pulse pounded in your ears. Every nerve buzzed like a struck wire.

You nodded automatically before your voice returned. “Y-yeah. I think so.”

Superman looked you over carefully. His eyes flicked across your arm, your temple, your torso. Not lingering in a way that made you feel on display, but as though checking for damage no one else would think to look for. Something in your ribs ached with how fast your heart was still beating.

When his shoulders eased, it should have calmed you. But it didn’t. Instead, your heart raced, and your legs were jelly beneath you. You couldn’t stop staring.

Superman was right in front of you.

“Thank you,” you said. And for one breathless moment, you almost added Clark without thinking. But the word caught behind your teeth like a secret too dangerous to voice.

Your brain tried to catalogue Superman like a reporter: posture, voice, expression. But your body didn’t wait for the facts—it reacted like it always did around Clark. Like it already knew.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about the way Superman moved said Clark Kent. But your pulse didn’t care about reason, it recognised something before you could name it.

You pressed your hands into fists, trying to slow the tremble in your fingers. The panic and heat inside you hadn’t cooled yet. You told yourself it was just the aftermath of the attack, the adrenaline still crashing through your system.

You’d been scared, you were sleep-deprived, and you’d spent hours researching a connection between two people—of course, you’d be primed to see that connection even if it wasn’t there.

Confirmation bias. Emotional bleed. You knew the symptoms. You’d reported on them.

But when Superman had touched you, reached out and wrapped his arm around you to save you, the jolt in your chest wasn’t just from impact. It was that strange, electric familiarity. Just like the way your stomach flipped when Clark brushed past you in the bullpen.

The same thrum in your pulse. That uncanny warmth that pulled your gaze to Clark even when you tried not to look.

It should’ve been alien, being held like that. Superman was a superhero, a miracle in flight. But something about the warmth of his grip—the way he braced you without hesitation—it didn’t feel foreign at all.

And all you could think about was how he stood like Clark when he was worried. That one foot slightly ahead. The same crease between his brows when he didn’t believe you were fine, even if you insisted.

Superman didn’t look like Clark, not even a little bit. His posture was different. His voice was pitched deeper. His jawline was somehow more distinct. His whole presence was otherworldly.

But your body had still responded the same way it did to Clark.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” Superman spoke, more gently this time. “It’s late.”

“I just needed some air,” you managed, voice a little rough as you recovered from the shock of it all.

Superman nodded in understanding, glancing out at your view of Metropolis. “I’ve always liked the way the city looks from this roof,” he confessed. “It’s a good place to clear your head.”

He smiled, just barely. It was faint—gentler than you’d expected. And you felt like you knew that smile.

Your chest squeezed like something had latched onto your ribs and wouldn’t let go. That smile wasn’t bold like a superhero’s. It was quiet. Familiar. A little crooked. Like Clark’s.

God.

You were losing it.

Your breath caught. Something about how Superman said this roof made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

It seemed a strange statement. This was a good place for Superman to clear his head? There were taller buildings in Metropolis; nicer ones. Public observation decks.

He could have meant it generally, but you didn’t think he did. There was something specific in the way his voice dipped, quiet but intimate.

Superman shouldn’t know what the city looked like from this spot, unless he frequented the Daily Planet’s building without any of the employees catching wind of it. Considering the Planet boasted the best journalists in the city, you doubted that was possible.

Your throat tightened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Superman seemed to realise something then. The smile vanished. His expression shifted into something quieter, almost sorry. He adjusted the edge of his cape—no, not just adjusted. Tugged it the same way Clark fixed his tie when he was trying to look busy instead of nervous.

“Please, get home safe,” Superman said gently.

Then he took off, vanishing into the sky with a rush of air and heat.

You stayed fixed in place, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, eyes locked on the empty space where Superman had stood. When you could finally move, you turned back toward the city.

The lights sparkled. Traffic crawled in glowing lines below. The distant hum of the city resumed, uncaring and uninterrupted.

But you knew. You knew.

Superman had been here before; not just once, not just tonight, but often. He’d seen this view, he’d felt something standing here, enough to say what he said. And this wasn’t conjecture anymore. It wasn’t a blurry photo, or a coincidental timeline match or a clever article hook.

This was real.

