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smilereads · 5 days ago

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the “getting stood up by Clark Kent” trope always hits. Soooooo excelent!! The readers feelings frustrated and inconsequential, soooo valid. Even for a first date! If he wanted to, he would! And the ending??? Yeah I might need that part 2 😛

Surviving Kent

Pairing: Clark Kent x female reader, Superman x female reader

Summary: You spoke to the cute reporter from the Daily Planet for the first time at your local coffee shop. You had seen him many times before. He was hard to miss with how he towered a foot over everyone else, squinting through his thick glasses to see the menu on the wall. Then one day he asks you out to dinner only to not show up. Life in Metropolis was just great! You just loved being clowned by a boy you liked. You hope that Superman beats the shit out of him for breaking your heart.

Word Count: 7,175 words

Content: Groveling, hurt/comfort, explicit language, oral sex (female receiving), heavy kissing, clark being sweet, clark being sexy?

Note: If yk me, you know I love angst and men groveling. I gave the smut my best effort. All you munchs tell me if I did a good job or not.

It’s not like I am stalking him, you told yourself often. I am just observing.

You just liked how dishevelled his dark hair looked early morning, like he had spent the entire night being tossed around. Or how his coat was two sizes too big and made his broad shoulders appear even wider. In other words, he was just eye candy.

The barista waved you over, and you ordered the same thing you always get: a hot chocolate with three marshmallows and a breakfast wrap. You moved to the side to wait for your order, keeping your eyes straight ahead instead of at the Daily Planet boy standing beside you.

You got your drink before the wrap. You flipped the plastic tab open, took a tentative sip and the warm liquid flooded your mouth.

“Is it any good?” he asked, out of the blue.

You startled, jerking in place and the hot chocolate went down the wrong pipe. You began to cough, and his hands shot up to your back. He gave you a large thump that almost knocked the remaining air out of your lungs. You stumbled, struggling to regain your balance, and finally brought yourself to look at him.

His wide, bright blue eyes stared back at you with concern. He reached a long arm forward to the counter and pulled out some tissues from the dispenser.

“Gosh,” he began, handing them to you. “ I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?”

In that moment you prayed that the ground would open beneath your feet and swallow you whole. You nodded, red in the face, and accepted the tissues. Bringing them up to your mouth, you said, “I’m fine. It was just hotter than expected.”

He watched you quietly as you rubbed your sternum in a soothing manner, taking in shaky breaths.

His eyes fell to the name tag hanging down your neck. “You work at Goldstar?”

Why is he still here? You shrieked, in your head. Why is he still talking to me?

You cleared your throat and answered, “Yeah, I work as an analyst.”

He held his own name tag up. It read Clark Kent, followed by the word ‘PRESS’ in blue and white.

“I’m Clark.”

The barista called out your name just in time. You leapt forward for your food, snatched it out of her hand, and spun around to rush past him. “See ya!”

****************************************************

You had hoped that running into Clark would be a one-time thing.

It wasn’t. You continued to see him every morning since the day you had choked on your drink after hearing the sound of his voice. It was embarrassing, but perhaps not enough to turn him away.

It started off with him offering a dimpled smile whenever your eyes met across the cafe. Then he started holding the door open for you anytime you entered together. Currently Clark was talking your ear off in the cue.

You had eased up with every interaction. Of course, you still felt your stomach tighten at the sight of him, but at least you weren’t making a fool of yourself in front of him.

You thought back to the weekend when you told your friends about the cute boy from the coffee shop. They passionately stated that you should ask him out. You told them you weren’t insane enough to do that. You liked your small interactions together; they added a little spring in your steps in the morning. Things didn’t need to go beyond that. After all—

“So, um, did you hear what I said?” he asked, tearing you away from your thoughts.

“Sorry,” you replied, shaking your head. “I zoned out.”

Clark scratched the back of his head as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I was saying that a new Italian restaurant had just opened down the street— Luigi’s,” he explained, biting the inside of his cheek, “and it’s got good reviews. I was wondering if you’d like to go check it out with me?”

Oh. Oh.

The back of your neck grew warmer by the second. “Um,” you dragged out, mind racing to formulate a sentence that didn’t seem too enthusiastic. “Yeah, totally. We can do that. Uh, what time?”

Relief spread across his face. “Tonight at seven?”

“Okay,” you said, trying to nonchalant. “I’ll meet you there.”

You turned away to leave the cafe, digging your nails into the smooth paper cup surface. It’s probably just a casual hang, you told yourself, like two buddies meeting up. Except you weren’t even friends. You hardly knew anything about the guy other than that he never cussed, grew up in a small town, and had no siblings. Okay, maybe you knew a bit more than about Clark. He was also Superman’s go-to reporter for a post-fight interview, he hated coffee but needed it to stay awake so he could make up for all the times he was late to work, and up close he smelled like a mixture of mint, ice and—

You heard him call your name. You spun around to see him running out of the cafe and towards you. He manoeuvred awkwardly, barely dodging the people rushing to work and stopped right in front of you.

“Um, it’s a date, right?” he asked, breathing hard.

You made a conscious effort to not ogle the way his shirt tightened around him every time he took a breath. You blinked rapidly. Be cool. “Are you asking or telling me?”

You could almost see the cogs turning behind his eyes. He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders back and stood a little taller. “I am telling you,” he decided. “It’s a date.”

****************************************************

To say you were excited would be an understatement.

You had talked your receptionist’s ear off during your lunch break. Sharon had asked why you were even telling her all this, and you told it was the first date jitters.

“I need to get the nervous energy out,” you explained, at the end of the day, “So I can be cool during the date. Did I mention he said the word ‘date’?”

“Several times,” she smiled.

“Just making sure,” you shrugged and pushed yourself off her desk. “I’ll text you tonight and give you a minute-by-minute replay.”

She rolled her eyes but was grinning. “Good luck, darling.”

You skipped out of work. The breeze was gentle, and flowers on the side of the road smelled sweeter. Metropolis around you seemed a little brighter today too.

Above you, on a giant screen, Superman stood surrounded by children hanging off his curled-up biceps. Underneath a headline read: SUPERMAN SAVES THE DAY.

You wondered if Clark had written that himself.

****************************************************

You took a nice long bath.

Then shaving seemed like a good idea, so you did that too. It wasn’t like you were expecting Clark to be seeing anything tonight, but your best friends suggested to err on the side of caution, and Sharon had echoed the sentiment. After a small battle with your hair dryer in the washroom and turning your closet upside-down, you were ready to head out. You took the bus heading downtown and reached at Luigi’s before Clark.

You headed inside and walked up to the hostess. “I think my friend has a reservation for two at seven o’clock.”

She leaned down to her screen. “Under what name?”

“Clark Kent.”

She scrolled for a moment and then looked up. “Nothing is coming up under that name.”

That was strange. You offer her your name instead. She checked again and shook her head. “We aren’t too busy at the moment,” she stated. “I can seat you without reservations once your party arrives.”

You smile politely and take a seat on a couch by the door. You checked your phone and the time showed: 06:55 PM. You found it strange that Clark hadn’t booked a reservation for dinner. No, you told yourself, walking-in was completely acceptable.

Except that it wasn't. He had asked you out and seemed eager as well. Shouldn't he have made arrangements as well? You shrugged the thought out of your head, chalked it up to you being nervous. Nevertheless, a pit began to form in your stomach, like something bad was about to happen.

You watched people arrive from your seat in the corner against the wall. Families poured in laughing with their loved ones, couples walked in hand-in-hand, and even delivery drivers made had come and gone by. One by one, the hostess led everyone to their tables and each time you stayed glued in the same place.

The next time you checked your phone, it showed 07:30PM.

Clark Kent was thirty minutes late. Ten more minutes, you told yourself. Ten more minutes and then I leave.

Your eyes began to water, but you couldn’t help but wait a bit longer. You wished you had exchanged numbers so you could text him and ask about his whereabouts. At 08:01 PM you wondered if he was safe. The pit in your stomach grew bigger, and your throat began to tighten. Something bad was indeed helping.

“Excuse me, miss,” the hostess called out, handing you a menu. “The kitchen will be closing in twenty minutes. Would you like to place a take-away order instead?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice. You flipped through the menu and pointed at the first item your eyes landed on. The hostess moved away, and you hung your head down, letting the tears flow down your cheeks.

You didn’t know if you were crying because you were hurt, embarrassed or both. Tomorrow morning, your friends and Sharon will ask you how your dinner went, and you will have to tell them that your date hadn’t even bothered to show up. You felt like an idiot for putting in so much effort.

You wiped the tears off your face just in time for the hostess to return with your order. You reached into your purse for your wallet, but she stopped you. “It’s on the house,” she said, offering you a sympathetic smile.

“Thank you,” you answered in a small voice.

You took the paper bag from her and moved towards the door. She called out out to you.

You realized you must have looked miserable sitting there waiting for him when she said, “Screw him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You left the buzzing restaurant, clutching the bag tightly in your hands. Outside Metropolis was quiet. It was almost like the city was giving you a moment of silence as you trudged through its roads with your heels clacking against the concrete.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw a blur of red and blue land on the street across under a spot light.

You watched the scene for a moment before choosing to walk away.

****************************************************

Your friends and Sharon agreed that Clark Kent was an asshole.

You felt better by the morning when you walked into the cafe. His not showing up last night said more about him than you. It wasn’t your fault that you believed his words. That made you a good and honest person, and him a lying loser. You beelined to the barista and placed your order: matcha and a blueberry muffin. You swore you were never going to order hot chocolate again.

Fuck you Clark for turning me off my favourite beverage!

Almost as if you had said his name out loud, he appeared beside you.

Clark called out your name, softly. “I’m so sorry for last night,” he blurted out before you could acknowledge his presence. “I got caught up at work.”

Your eye began to twitch at his explanation. There were a million things he could have done besides ditching you. His workplace was only a ten-minute walk from the restaurant. If he truly had any intention of meeting you, he would have come in person and told you that he couldn’t make it. Or called the restaurant and left a message with the hostess.

You forced a smile and walked away to grab your order. When you returned, he was still standing at the same spot, chewing on his lower lip.

“It's all good,” you forced yourself to say through a clenched jaw.

You left the cafe and Clark followed you outside immediately. His large hand wrapped around your elbow and he turned you around.

“I really mean it,” he expressed, earnestly. “I didn’t mean to ditch you. I wanted to be there so bad.”

You found yourself resisting the urge to launch your drink in his face and then curb-stomp him into the ground.

“Okay,” you reply, pulling your arm away from his grasp.

You spun on your heels to leave, but he stepped in your way. “No, it’s not okay. Please, believe me when I say I'm terribly sorry. We can try again tonight if you’re free. Or any other night. Whenever, wherever you'd like.”

You were seeing red. Superman himself would have to show up to save Clark if you had to spend another minute in his presence.

“Clark,” you began, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m going to say this only once, so please listen carefully.”

He interlocked his fingers together and nodded solemnly.

“Last night was a huge mistake,” you stated, plainly. “I shouldn’t have agreed to dinner. I didn’t realize you were someone who would treat another person like that.”

His eyes widened at your words. He opened his mouth to speak, but you continued.

“I felt like an idiot,” you choked, blinking away your watering eyes, “waiting for you to show up. I thought something bad had happened to you. Clearly I was mistaken about that too since you seem perfectly okay"

He had the nerve to look at you like you had just punched him in the gut.

"You know that the staff felt so bad for me that they gave me the food for free?,” you let out a bitter laugh. “Honestly, leave me alone. I never want to see you or speak to you again.”

Before he could say anything more, you stormed past him.

****************************************************

You stopped going to the cafe after that.

It wasn’t like you were afraid of Clark Kent; you just hated the way he made you feel. You threw yourself into your work, but every now and then, in one of those slow moments between assignments, you’d think back to how it felt waiting for him that night.

At first, you were frustrated. It wasn’t as if you both had been dating to begin with. For heaven’s sake, it was a first date and you barely knew the man! Why were you so bothered by it?

Then came the anger. How dare he make you feel so easily dismissed and forgettable? You were a real person with thoughts and feelings.

That was followed by doubt. He had apologized and offered to make it up. Did saying ‘no’ make you a bad person? Were you just playing hard to get?

Eventually, you remembered that others will respect you when you learn to respect yourself first. Clark made you feel inconsequential, so he would no longer have any access to you.

All of this emotional turmoil over one failed date, you thought. Maybe I need to be institutionalized.

The phone on your desk rang, and you picked up. “Hello?”

“There’s a delivery for you, honey,” Sharon answered.

“What is it?”

She sighed from the other side. “You better come see it yourself.”

You hung up and made your way downstairs through the elevator. Sharon sat at the front desk with a frown on her face. You followed her gaze to a bouquet of flowers on top of her keyboard. With furrowed eyebrows, you reached for the beautifully wrapped white tulips.

“Who sent this?”

“No idea. There was no note,” she revealed, clicking her pen. “The deliveryman said they were for you. I can tell you that whoever sent them is saying sorry.”

I frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Google,” she answered, leaning into her computer screen to read out an excerpt. “White lilies apparently symbolize ‘forgiveness and peace, making them a good choice for expressing remorse and a desire for a fresh start’. ”

You snorted and passed them back to her. “You can keep this as fertilizer for your garden,” you tell her, still frowning. “Or put them though the paper shredder.”

Two days later, Sharon calls you again. You go downstairs and find a bouquet of pink roses. This time, there is a note attached to them.

I’m sorry — Clark

“ ‘Pink roses convey a message of gentle affection,” Sharon reads out, “making them suitable for expressing sincere apologies and care.’ You ready to forgive yet, honey?”

“Not even close,” you replied, dumping them in the trash can behind her desk.

Two days after that, your phone rings and you call for the elevator without bothering to answer. A small crowd had gathered around Sharon’s desk, admiring the gift. This time, the bouquet was made of blue hydrangeas and had doubled in size.

“Let’s hear it,” you said, slapping her desk.

“Represents ‘deep remorse and a desire to make amends’,” she verified.

The crowd around you oohs. You pluck the flowers off her desk and read the note accompanying them.

When you forgive me, come back to the cafe. I miss seeing you in the morning— Clark.

Your co-worker reads it over your shoulder. “Wow,” he whistles, “this Clark guy has got it bad for you.”

You snort. “I don’t believe so.”

Yet this time you don’t discard the flowers. You hold on to them tightly as you wait for the elevator to whisk you away.

When your phone rings again the very next day, you are halfway into re-reading your quarterly report for the umpteenth time. You pick up without tearing your eyes away from your computer screen. “Hello?”

“He is here,” Sharon tells you.

“Who?” you yawn, scrolling to the next tab.

“Clark,” she hissed.

“What?” you shrieked, attracting confused looks from cubicles around you.

“Clark from the Daily Planet is here,” she repeats. “For you. You need to get down here right now.”

“Okay, okay,” you huffed, scrambling to your feet. “I'm coming. Don't let him come up here.”

The elevator took too long to reach your floor, so you took the stairs down. You were fuming with anger. Wasn’t it enough that his guilty gifts were the break room talk? Now he had the nerve to show up at your workplace?

You reach the main floor, and Sharon points at the front door. “Told him to wait outside!” she calls out as you stomp past her.

You find Clark pacing outside in the storm passing over Metropolis, utterly soaked.

****************************************************

If wrath wasn't rolling off you in waves, maybe you would have found the scene in front of you beautiful.