Like a switch flipping, your limbs jolted into motion. You grabbed your bag from the floor and bolted for the stairs—barely remembering to shut the rooftop door behind you. You weren’t even halfway down the stairwell before you were pulling your laptop back out.

The words were bubbling up in your chest again, thoughts crashing over each other faster than you could catch them.

Clark. Superman. The same roof. The same phrase. The same smile.

And that feeling, that warmth in your skin that never quite left after Clark touched you.

You skidded to a stop on the landing. Your fingers were already flying across the keys, opening side-by-side footage again. The photos. The voice clips. You were exhausted, but the adrenaline from the attack was still singing in your veins.

It could all be bias, projection, or madness.

But you didn’t care anymore, because after tonight, the gap between Clark Kent and Superman felt smaller than it ever had.

The newsroom buzzed with the usual end-of-day urgency: the hum of printers, the low murmur of phone calls, and computer keys clicking in a fast staccato. Somewhere across the bullpen, someone swore under their breath about a broken quote link. A coffee machine hissed like a warning. But at your desk, you couldn’t focus.

Half-written leads filled the margins of your notebook, crossed out, rewritten, and then crossed out again. A single sentence blinked back at you on the screen, mocking you with its incompleteness. Your pen hovered. Your hand tightened over it, then dropped it when you realised it was getting you nowhere.

While everyone else moved on with their day, you were sitting in the kind of silence that made most people hold their breath.

You glanced up.

Across the room, Clark stood at the file cabinet, jacket and shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie a little loose like it always got by this hour. He wasn’t looking at you, but the moment your gaze landed on him, he stilled—just slightly. There was a flick of hesitation in the way he shut the drawer. Then, very casually, he looked up.

Your eyes met.

It was less than a second, but it pulsed through you like a tremor. Not the easy flutter of crushes past, but something rawer. Like the line between friend and something more had blurred into something neither of you dared step fully into.

It was the kind of look that said you both knew something you weren’t supposed to. Something dangerous.

Since the rooftop, every day had been like this—dense with something you both refused to speak aloud. You hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t said a word about what happened in the dark with the wind pushing at your coat and Superman’s familiar touch that kept pulling your mind back to Clark.

There was a new tension you could feel in the space between you, as if you were dancing around a secret too large to ignore but too fragile to expose.

Clark hadn’t explained. You hadn’t asked. But you both knew, and it was driving you slowly out of your mind.

You dropped your gaze first, a tight breath escaping your nose. The tension made it hard to sit still. You tried writing again, tried researching for your next article. But nothing seemed to work.

Your thoughts circled back to the rooftop—the closeness, the touch, the way your body had reacted with an uncanny familiarity. The way his eyes seemed to search yours for truths you weren’t ready to voice.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t look up when Clark leaned over, set something on the edge of your notebook, and walked on without waiting. You swallowed hard, your heart stuttered at his proximity.

It was a piece of folded paper. Clark hadn’t looked at you when he passed, hadn’t so much as changed expression. But your skin prickled with the weight of it.

You picked it up carefully, like it might burn your fingers. Unfolding it slowly revealed three handwritten lines. Nothing flowery or overly prosaic, just an invitation:

Tonight. My place. We should talk.

No name, no time, just an address printed in small, neat letters below his message.

You read it once. Then again. Your eyes lingered on my place, as if meaning could shift with repetition.

Your first reaction was indignation. Now, Clark wanted to talk? After months of vague excuses and evasions? Days after the rooftop, with the blur of heat and proximity and questions you couldn’t ask?

The way he skirted around your conversations felt less like avoidance and more like a wall you both desperately wanted to climb but feared to fall from.

Your second reaction was something closer to dread, or maybe desire. The two felt indistinguishable lately. Every time Clark brushed past you in the bullpen or caught your gaze across the room, your stomach clenched in ways that felt equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

You folded the note again, smaller this time, tucked it into the pocket of your cardigan, and slumped back in your chair. Crossing your arms, you stared blankly at your monitor, but your mind was elsewhere.

You didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you didn’t think you could afford not to.

Across from you, Clark looked up from his desk. This time, he didn’t look away. There was a flicker in his eyes, almost like relief, or maybe a challenge. A silent acknowledgment that the game had changed, and it would never be the same again.