Clark's black curls were glued against his forehead and his white dress shirt clung close to his skin. The rain had made the fabric almost translucent, and you were able to make out the slopes of his collarbones and the ridges of his abs as clearly as day.

“What are you doing here?” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in the air.

People passing by swerve around you both to avoid getting caught in middle. “This is my workplace!” you cried out, whipping your wet hair out of your face. “Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?”

“I know, I know,” he stepped closer, grabbing you by the shoulders. “I had no choice but to come here. You were coming to the cafe anymore and I didn't know if you were getting my messages. And I just— I just had to explain myself in person.”

You push his hands off you, almost immediately missing the warmth they radiated in contrast to the cold rain thundering down on you. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again,” you reminded him, heaving.

He nodded and stepped even closer. He reached for your small, shivering hands and held them in his. He looked down at the space between both your feet. “The night we were supposed to meet,” he began, rubbing gentle circles on your knuckles, “I got held up at work—”

He rolled your eyes and tried to pull your hands away, but he held you in place.

“—Superman had just finished fighting a monster. You must have seen it on the news the next morning, right?”

Curious to see where this was going, you nodded along.

“He came to the Daily Planet,” he continued, “asking me for some intel I have been gathering on LuthorCorp. He thinks Lex Luthor was behind the attack. I-I-I tried to be fast and wrap everything quickly, but—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” you interrupt. “Lex Luthor was behind the Kaiju attack? You know he ate Sharon’s car? She is still waiting to hear about her insurance claim!”

“What?” he asked, puzzled. “That’s besides the point. I am trying to tell you that I’m not a bad guy. Are you listening?”

“Y-yeah,” you told him. “Go on!”

“Anyways, by the time we were done, it was too late, and I knew I had made a mistake. I went to the restaurant, but the hostess told me you had already left. Well, first she called me a lot of bad names and then told me you left. I even asked Superman to track you down.”

You think back to the night. “I think I saw him that night,” you said, teeth clattering. “You sent him for me?”

Clark’s hands moved to cup your face. “I never meant to leave you there hanging.”

You searched his eyes for deception. When you didn’t find any, something inside you snapped. You raised your arms up to wrap around his neck. He bent down and crushed you against himself. “You made me feel so small,” you sobbed in his neck.

He squeezed you tighter. “I never meant to,” he repeated, burying his face in your hair. “I never meant to.”

He ran a hand over your locks, and for a moment, you both stood there, frozen in time. Sirens blared at a distance, and you felt him go rigid in your embrace. You broke apart, thinking he would leave but he stayed put.

“Take my number,” you commanded, running your hands over your forearms to keep, “so I don’t want to you lose me again.”

He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out his phone. It looked comically small in his large hands. You put your number inside his phone and stepped back.

“I have to get back to work,” you told him, at the same time, he said, “Let’s spend the day together.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“We can’t even do anything with the storm,” you reasoned, walking backwards. “Let's just wait for the weekend.”

“Please.”

“My manager is gonna' kill me.”

“Please.”

You groaned in defeat. “Fuck,” you exhaled. “Okay. Okay. Wait for me here. I’ll grab my stuff.”

His lips stretched into a wide smile.

“Don’t be smug about it!” you called out, running back. “I’m still mad at you!”

“I’ll fix it!” he called out.

You rush past Sharon, who had a playful smile decorating her face. You pause and look back at her. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“You already know I was,” she smirked, typing away. “I’ll tell the boss you were feeling under the weather.”

****************************************************

When you came back down, Clark had already hailed a taxi.

He held the door open with a grin. You rushed inside, and he followed. You sat in the back of the cab pressed into each other. His warmth was a shelter from the cold air. It was almost like he stored the sun inside him for you to use as a portable heater.

The driver eyed you through the rear-view mirror. “Aren’t you both adorable,” he commented, with a laugh. “How long have you both been together?”

Clark checked the watch on his wrist and answered. “Five minutes.”

The driver whistled, “Young love.”

You hid your smile behind your hand and told the driver your address. The drive to your apartment is quiet except for the sound of the wipers sliding back and forth against the windshield. Soft music played on the radio, and you leaned further into Clark. He slipped an arm around your shoulder and you nuzzled into him, eyes getting heavier. You were almost asleep when a thought crossed your mind.

Clark Kent is coming to my apartment.

You jolted awake, scaring him. He raised an eyebrow, and you shook your head, forcing yourself to relax. As the scenery out the window started becoming familiar, your nervousness grew. You should have thought things through before telling the taxi driver to take you home.

You prayed that your apartment was clean enough to invite someone over. What were you even going to do? Maybe you’d cook, or watch a movie, or play a board game, or kiss, and then maybe you’d both take your clothes off and—

“We’re here,” the driver announced.

You bounced your knee in anticipation as Clark paid the fare. He slid out first and held out his hand for you. You gingerly put your hand in his and hoisted yourself up and out of the taxi. You took some deep breaths to ground yourself as you walked up the stairs leading to your home with Clark trailing behind you. You unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Ta-da,” you proclaimed, trying to break the ice. “This is my fortress.”

“Hm,” he mused, scanning the living room. “I think I prefer yours over mine.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Your home seems well loved. Compared to yours, mine’s like made out of ice.”

You rolled your eyes and arched down to take your shoes off. Clark reached for your arm, stopping you.

“Let me,” he suggested, kneeling in front of you.

You straightened up and watched his hand cascade down the length of your arm and along the side of your thigh. He cupped the back of your knee and lifted it up to slip your shoe off. Then moved to the other leg to do the same while you stood uncharacteristically still.

He looked up at you with a dimpled smile. You couldn’t help but reach for his hair and run your fingers through his moist curls. He was drying up much quicker than you. Must be 'cause all that heat radiating off him, you thought.

You cleared your throat and let your hand fall. “Let me get you a change of clothes,” you said, moving to your room as he unlaced his own shoes in the foyer.

You rummaged through your closet to find the biggest shirt and pyjama pants you could find. You handed them to Clark and showed him where the bathroom was. Once you heard the door lock behind him, you let out a silent scream.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

You started pacing around in your kitchen. You wanted him. Badly. You had an inkling that he felt the same. I mean, if the flowers and showing up at your work in a rainstorm wasn’t enough evidence, then the moment you both shared at your doorstep was enough to convince a jury.

You didn’t want to just pounce and scare him away. Things were happening too quickly, and you didn’t know how to work with that. In your field, you spent hours researching, studying, and then preparing a strategy to achieve your goal. Except now the goal was in your bathroom, drying himself with your towel. On cue, you heard the door unlock and you leapt to look busy.

When Clark stepped into the kitchen, you were filling up a kettle to heat up some water.

“All good?” you inquired, casually glancing back over your shoulder.

You caught a brief look of how taut the fabric of the shirt appeared against his chest and shoulders. Instead of answering, he moved to stand behind you.

“Go shower and dry off,” he told you, gently.

“But—”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he reasoned, nudging your head with his forehead. “Go get warm. I’ll watch the kettle.”

You let your shoulders drop and nodded. Clark switched spots with you as you made your way to your room. This was good. The universe had just given time to strategize. Rummaging through your closet, you found your nicest pyjamas and hopped into the shower. You scrubbed yourself extra hard, and then shaving seemed like a good idea once again, so you did that too. A warm shower and one small, silent motivational speech later, you found yourself back in your living room.

Clark entered from the kitchen, carefully balancing a mug in each hand. “Made some hot chocolate for us,” he declared. “I remember you liking it.”

You smiled widely and took a seat on the sofa as he set the mugs down. You threw the damp towel over your head as he took a seat next to you. You picked up the mug and brought it close to your mouth. You didn’t miss the three marshmallows he had placed in your drink. You took a warm sip and let the beverage soothe you from the inside.

Clark reached for the remote and turned the television on. You both watched the screen in silence. Then you begun shifting on the cushion restlessly. The clock on your living room wall ticked in the background as if it were counting down to something inevitable. You grabbed the towel with both hands and began scrunching your hair aggressively to drown out the sound.

“Here, let me,” you heard Clark say.

He moved into the space between your legs and the coffee table and tugged your hands away. He began drying your hair instead. You sat with your hand in your lap, fingers interlaced, as he patiently worked away. Suddenly he jerked the towel down to completely engulf your face while laughing.

“Oh, no,” he feigned surprise, “where did you go?”

You couldn’t help but giggle and shove him gently. He didn’t budge an inch.

“Can you hear me?” he continued, holding your head and moving it side to side. “I'm right here!”

“I’m right here, too!” you played along, shaking with laughter.

“Right here?” he echoed. “Let me see.”

You wrapped your hands around his wrists as he stretched the towel back, past your chin and lips. He paused right under your nose. You waited for him to move, but he didn’t.

“Clark?”

You sensed him shift at the sound of his name. He cupped your face and angled it up. He whispered your name, and his breath fanned against your face. Then you felt the faintest touch of his lips against yours. Your breath hitched. A moment later, Clark’s mouth pressed against yours in a soft, chaste kiss.

He dropped his hands to your shoulders and straightened. He cleared his throat. “I think I need to go,” he croaked.

You tried too see his eyes, but the towel was still hanging low over yours. Before you could ask him what was wrong, he answered, “Nothing is wrong.”

You nodded.

“I’m not leaving you,” he insisted. “You know that, right?”

You nodded again.

“Things are just moving too fast,” he explained. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

He peeled the towel away from you and met your eyes straight on. Whatever he saw made him let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I will text you,” he promised. “You'll reply and we will go on a real date.”

“Okay.”

“Baby,” he groaned, tipping his head back. “Don’t look so sad. It’s killing me.”

Then don’t go, you wanted to tell him, but you knew he was correct. All good things take time, and you could feel it in your veins that this thing with Clark would be the greatest of them all.

You smiled up at him. “I’ll see you later, Clark.”

He stepped away and walked backward toward the door. He reached behind him to unlock the door without taking his bright eyes off you. You heard the door unlock, and in the next moment, you were all alone in your apartment.

You sat on the couch, the feeling of his lips on your skin still lingering. The clock still ticked away, but a bit gentler this time around. You stood up with a grunt and locked the door.

Clark Kent was in your apartment. Clark Kent had kissed you. Clark Kent was about to be yours. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. You hadn’t felt this much giddiness since you were a young girl.

Your phone pinged in your purse. You grabbed your hot chocolate from the table and sipped on it as you rummaged through your purse. You had received a text from an unknown number.

It read: Open the door.

****************************************************

You yanked the door open, and Clark stormed inside.

His hand grabbed your nape, and his lips met yours. Your heart began pounding in your chest so loudly that you wondered if he could hear it. Clark slanted his face over yours, and your lips parted. His tongue dipped past your teeth, deepening the kiss. You clung to the front of his shirt as he moved you further into the apartment. Butterflies exploded in your stomach, and your head became dizzy. If he hadn’t wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you up just in time, you would have landed your ass on the hardwood floor.

You move your hands to the bunched muscles of his biceps. God, how was he so strong? You couldn’t imagine Clark being someone who would spend hours in the gym, but the hardness of his body was telling you differently. He pulls a part to steal a breath, and you do the same. He shook in your arms, glasses fogging, as he spoke, “I couldn’t wait. I’m so sorry.”

You smooth his wild hair down. “It’s okay—mfp.”

His tongue tasted like your favourite hot chocolate, and it brushed against yours once, twice, and then over and over. He slid his hands down your waist, over the arch of your hips and then hoisted you up. You let out a yelp and wrapped your legs around his torso. Your head felt airy as he sauntered to the sofa and gently sat you both down. He pressed his forehead against yours and mumbled, “Give me five minutes and then I’ll leave.”

“Don’t leave,” you whispered against his mouth. “Don’t leave.”

“No?” he inquired, moving his lips to your neck. “Okay, I’ll stay. I’ll stay for as long as you’d like me to, baby.”

He found your sweet spot, and you let out a gasp. He ran his tongue over it and sucked the skin into his lips. You lurched into his arms, and your hand dove to his hair. You pulled his face away from him to expose his neck. You inched forward and inhaled his scent; it made your mouth water. You pressed your mouth to his neck, just as he had done, and then softly bit down. He let out a groan, and his hands shot up to grab onto your hips.

You felt him grow between your legs. You rolled your hips against his just as your tongue swept against his neck to soothe the bite. Clark was heating up in your arms. His hands slid up to your waist, and he manoeuvred you around so that your back was against the couch. He settled between your legs and kissed you again. You sucked on his tongue as he curled his groin into your centre.

“Fuck,” he breathed out.

You begin to kiss his mouth, making him raise his head. “Don’t say that!”

He gave you a puzzled look. Your fingers reached his hair as you explained, “You don’t cuss, remember?”

He pouted. “Of course I do.”

You curled a finger in his curls. “Oh, yeah?” you challenged. “Say a bad word.”

He huffed, pushing his steaming glasses up. “I'll say three,” he stuck his nose up. “Fuck. Shit. Pussy.”

You threw your head back and cackled. “It sounds so weird to hear you say that.”

He shrugged, pleased with himself. “Use it in a sentence,” you teased.

He pondered for a few seconds, and then a smirk came across his face. He looked straight into your eyes and spoke, as clear as day, “Shit, I want to be in your pussy so fucking bad.”

You let out a shriek and smacked his shoulders. His laughter grew louder as you barraged him with playful punches. He caught your wrists in one hand to stop you and moved them above your head.

“I’m glad you gave me a second chance,” he confessed. “You don’t understand how I feel in this moment.”

You had a feeling that you knew exactly what he meant. “I am glad that you came to me today,” you told him.

Clark gave you a smile and let your wrists go. You brought your hands back to his hair. You liked the way they felt between your fingers. You thought you heard him say something along the lines of ‘now it’s time for you to come for me,’ as he kissed his way down your jaw, between the valley of your breast, and along your stomach. His kisses burned through your shirt. He stopped at your waistband and folded up the hem of your shirt until it rested right under your navel.

“Can I?” he asked, chewing on his swollen lower lip.

You gave him a shaky nod. Clark leaned up on his knees and reached for your drawstrings. Carefully, he began to undo them like he was opening a present. Your hands clenched into fists as you watched him tug the strings loose. He slithered the pads of his fingers into your waistband and glided your pyjamas lower. You arched your hips up to help him slip them off completely. He reached behind and pulled his shirt clean off his body in one smooth move.

You stretched your arm out to feel the slopes of his stomach against your hand. He let you run your hands over his stomach, chest, and arms. Once you were satisfied, you lay back on the couch to let him explore you. His large hands spread your legs apart so that one of you hung off the sofa while the other rested on the rail. He lowered back down and got comfortable against the cushion.

His thumb brushed circles in the inside of your thigh, and you could hear the blood rushing into your ears. There was no strategy, no game plan now. You were in it for the long run. You knew this man was moments away from stealing all the air out of your lungs.

“Tell me if you don’t like anything that I do,” he muttered as his nose rubbed against =the thin fabric of your panties.

“Mm-hmm,” you answered, pressing a hand against your chest.

He paused. “I mean it.”

“Mm-hmm,” you voiced more sternly.

The first pass of his tongue over you jolted you. He hadn’t even reached the real thing yet, and you were shaking. His brows twitch in concern, but when you don’t complain, he does it again. You press the back of your hand against your mouth. You didn’t want to scare him, continuing. He looked like the kind to spook easily.

He hooked his index finger on the side of your underwear and peeled the fabric to the right. He must have seen the way your core twitched when the cold hair hit it. He smiled and placed a soft kiss on your pussy. The sensation made you bite down on your hands.