You stood before the closed door of Clark’s apartment, the note still folded in your palm like a secret too heavy to hold. You had chosen something understated but clearly changed from your workday look—your favourite shirt tucked into dark jeans, comfortable shoes, and a ring you like to fidget with when you were nervous.

Clark opened the door before you could ring the bell, and your breath hitched. He was dressed in the same clothes from work—his usual dark slacks, suit jacket, and white button-up shirt, sans tie—but his hair was less tousled than usual.

There was music playing softly somewhere beyond the living room, a low hum that filled the space with a quiet intimacy.

You stepped inside hesitantly.

The apartment was surprising.

It was minimalist, all sleek surfaces and clean lines, the kind of place you’d expect from someone meticulous. The kitchen was stylish in a retro-modern way—glossy cobalt-blue cabinetry against a marble backsplash, giving the space the impression that it didn’t try too hard.

The living room stretched before you in understated elegance, minimalistic to the point of austerity, as if every piece of furniture had to prove its worth to remain. A low-profile sofa sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, which caught your attention due to its breathtaking view of Metropolis.

You noticed the quiet hum of the city could still reach you, faint and distant through the thick glass. The place felt removed from the chaos outside, even though it had the perfect view of any incoming trouble.

It didn’t quite fit with what you knew about Clark from work. Didn’t mesh with the clumsy way he’d knock over his mug, the scattered papers you’d noticed on his desk, the small personal messes that made him feel more real, more human.

This space felt curated, controlled. Like the apartment itself was a quiet puzzle piece, hinting at a side of Clark you’d never fully had the chance to know.

He watched you step in, eyes flicking nervously from your face to your hands, where his note was still tucked discreetly in your palm.

“Tea?” Clark offered, voice low and uncertain.

You nodded, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the soft lighting and the intimacy of being in his space.

You settled into the modest living room. Clark handed you a steaming mug, the rich aroma of your favourite tea oddly grounding in the quiet room. You wrapped your fingers around the cup, tracing the warmth as your mind scrambled for something to say.

“So,” Clark started, voice careful, “how’s the Peterson piece coming along? Deadline’s Friday, right?”

You forced a brief nod. “Yeah. I’m still digging through interviews. The story’s bigger than I expected.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The newsroom’s been on edge. Lots of big stories lately.”

You glanced at Clark. The way his glasses caught the light, the slight crease in his brow, the habitual way he brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, even though it was neater than you’d ever seen it.

You thought of Superman—the cape, the jawline, the unyielding presence.

How could the same man feel so different?

Yet, in your moments with Clark, the tension, the warmth, even the quiet confidence sometimes felt more like Superman than the well-mannered reporter you’d gotten to know at the Daily Planet.

Your eyes lingered on his face, tracing the familiar lines beneath those glasses. You thought of the way Superman’s presence had left your skin tingling, the inexplicable pull in your chest; it was like your mind was still learning to catch up with your body.

Clark cleared his throat, breaking your reverie. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

You gave a tight grimace. “Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, then looked down at his mug. Almost as if testing the waters, he cautiously said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked. “Pretend?” You refrained from adding, That’s ironic.

Clarke shrugged, but his gaze didn’t waver. “That everything’s normal.”

You swallowed hard, the tension tightening in your throat. “It’s just been a long week.”

You shifted your gaze away from him, noticing again how the light caught on his glasses, the way the frames seemed to shield more than just his eyes.

Slowly, as if drawn by some unspoken need, your hand lifted. You hesitated just long enough to give Clark a chance to pull back, to say no—but he didn’t. Your fingers brushed the smooth black frame. Carefully, deliberately, you slid the glasses down his nose and off his face, setting them gently on the coffee table.

Your breath caught.

Without the familiar frames, Clark’s face looked different. Softer, more open. Vulnerable in a way you hadn’t seen before.

Still unmistakably Clark Kent.

And Superman.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled inside, caught between fear and yearning. Clark’s eyes locked with yours, searching, waiting for a crack in your carefully built walls.

Finally, your voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper, but fierce all the same. “You’re Superman.”

Clark blinked, then nodded slowly, his gaze steady but soft. “I’m Superman,” he echoed.

It hit you harder than you expected. You looked at Clark like you were seeing him for the first time—not just the Superman from that night on the roof, but Clark too. Somehow, without the glasses, without the carefully constructed disguise, he felt more real than he ever did before.