He opened his mouth wider and snuck his pink tongue in between your folds to lick a strip up from your hole to clit. Tears welled in your eyes. He flattened his tongue out and did it all over again. You moaned echoed through the apartment.

He found your clit next. He slid his mouth over it and sucked on it with the right amount of pressure. Your toes curled so hard that you were afraid your foot would begin cramping. He let go of your clit with a plop and looked up. “Good?” he asked, fixing his lopsided frames. “Am I doing good?”

You nodded enthusiastically, not trusting yourself to speak.

He dove back in. He stiffened the tip of his tongue to circle your clit, and your hand clung to the front of your shirt. You were distraught between wanting to press his mouth into your cunt and pulling your own hair out. Tentatively, you reached for his hair and gently grasped it in your clutches. You felt him grin into you as you turned his head toward the spot that made you melt. He obliged, concentrating on the side of your clit that made you squirm.

You realized that whatever technique he had initiated was long forgotten. Clark Kent was messily making out with your pussy with not a thought in his mind. The slurping sounds that his mouth had made were so obscene that you wanted to die. You cried out in pleasure and curled your hips up to meet his mouth again and again and again. His arms wrapped around your thigh to hold you in place as pressure builds up in your spine.

You heard the clock ticking get louder again as if it was counting down to your demise. The pleasure built and built and built until it imploded you from within. You tipped your head back, eyes rolling, curling off the couch at an angle you have never bent in before.

Clark doesn’t stop. He continued to lick and suck and kiss your cunt until he had wrung you out for all you’re worth. When you return to earth, you see him breathless, flushed and resting his forehead against your thigh.

“I have noticed that,” he grinned, licking your moisture off his lips, “anytime I do something with my mouth, you seem to like it a lot.”

Laughter erupted from your chest, stealing whatever air you had left in your lungs with it. He kissed the inside of your thigh, and the metal frame of his glasses dug into your skin. You leaned forward and pulled it off his face.

“Wait—” he calls out, but it's too late.

You freeze, not because he had asked you to stop, but because as soon as you did so, you saw that it wasn’t Clark Kent laying in between your legs but Superman.

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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smilereads · 5 days ago

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HEYOOOOOOOO

18+ clark can’t get enough of your voice

clark’s been buried under those headphones more than usual lately. you figure it’s work—both of you slog through the same deadlines at the daily planet—but the way he’s so immersed, it doesn’t line up with simply fact-checking.

one night you call his name half a dozen times from the doorway. he’s slouched on the couch, oversized headphones swallowing the sides of his face, glassy-eyed.

stepping forward, you yank the headphones off. his face flushes, like a teenager caught watching porn. you press one earcup to your own and hear yourself—that professional journalist’s tone unpacking lex luthor’s latest scheme. the interview you recorded with none other than superman himself.

“is that…” you say, holding the headphone out, tilting your head as clark snatches a pillow and clumsily jams it over his lap.

“it’s the interview recording,” he mumbles, head down. “you sounded… incredible.”

your eyes flicker briefly to his lap, but you say nothing.

moments later, clark’s phone buzzes—an unread voice message waiting for him. he taps play. the clear, professional reporter’s voice he’d been replaying is gone. “guess you like my voice huh,” your voice slides through the speaker in a husky, teasing whisper. “thought you might want an upgrade…”

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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smilereads · 5 days ago

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sluts for Superman 😭 pls

Sex Positions with Superman

cw: Explicit adult content (18+),multiple sex positions, rough/possesive. dom/sub dynamics, vulgar language, and intense physical intimacy.

It starts with a list.

You’re flipping through Clark Kent’s open notebook on the couch, meaning to check his handwriting (which is ridiculously neat for a man who can crush steel in his hand) when you see it. In the margin of a page that’s otherwise full of half-scribbled case notes is a bullet-point list titled, very plainly:

Positions I Think Might Actually Kill Her.

You choke on your sip of wine. “You’ve been… cataloging ideas?”

Clark freezes in the kitchen doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He looks like a deer caught in headlights—if the deer were six-foot-four and had biceps. “I… can explain.”

“Oh, you better explain,” you say, flipping to read more. “‘Wall lift—too risky without restraint.’ ‘Standing wrap-around—high risk of wall damage.’ Clark, what the hell?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “I was trying to figure out what I could do without… you know. Accidentally launching you into orbit.”

You’re grinning now, because he’s blushing, because he’s the most absurd man alive. “This is adorable. And also incredibly hot. Which one’s the ‘might survive’ list?”

His mouth twitches. “That’s in my head, not in my notebook.”

“You’re going to tell me, right?”

“No,” he says, already crossing the room. “I’m going to show you. Eventually.” His voice dips lower, softer. “When I’m sure I can trust myself not to break you in half.”

You set the notebook down slowly, like it’s a live wire. “Eventually?” you echo, feigning scandal. “Clark, you can’t just dangle death-by-sex over my head like that and then walk away.”

He sits beside you on the couch, the cushion dipping under his weight. You hate—no, you love—that it makes you feel smaller, pulled in toward him. “It’s not death-by-sex,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “It’s more like… I’m trying to work out the safest possible way to give you what you keep asking for.”

You blink at him. “Safest possible way to—Clark Kent, are you making a safety plan for screwing me?”

His jaw flexes. His blush spreads, creeping all the way to his ears. “Would you rather I didn’t? You think I don’t know what you’re doing every time you pull me toward a wall? Every time you wrap your legs around me? You think I don’t notice when you look at me like you want to find out how strong I actually am?”

You’re caught—guilty and grinning. “Maybe I do.”

He leans in, forearms braced on his knees, his tie dangling loose like an afterthought. “And maybe,” he murmurs, “I want to give you that. Every single thing you’ve been imagining. But I can’t just… let go. Not with you. Not until I’m sure I won’t—”

“—break me in half,” you finish for him, biting your lip.

Clark smiles faintly. “Exactly.”

You tap the notebook with one finger, smug. “So what’s at the top of the ‘might survive’ list in your head?”

His eyes glint. “If I told you, you’d spend the rest of the night trying to talk me into it. And I’m this close to caving as it is.”

Your heart flips. “Guess we’ll just have to test them one at a time, then.” You’re laughing before you even realize it, but it dies in your throat when he leans in—close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, but not close enough to actually kiss you. The bastard.

“Think you can handle me testing one?” he murmurs.

You blink. “Right now?”

“That depends,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth. “On whether you trust me.”

your thighs are already pressing together and your voice comes out in a whisper: “Yes.”

His smile turns downright sinful. “Good. Because the first one’s simple.”

You open your mouth to ask what it is, but suddenly you’re airborne—lifted like you weigh nothing, your back hitting the wall beside the couch. Your legs automatically wrap around his waist, his hands under your ass holding you there like you’re glued to him. You make a startled sound that melts into a moan when he rocks you just slightly against him.

“Wall lift,” he says, voice husky in your ear. “Low risk. Unless I stop holding you.”

You dig your fingers into his shoulders. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” he teases, bouncing you once—effortless, just enough for you to feel the strength in him. “You asked for this, sweetheart.”

Before you can respond, he shifts his grip, one arm hooking under your thighs while the other cups the back of your head, lowering you onto the couch so fast you barely have time to gasp. He follows you down, braced above you, caging you in. “Position number two,” he murmurs, and you can feel him everywhere—his thigh pressing between yours, his weight holding you down, his cock thick and heavy against your hip. “Standing wrap around. High control, minimal risk.”

“Minimal risk,” you scoff, though your voice breaks halfway through when his thigh presses harder between your legs. “Feels like high risk from here.”

His mouth curves, and before you can blink, you’re hauled back up—this time not to the wall, but spun and bent over the arm of the couch. Your hands grab at the cushion to steady yourself, but Clark’s palm is already on your lower back, pushing you down so your ass tilts up for him.

“Reverse bend,” he says, like he’s ticking off items in a damn field report. His hand slides under your dress, fingers grazing the backs of your thighs until they hook in the thin strip of fabric between your legs. He tugs—not gently—and your panties tear in half like they were nothing. “Better access. Better angle.”

You make a sound you don’t recognize as your own, biting the cushion as his fingers trail up your slit, not even pretending to be slow. “Clark—”

He slips two fingers, deep, curling up until your knees nearly buckle. He fucks them into you slow at first, then faster, until the slap of his palm against you echoes in the room. You push back on his hand without shame.

“Greedy,” he mutters, pulling out abruptly—and then you’re airborne again, flipped like you weigh nothing, your legs lock around his waist on instinct.

He carries you two steps—two blurred steps—and drops you onto the bed. No time to adjust, because his hands are already under your knees, folding you in half until your thighs are pressed to your chest.

“Jackknife,” he says, and there’s nothing clinical about his tone now. “No way you’re walking tomorrow.”

The first thrust knocks the air out of you, the second drags a filthy moan from your throat. He sets a pace that’s obscene—hard, deep, relentless—and the way he’s holding you pinned means you can’t move even if you wanted to.

“You wanted to know the list?” he growls. “Every. Single. Position. Until you can’t remember your own name.”

Your nails rake down his forearms, and all you can manage is a choked, “Please.”

He grins and flips you again, this time onto your stomach, dragging you up onto your knees. One hand wraps in your hair, the other grips your hip, and he drives into you from behind so hard you scream into the pillow.

“Prone bone,” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Low risk for you—high risk for my control.”

From there, he doesn’t even slow—switches again, pulling you back into his lap so you’re straddling him, chest to chest, his cock still buried in you. His hands grip your ass, lifting and dropping you like you weigh nothing, each slam making you wetter.

“Cowgirl,” he says against your mouth, but then adds with a smirk, “Supercharged.” And God help you, you know you’re not surviving the night.

You scream his name, riding each thrust like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, your body trembling on the edge until finally—finally—you shatter, clenching around him as you come undone in a storm of heat and noise.

Your body shudders violently, muscles clenching around him like you’re trying to pull him inside you, over and over, and Clark groans deep in his throat, pumping harder, chasing his own edge. He throws his head back and spills hot, thick ropes of cum deep inside you, filling you so completely it takes your breath away.

When he finally collapses on top of you, both of you gasping for air, he laughs, “Think you can handle the next one?” he rasps.

You grin, breathless and already ready for more, “Bring it.”

a/n: gonna start a cult called sluts for Superman

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic

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smilereads · 6 days ago

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Clark Kent who missed you during the day, but is too eager to feel your pussy the second he's back home, so he just has you talk to him while you're on his cock

“How was your day?” he asks, kissing your shoulder as his hands rub up and down your hips, squeezing the flesh gently.

“It was fine,” you say breathlessly, holding onto his arms, thighs trembling slightly on either side of his hips. He's big, his cock stretching you out, the angle making it press against your womb.

“Just fine? How was that meeting you had?” he questions, kissing your neck, feeling your slick dribbling down and smearing on his lower abdomen.

“Great,” you reply, dazed. “It went great.”

“Yeah? I'm glad,” he says as he slides a hand to your womb, angling your hips and groaning at how wet and warm and tight your gummy walls are.

You whine, gasping softly.

“Nothing new today? Nothing different? You just had a boring office day?” he teases, leading you to bounce on him, making your cunt flutter around his cock.

“It was fine,” you manage, a little mewl leaving your pretty lips.

“You keep saying fine,” he points out, his hand adding pressure to your lower belly as his thumb lands on your clit. “You usually have a million things to tell me, and you complain about that old hag at the desk next to yours. Not today?”

“I—It was—Yeah,” you gasp, moaning.

Clark grins. There's something about seeing your mind draw a blank while he's in you, that just turns him on so much. “What's wrong, baby? Pretty head not working? Should I pull my cock out so we can keep talking?”

“No!” you gasp. “No.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me about your day, I missed you,” he says, leaning in to kiss your forehead tenderly.

“I missed you too, just...it's not easy to think.”

“Try? For me?” he whispers, removing his thumb from your clit and stopping you from going up and down, leading you to just rock back and forth on him.

You whine, but find it somewhat easier to recall the events of the day.

He makes you tell him all about it while he eases the tension out of you. He listens intently, commenting and asking questions. And by the time you're done, your slick has soaked all the way down to the bed sheets under you both and his cock is painfully hard in you.

“Well, now that I'm all caught up, I can fuck you properly and make you feel better, yeah? Gonna treat my girl like the goddess she is.”

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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Taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya

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Clark Kent masterlist

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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smilereads · 7 days ago

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me rn and I haven’t even seen the movie yet 😭

thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot. god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed

26K notes · View notes

smilereads · 7 days ago

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This was such great concept!! I loved it!

based on this thought i had <3

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ suggesstive, fluff, reader has clarks powers

₊˚๑ wc - 1.9k

The air in Clark's bedroom was heavy with warmth — the kind of warmth that lingered, not just from shared heat, but from the way he'd held you afterward. Skin to skin, his chest rising and falling against your back, strong arms lazily wrapped around you as if you might float away if he let go.

You’d always known there was something otherworldly about being with him, not just the strength or the gentleness, but the quiet hum beneath his skin when you touched him. The way your body felt like it was charged afterward, like your cells still remembered his.

But this time… something was different.

You blinked slowly, staring at the ceiling above you, watching the faint lines of the wooden beams, until you realized you could see through them. You sat up fast.

“Clark?” you breathed, voice still raspy from the night. “Uh… I think something weird is happening.”

He was already propping himself up on one elbow, sleep-tousled and shirtless, worry softening his face. “Weird like what?”

You turned your head, and the second your eyes landed on the glass of water across the room, it burst into a fine mist. You both flinched.

Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Clark blinked, stunned. Then slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He reached out gently, brushing your arm with the back of his fingers. “You feel… different.”

You nodded. “Like my blood’s buzzing. Like… I’m lit from the inside.”

Clark sat up fully now, gaze flicking across your body, as if checking for signs: danger, stress, or maybe just wonder. “You absorbed some of my powers,” he murmured. “That’s not supposed to happen.”

Your breath caught as his eyes lifted to meet yours. “Not supposed to,” you echoed. “But it did.”

There was a long, charged silence between you. You could feel your heartbeat, no, his heartbeat still echoing inside you. Like you were tuned to the same frequency. “What do I do with this?” you asked softly, fingers flexing. You curled and uncurled your fist. A breeze swept through the room, despite the windows being shut.

Clark was watching you closely now, like he wasn’t sure if he should be concerned or captivated. “Try to hold my hand.”

You reached out — and as soon as your fingers laced with his, the air shifted again. His breath hitched, just barely.

“I can feel it in you,” he said, voice low and reverent. “You’re glowing.”

You laughed a little breathlessly. “No, really -”

“No,” he cut in gently. “Not like that. Literally. Your skin is… humming.” He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing the back of it, his brows still furrowed. “You’re holding my power. My light.”

There was something in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine; awe, maybe. Or guilt. Or pride.

“And it came from you,” you said softly, meaningfully, letting your thumb brush over his wrist. “From being with you.”

He swallowed thickly, watching your movements, your energy, the subtle way your pupils had sharpened. “I didn’t think that could happen. Your body must’ve been in a compelling state and absorbed my powers somehow.”

You couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “So what I’m hearing is, I was too good in bed.”

Clark laughed, bright and stunned, shaking his head. “Or I was.”

You smirked and leaned in close, voice dipping into a whisper. “Wanna test it again and see if I level up?”

He gave you that look; half stern, half melting, completely undone. “You’re already dangerous enough,” he muttered, eyes trailing over your collarbone like it was art.