It was like the two halves of him, which you thought were separate, bled into one.

Instead of the satisfaction you’d always imagined this moment might bring, there was something quieter stirring in your chest, something almost hollow. Not betrayal, more like resignation. Like you’d already known this deep in your bones, and now that it was real, all you could feel was the weight of what it had cost to finally hear Clark say it.

“How... how did I never see it before?” you asked, voice trembling as you set your mug down beside Clark’s glasses.

He gave a small, rueful smile. “The glasses—they change how people see me. Hypno-glasses.” He started to explain, but something snapped inside you.

“They’re supposed to—”

You cut him off before he could finish. “You interviewed yourself,” you said sharply, your breath catching in your throat. “You lied to everyone at the paper—to the world. To me.”

Clark’s face tightened. “I had to. You know that.”

The tension between you coalesced into something sharp and brittle. Every word now felt like a carefully aimed blade, not shouted, but no less cutting.

You watched Clark closely—watched the way his jaw clenched under pressure, the slight falter in his breathing as he took you in. There was panic rising in his eyes, not the kind that came with danger, but the kind that came with loss.

His shoulders squared like he was bracing for a blow, but there was no defence in his posture. Only openness. Clark was baring himself now, in every line of his body. And there was love in his face, undeniable and unhidden. It was as if every careful mask he’d worn until now had finally fallen away, and all that was left was him.

“You let me spiral,” you accused, your voice cracking under the weight of weeks of confusion and doubt. “You didn’t trust me. I’ve been tearing myself apart, wondering if I’m seeing something that doesn’t exist, or if I’m the only one who sees the truth.”

Clark’s hands clenched at his sides, and the sound of your pain clearly tore through him. He looked stricken, wounded by the truth of what you were saying.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he confessed, his voice desperate. “Every time I thought I could, I just—I couldn’t..”

Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. In fact, he’d always heard it. You paced the small space between you, breath short, your voice trembling as the emotions you’d held back began to surge to the surface.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like,” you said, raw and breathless, “to look someone in the eye every day and feel like you’re going crazy? To fall for someone and know in your gut that they’re hiding something?”

Pain flickered across Clark’s features at your confession. He stepped closer, not touching, but no longer distant either. It was unbearable, this closeness; you were both aching to reach for each other and still holding yourselves back.

“I imagine it’s something like hiding a part of yourself away,” Clark said quietly, “and realising there was someone who sees all of you anyway.” There was a new intensity in his eyes, one that he had kept hidden all this time. Not behind hypno-glasses, but behind a wall of his own making. “Like falling for someone and being terrified that who you are—who you’ve always been—could ruin everything.”

You stared at him, breath shallow. His words echoed inside you louder than your own heartbeat. “And yet,” you said slowly, “you still let me believe I was wrong.”

Clark’s expression faltered.

“You watched me doubt myself,” you continued, your voice rising, shaking. “You watched me second-guess every instinct, every look between us. You let me wonder if I was projecting something that wasn’t even real.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Clark said quickly, stepping closer again, helpless now. “I wanted to tell you every single day. I’d sit across from you, typing some puff piece while you were one desk away, and all I wanted was to reach across the space and just—just say it. But I knew the moment I did, everything would change.”

“Well, congratulations,” you said bitterly. “Everything has.”

He flinched, like you’d physically struck him. But still, he didn’t retreat.

“I never wanted to lie to you,” Clark said, his voice softer now, more broken. “I just didn’t know how to stop without losing you.”

You laughed once—short and hollow. “You were never going to lose me, Clark. Not until you made me feel like I couldn’t trust my own instincts.”

His jaw tensed. You saw it in the way his mouth parted, the way his eyes turned glassy with regret. “You don’t know what it’s like to have the whole world look at you and only see what you can do,” Clark retorted. “I needed someone—you—to see me for who I am. Not the powers. Not the spectacle. Just... Clark.”

“Of course I see you as ‘just’ Clark!” you exclaimed. “Even the night you saved me as Superman, all I could think about was how he felt like you! But you disappeared, and you let me wonder if it was all just in my head.”

“I know,” Clark breathed. “I’ve never been more afraid than when I realised I might lose you—not because of an alien attack, but because of me. Because I didn’t tell you the truth.”