You looked down at your hands again, watching a faint shimmer flicker under your skin. “So how long do I have this for?”

Clark’s fingers slid up your thigh under the covers, casual and tender. “Hard to say. Could be a few hours… maybe a day.”

You arched a brow. “And what happens when it wears off?”

He smiled, gentle and unshakably sure. “Then we do it again.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

later that day, Clark watched from across the house as you hovered two inches off the ground while brushing your hair, totally unaware.

He exhaled slowly, half in awe, half in panic.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” he muttered under his breath.

And he was right.“Okay, rule number one,” Clark said, arms crossed as he stood in the middle of the Kent family barn, “don’t get cocky.”

You were floating three feet off the ground, hair fluttering slightly from the wind you'd accidentally generated. You smirked down at him. “But I’m cute when I’m cocky.”

He gave you a look, the one with the tight jaw and subtle eyebrow twitch that meant he was very much trying not to smile.

“That’s not the point.”

You floated a slow, lazy circle around him in the air. “So what's the point?”

Clark sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The point is that you woke up this morning and melted my coffee mug just by looking at it. You need control.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“You also said, and I quote - ‘oops, guess I’m too hot to handle now.’”

“…Accurate.”

That almost got a laugh out of him. Almost. But then his hands were gently guiding you back down to the floor, his touch grounding, strong but careful.

“Start small,” he said, stepping back. “Let’s focus on heat vision. Pick a target that won’t explode.”

You turned to face the hay bale he’d pointed out. It looked so harmless. Innocent. You narrowed your eyes at it, trying to summon the feeling again, the one that had your veins humming and your skin tingling.

Nothing happened.

Clark leaned in from behind, voice soft and warm. “It’s not about getting angry. It’s about focus. Channeling that energy, the one you felt last night.”

That memory hit like a wave.

His body on yours. The glow in his eyes. The feeling of being so full of him was like the universe had cracked open and spilled stars into your bloodstream.

You blinked, and the hay bale burst into flames.

“Too much!” Clark shouted, immediately zooming over and smothering it with a tarp. You covered your mouth in shock and awe.

“Oh my god—did I just…? I did that?!”

“You did that,” he confirmed, patting out the last of the smoke, eyes wide. “And it was way too sexy a face to make while doing it, so please never use that in combat.”

You laughed, breathless. “This is insane. I feel like I’m vibrating from the inside out.”

Clark walked back over, brushing ash off his hands. “That’s exactly how it starts. It’s your body catching up to the power, trying to decide what’s you and what’s… me.”

You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s still in me.”

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on your lips for a second too long.

“Some of it might be,” he said finally, low and rough.

You stepped closer, teasing now. “So… if I want a refill?”

“Don’t.” His voice cracked slightly, and you felt a thrill of satisfaction ripple through you.

“Don’t what?”

Clark’s hands gripped your hips before you could say anything else. “Don’t ask unless you really want the answer.”

The air between you was taut with tension. Heat built in your palms again, and you could swear your pulse had synced to his. He noticed it too; you saw it in the way his jaw ticked, his pupils blown wide behind his glasses.

You leaned up on your toes, close enough to make him pause.

“I want to keep learning,” you whispered.

He kissed you briefly, burning, and pulled back before it could get away from him.

“Then let’s train,” he said, breathless. “Before you accidentally vaporize the next poor hay bale.”

You attempted to lift the tractor with your bare hands. You overshot and threw it halfway across the field. Clark just stared, jaw slack.

“Okay,” you said, brushing your hands off. “Maybe I am a little cocky.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, walking past you. “Come on. Super hearing’s next.”

“Does it involve me whispering sweet nothings into your ear?”

“…God help me.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

You didn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Really.

It had started as a joke — Clark guiding you through a super-hearing exercise by telling you to pick up faint sounds from across the farm. The wind. A bird chirp. A cow grumbling about hay.

Easy.

But then he stepped inside the house to take a call, and suddenly you could hear everything. His voice filtered through the walls, low and a little rough.“No, I didn’t tell her yet.” You paused, freezing where you were sitting on the porch. Your heart ticked up.

“I know I should. But you don’t understand what it’s like. She’s already dealing with the powers. The accident. What if I make things worse?”

There was a pause. His voice dropped even lower, like it hurt to say it.

“Because I’m not just her friend anymore.”

Your stomach flipped.

“I don’t just care about her. I love her. I think I’ve loved her since the moment she touched me like she already knew me.” You inhaled too sharply, and a flowerpot cracked in your hand. You barely noticed.

Clark’s voice kept going, soft and unsure. “I’ve spent my whole life holding back. Every touch, every word, every emotion. But with her? I lose grip. She makes me human. And that scares the hell out of me.”

The call ended a few seconds later, but you were still frozen on the steps when Clark reappeared, brow furrowed, carrying two mugs of coffee, completely unaware that your entire world had just tilted.

“Hey,” he said, handing you a cup. “How’s the hearing?” You looked up at him slowly, fingers wrapping around the mug.

“Too good,” you said quietly.

He tilted his head, confused. “What’s wrong?”

You stared at him, the warm eyes behind those nerdy glasses, the quiet strength he always tried to hide, the mouth that had kissed you like you were made of stars and glass.

“You love me.” His whole body stilled. His breath caught.

You saw it then, the way his guard dropped for just a second, like a door unlocked in his chest. “You heard that,” he said, barely a whisper.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Clark set his mug down carefully, as if one wrong move would shatter everything. “You weren’t supposed to. Not yet.”

You rose from the steps, stepping closer. “Then when?”

He looked at you like you were sunlight. “When you weren’t holding my strength inside you. When it was your choice. Not something borrowed.”

“It is my choice,” you said. “I didn’t ask for these powers. But you? You’re the only part I ever wanted.”

His breath hitched. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.” And just like that, the space between you collapsed.

Clark kissed you like gravity stopped working, like the Earth turned only for you. It was deep, slow, and achingly gentle, every emotion poured into the way his hands cradled your waist, the way his forehead rested against yours when he finally pulled back.

“I still want to train,” you whispered.

He smiled, eyes shining. “Good.”

“Because I’m gonna fly.”

Clark grinned, that rare boyish grin that always made your knees weak.

“And I’ll catch you always.”

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic

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smilereads · 7 days ago

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why did I start tearing up ? I love this song and enchanted and this fic 🥹💓

how does she know you love her?

some of the little ways clark kent shows you how he loves you-- enchanted inspired (lyric fic)

clark kent never lets you forget for a second that he loves you. a fairytale boyfriend, a perfect, doting, gentleman, goodness imbued in him entirely. he’s yours— and he isn’t afraid in the slightest to show you.

does he leave a little note to tell you you are on his mind?

clark literally has a degree and a career in journalism. despite his godliness, his overwhelming power and his incredible abilities, words are his greatest strength. when you start dating, you somehow always seem to find a little yellow post-it he wrote mixed in with your stuff that make you just melt.

“you looked breathtaking today.”

“i couldn’t breathe when you presented your article. my smart girl.”