You swallowed hard, searching his features and finding that achingly familiar sincerity there. “Then be honest with me now,” you whispered. “You asked me here—so say what you needed to say. The truth. All of it.”

Clark took a breath, his broad chest rising with the weight of it. “I love you.”

And for a moment, you didn’t breathe.

You looked at him—really looked at him. Clark’s pupils were dilated, the blue of his eyes swallowed up in darkness. His lips were parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to breathe, too. His whole body seemed to lean toward you without moving, like he was fighting against every instinct not to reach out.

Without his superhearing, you couldn’t know that his heart was thundering in time with yours.

Clark Kent loved you.

“I’ve loved you since the first day you rolled your eyes fondly at me in that newsroom,” he went on, voice shaking. “Since you argued with me about the Oxford comma on your third day and dared me to keep up. I’ve loved you through every article, every shared glance, every moment I kept this secret and hated myself for it.”

You blinked, your vision blurred with the tears you hadn’t let fall yet.

“I love you,” Clark repeated, quieter now, searching your eyes for any sign of reciprocation. “Clark—Superman—they’re all me. Just different sides the world sees. But when I’m with you, I’m only ever one thing. I’m yours. And I don’t want to hide anymore.”

His hand hovered near your cheek, fingers trembling in the air between you. “Can I?”

You nodded before your words could betray you.

Clark’s palm was warm as it cupped your face, thumb brushing away the tears now falling freely. He leaned in closer, his breath feathering against your skin.

“I’m sorry for making you doubt yourself,” he whispered. “And I’m sorry for waiting so long to tell you the truth.”

Clark exhaled shakily. “And I’ve wanted to kiss you,” he added, voice nearly lost between you, “for so long. But I want to do it as me. Not Clark with the hypno-glasses. Not Superman. Just... me.”

You tilted your face toward his, lips parting.

And then he kissed you.

Not like Superman. Not like a secret.

Like Clark.

He surged forward at the exact moment you reached for him. The kiss wasn’t soft or tentative. It was desperate, like you’d both been waiting too long and couldn’t bear to wait another second. Your hands found his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head. Clark’s arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you as your lips crashed again and again like a tide neither of you could control.

In the space between one breath and the next, you murmured against his mouth, “I won’t tell anyone. You know I won’t.”

His forehead touched yours, eyes closed. “I know.”

You didn’t know if Clark meant he trusted you or if he simply knew you. Either way, it didn’t matter. You leaned into him again, mouth grazing the corner of his jaw.

The next kiss was slower, deeper. Less frantic, but no less charged. Clark’s jacket slipped from his shoulders and hit the floor behind you. He backed you toward the wall, one hand reaching for yours, the other curling firmly around your waist. When your spine met the solid surface of the wall, it knocked the breath from you, but you didn’t care.

There was no confusion now, just clarity—dizzying and sharp.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, and he groaned softly against your lips. Clark’s mouth moved with aching precision, like he was memorising the shape of you. His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it from below your jeans, and anchored his hands there. They were agonisingly warm, thumb grazing skin like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you.

You opened your eyes for a breathless moment and looked at him—really looked. He was the Clark you knew, and he wasn’t. And somehow, in the shifting shadows between those two truths, he had never looked more like himself.

It was all there: the impossible strength, the familiar softness, the man who had saved you midair and the one who made you tea exactly the way you liked it.

“I see you,” you murmured, voice low, lips brushing his. “All of you.”

Clark’s hand trembled slightly as he brushed it along your cheek, like the weight of being seen was heavier than lifting a plane. His eyes searched yours, wide open, unguarded. “No one ever has like you do,” he said, the words a quiet confession. “Especially when I was trying to hide.”

Clark kissed you again, like he couldn’t risk the silence, couldn’t bear to let the truth echo too long. You weren’t sure if the shaking in your limbs was relief or desire or something bigger than both.

The kiss that followed wasn’t gentle. You tugged Clark forward by the collar of his shirt, your back arching as his hands gripped your waist, steadying you, grounding you. One of his knees slotted between yours, and you let it, let him, until your bodies were aligned like a secret you hadn’t meant to say aloud.

You gasped into his mouth as his hands splayed along your ribs, his touch reverent and urgent all at once. Your own fingers slid down his shoulders and traced a slow path to his chest, feeling his heart hammering below your fingertips.

Clark kissed you like a vow—heady and slow and aching. And in that moment, you weren’t thinking about secrets or consequences. You were only thinking about the man who held you as if he were afraid to ever let go.

And you didn’t want him to.

Your fingers curled against the centre of his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart beneath your palm. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours that was racing faster.

Clark exhaled shakily against your mouth, and for a second, the world narrowed to the press of his hands, the heat between you, the impossible relief of finally.

Then, slowly, without really thinking, you slipped your fingers to the buttons of his shirt. You felt him still, but Clark didn’t stop you. You undid one. Then another.

The fabric parted just slightly—enough to glimpse the edge of something beneath. Not skin, but blue fabric.

You blinked, then tugged the open shirt apart just enough to see it fully. There, stretched across Clark’s chest—vivid and unmistakable—was his bold red-and-yellow insignia.

It was like a bucket of cold water was tipped over your head, reminding you that you weren’t just kissing Clark Kent but Superman.

Pulling back an inch, your lips parted as your eyes flicked from the symbol up to his face. A surprised and breathless giggle escaped you before you could help it. “You’re wearing the Superman suit under your work clothes?”

Clark’s face flushed, sheepish but fond. “Occupational hazard,” he declared.

You laughed again, softer this time, your forehead tipping against his. The tension broke, sweet and warm and breathless.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice,” you murmured, tracing the edge of the fabric with a single finger. “You’ve been walking around with a cape tucked under your button-down.”

His hand found yours on his chest, lacing your fingers together. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” Clark pointed out.

You looked up at him, a smile still playing on your lips. “Well, I did. And I love you too.”

And Clark smiled back—small and real and all yours.

The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in the same pale yellow they always did. Phones rang. Printers sputtered. The smell of burnt coffee wafted from somewhere near the breakroom. Business as usual at The Daily Planet.

Except it wasn’t. Not anymore.

You spotted Clark before he noticed you—across the bullpen, adjusting the knot in his tie, sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the tendons in his forearms. He looked like he always did: glasses slightly askew, posture just a little too stiff, like he didn’t quite know how to make his frame fit into chairs or corners.

Still Clark Kent, somehow. Even now.

He glanced up and found you. And in an instant, everything changed.

The way Clark smiled—it wasn’t the dazed, infatuated kind he used to give you before either of you had said anything out loud. It was sharper now. More deliberate. Like he knew exactly what it did to you.

Your pulse stuttered. You tried to look away before anyone could see the way your expression shifted. But it was too late—you already felt it, warm and quick behind your ribs.

In the pitch meeting, Clark sat two seats away from you. Neither of you looked at the other, but you could feel him there—more present than Perry’s voice droning on about headlines. His leg stretched out under the table, close enough that if you moved your foot just a little, your ankles would touch.

You didn’t. But you thought about it.

Later, he held the door open for you and three others. Your fingers brushed as you passed. Too brief to be obvious. Long enough to make your stomach tighten.

At noon, you both reached for the same file. Clark’s hand landed on yours, warm and solid. Neither of you moved.

“I had it first,” you murmured without looking at him.

Clark’s voice stayed low. “I bet you really believe that,” he teased.

It wasn’t flirtation so much as a game now. A quiet thrill passed back and forth, like an electric current hidden beneath a suit and a press badge. You weren’t sneaking around because you had to—there was no rule against it, no fear of scandal—but because the secrecy belonged to you. Not the world. Not even your friends. Just the two of you.

You glanced at him. Clark was already looking at you with that same maddening, wonderful smile.

And god, it was hard not to kiss him when he looked at you like that.

Later, in the elevator, you were flanked by Lois and Clark as the lift hummed quietly beneath your feet. The two of them were returning from a meeting in Perry’s office, and you had just come back from the layout floor.

Lois eyed you both like she could see right through your act.

“You two have been weird lately,” she said, sipping from her coffee cup and wincing at the taste. You’d been trying to convince her to abandon the disgusting Daily Planet roast in favour of tea for months now, but she wasn’t budging. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s a story, I better not be the last to know,” Lois quipped.

Clark gave a half-laugh. You were pleasantly surprised at how natural it sounded, and how easy it was for him to tell a little white lie.

“Just long nights editing,” he said, straight-faced.

You nodded. “Stress does weird things to people,” you added in a pleasant tone.

Lois squinted, unconvinced, but said nothing. The doors opened on her floor.

“Uh-huh,” she muttered, stepping out. “Journalists and their secrets.”

Then she was gone.

The elevator doors glided shut.

You just looked at each other—this charged, suspended second—and then moved in sync. Clark’s hands were already at your waist before your back hit the panelling, and your mouth found his like it was muscle memory. Which, a month into your relationship, it was.

The kiss was different now. Not hesitant or explosive. It was sure, deep and familiar like everything else about your relationship.

Clark’s lips brushed yours like he had missed them all day, like he’d been waiting for this precise moment since 9:03 a.m. when you passed each other in the bullpen and didn’t stop. You tilted your chin, angled closer, and Clark adjusted instinctively—one hand sliding into your hair, the other anchoring low at your hip like he always did, pulling you in, like he needed you near just to stay grounded.

You sighed against his mouth—quiet, surrendering—and felt him smile into the kiss.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. You both knew exactly what the other wanted.

Then he broke away just enough to drag his mouth along the curve of your cheek, the corner of your smile, your jaw. Clark kissed the spot just beneath your ear and made you shiver.

You let out a quiet laugh, breathless and dizzy, and curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt.

“Clark,” you murmured, like it was both a warning and a prayer.

He just kissed you again, longer this time. Slower. His hands curled around your waist and lifted you the tiniest bit higher on your toes as he leaned in, like he couldn’t get close enough. When your lips parted, he followed with another kiss—softer, but with the exact precision of someone who knew your rhythm by heart.

“You’ve been teasing me all day,” Clark whispered against your mouth.

“I barely looked at you,” you whispered back.

“Exactly.”

You smiled, wide and helpless, and let your forehead fall to his. Clark’s hands skimmed your sides like he was memorising every inch. You kissed again, deeper, and this time, the elevator gave a mechanical jolt beneath your feet.

Your fingers slid around his shoulders, pressing closer and grounding yourself in the warmth of Clark’s body and the soft, practised motion of him leading you in a scalding kiss.

“I missed this,” you murmured.

“I never stop missing it,” Clark whispered back.

It wasn’t until your toes no longer touched the ground that you pulled back just enough to glance downward, eyes wide.

You clutched his shoulders tighter, breath catching in realisation.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised, breath hitching, voice low and warm. “Always.”

Your hand pressed instinctively to his chest, steadying yourself, and you felt the drum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. Your thumb brushed the fabric over it once, twice, lingering.

Carefully, you slid your fingers down the buttons of his shirt. One. Two. Three. The fourth gave way easily, and there it was, the symbol the whole world associated with Superman.

Your breath caught in your throat. You stared for a beat, and then a small, incredulous laugh slipped out of you.

“I’m never going to get tired of seeing this,” you said, grinning despite yourself. “Think you can put me down before someone walks in, Superman?”

Clark laughed, flushed and already breathless. “Sorry,” he said, but there was a spark of mischief in the way he smiled. “Got a little carried away.” He had kissed you like that before, so swept up he forgot to let gravity do its job, and you had no doubt it would happen again.

You chuckled again, softer this time, and buttoned his shirt back up with careful fingers. Clark watched you cover his secret like it was the most intimate thing anyone had ever done for him.

As your feet returned to the floor with a gentle thud, you pressed your palm lightly over the fabric again, right where you knew his symbol was, hidden beneath the layer of his shirt. You gave your boyfriend a tender look.

“I like knowing it’s there,” you admitted.

Clark leaned forward, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. “So do I.”

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. And like nothing had happened, you stepped out side by side into the chaos of the bullpen.

Phones ringing. Papers rustling. Jimmy yelled about printer errors.

Clark went left, you went right; as if you hadn’t just kissed each other breathless against the wall of the elevator.

Everything was back to normal.

Except this time, when you glanced across your desk and found Clark already watching you, you didn’t look away.

note: please let me know what you thought!! i love any and all comments and feedback. the new superman movie is my current hyperfixation so if anyone would be interested in reading more clark kent fics from me, all you have to do is tell me 🤭

#clark kent x reader

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