“i’m the luckiest man in the world when i get to make you smile.”

you have an entire drawer full of them, a sea of yellow that makes you remember just how loved you are. unconditionally, you’re his. and that’s just the daily stuff. anniversaries, birthdays— even random times when his love for you is just so overwhelming, he writes entire letters. the shortest one you ever got was four pages, front and back. the longest one might as well have been a book.

they’re all incredibly clear, his voice is strong and he is so well spoken it makes it impossible for you to ever doubt how he feels about you. you feel insanely lucky, because you snagged the guy who writes essays about you just cause he feels like it.

send you yellow flowers when the sky is gray?

clark’s the kind of guy to take a flower out of every arrangement he gets you, so when it starts to wilt he knows it’s time to get you a new one. he knows all of your favorites by heart, too.

eventually, he stops wanting to spend a fortune on flowers from the little shop around the corner. that doesn’t mean you stop getting them, however. no, he took a course on floral design, in the little free time he has between his two jobs, and flies back and forth to the flower field at the edge of kent farms to collect the perfect bouquet.

yeah.

your home is literally drowning in lilies, tulips, roses, and sunflowers. you can’t bring yourself to mind it, especially since they all come with yellow post-its attached.

well, does he take you out dancing just so he can hold you close?

clark isn’t big on parties. he’s more into private dates, or staying in— but for you? there’s nothing he wouldn’t do. he’d burn down half of metropolis if you said you liked the ash.

so, when you go out with your friends, or have to go to some work gala, he’s always close. at your beck and call, ready to jump in if someone bothers you, or you need another drink, or if you just seem a little down.

he really isn’t much of a dancer. but when there’s a slow song playing, and you’re two drinks in and clinging to him like a koala bear? he can’t refuse.

so he pulls you in. two gentle hands take your waist while yours reach up to his shoulders, and he sways with you, softly. his eyes don’t leave you for a second, like he’s hypnotized. and then, gosh, you knock the air out of his lungs when you lean your head on his chest, letting his arms encircle your waist completely, letting him hold you so close he can feel the quiet thrum of your heartbeat against his skin.

dedicate a song with words meant just for you?

clark may be an author, but he’s no poet. instead, he memorizes all of your favorite songs, learns about each and every one of your favorite bands. he sets google alerts for their tours so he can surprise you with the tickets on rainy days.

he’s not much of a singer, either. but when you’re dancing around the apartment, singing along with the last track on a record, he’s going to duet. as much as he likes to listen to you, the way you smile and laugh when he joins you— he can’t resist.

and sometimes, on rare nights, when you’re feeling blue and him holding you and whispering sweet nothings in your ear doesn’t cheer you up, he sings soft lullabies in a quiet, low voice until you fall asleep, praying everything will be better in the morning.

he’ll wear your favorite color just to match your eyes

he buys your favorite color whenever he sees it— your home is a literally flooded with monochromatic knickknacks and clothes. he knows the exact shade, and every acceptable variation.

say you’re going to some sort of gala, he makes sure his tie matches your dress so everybody in the room knows who he’s with. his favorite color? the color of your eyes. he uses the picture of you he keeps in your wallet to remind himself of it every morning— and he genuinely gets giddy when he finds something in that shade.

plan a private picnic by the fire’s glow?

clark is ridiculously good at planning dates. not at first, though. his dates now are intensely thoughtful, carefully made, expertly crafted to your tastes down to every minute detail.

at first though, when he doesn’t know you as well as he does now, he stumbles. the dates are messy, goofy, a clumsy showcase of his affections. restaurants with cuisine you decidedly dislike, concerts for bands you’ve never heard of, sports games that bore you to death. basically, he just threw ideas at a wall and looked at what stuck.

now? he knows that you don’t like daytime picnics because the sun makes you sweat. but at night, out at the park, next to the soft light from the fire pit he sits you by, you’ve never felt happier.

——

clark kent is as clumsy as he is gentle in his affections. he loves you like it’s his sacred duty, like the reason he fell from the heavens was so he could wrap his arms around you and show you how much he loves you as long as you breathe. to you, he is divine, but not because he’s the god who fell out of the sky.

because he’s your clark, and you’ve never felt anything close to what you feel when he looks at you in that signature starry haze he never seems to shake when he’s around you.

reblog if you enjoyed!<3

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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smilereads · 8 days ago

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AGGHHHHH

please can i rq clark seeing shy!r naked for the first time? :) luv u

fem, 1.3k cw suggestive “Like a sleepover?” Clark asks.

You wince. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.”

What you’d been trying to propose was your first proper boyfriend-girlfriend night together, but sleepover is aptly childish. Fitting, and it makes you wonder if Clark thinks you’re an idiot. Because maybe you’re supposed to clash into one another after the perfect date and just— just suddenly be staying the night. But it hasn’t come naturally.

See, Clark’s too polite. Too afraid of pressuring you into things you’d love to do.

His courting has been similar to the sort of stuff you see on mildly inaccurate regency tv shows —he’d one day, out of the blue and completely unbeknownst to you, developed strong feelings for you. A few weeks later he was sharing the news with you like some sweet reenactment of Mr. Darcy —I like you, honey. I– I have strong feelings for you, I want to take care of you, and I need to tell you before it drives me crazy.

How crazy could he really have been? Still, what were you supposed to do, say no? As awkwardly shy as you may be, the zing you get when Clark touches you, looks at you, says enough. You hadn’t needed convincing. Clark would take very good care of you if you’d deign to let him, and so far…

“Honey?”

You turn in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

You know he won’t ask you to hurry. He probably won’t ask what you’re doing, too scared to startle you. Maybe you’re sneaky shaving or trying to pee and he knows that, so he’s careful.

You’re trying to get over the way you look in your bra and panties. The bra doesn’t fit you nicely, the panties are too plain. It’s stressing you out, thinking he’ll see you in this bra with the fat of your armpit pinched weirdly and the grody little straps and end up wrinkling his nose.

“How about I go make us something to drink?”

“That would be nice!” you call, clearing your throat. “Yes, I mean. Please.”

“Don’t say please. I’ll be right back.”

You frown at your ugly bra and reach behind yourself to unhook the clasps, letting it fall away. That’s not… awful. You put your pajama shirt back on, a dark blocky thing that stops a quarter of a centimetre above your plaid pants. When you move, it shows your skin.

They’re sort of ugly pajamas, aren’t they? The bottoms have seen better days.

Your head pounds.

“Shit,” you mumble, kicking out of your pants. “Oh, no, shit.”

“Baby?”

“Huh?”

“You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine. I’m just– I just–”

Clark’s footsteps warm the floor outside of the bathroom. You’d left the door ajar unthinkingly, but Clark doesn’t push it open fully. “What’s wrong?” he asks nicely.

“Clark…”

“What can I do?”

You shrug out of your stupidly short t-shirt and hold it to your naked chest. “Sorry. Don’t… I just need a minute.”

A silence bends. It’s nearly the whole minute, when Clark is clearing his throat, still waiting at the door. “You know I’m not expecting anything from you, right?”

“I want to give it to you, though,” you mumble, knowing his keen ears will pick it up. “Just nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re already the most beautiful girl in the world–” You snort loudly. “I’m serious. I’m not kidding.”

You sober. Scrunched up t-shirt trembling ever so slightly in your hands, you let it fall on top of your pants and try to be cool. Calm, collected, you channel the steadiness you keep for your most terrified moments. You probably won’t look half as unbothered as you're hoping for, but all you need now is to stop your hands from shaking.

“You sure?” you ask.

“You’re beautiful. I’m sure it only gets better.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, trying to be the teasing, funny girl instead of a tangible ball of nerves in need of coaxing. Clark Kent is the most beautiful guy you’ve ever met, point blank. He can’t understand what it is to look at him and feel like you’re being touched by the sun when he smiles. His little black curls and the wrinkles beside his eyes, his lashes. Prettiest man you’ve ever met.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

You cling to the hopefulness in his tone and approach the door. Slowly, you peek out from behind it, hiding the bulk of your chest and your legs.

You meet his eyes. He’s looking right at you.

“Promise you won’t laugh,” you say under your breath.

“Baby, that’s the last thing on my mind.”

“Promise.”

You feel silly asking, but Clark lets you act this way. Like, he takes you as you are, always, with gumption, like every second he gets to spend with you is one he’d planned on anyhow, no matter what you want from him, or what you want to give. It’s why you can murmur stupid question at him on the ride home (‘cos yeah, he’d still like you if you were a worm), and take his hand at inopportune times. It’s why you asked to spend the night, before he brought it up himself.

“I promise,” Clark says emphatically. “I won’t laugh at you.”

You cover your chest with one arm and let the door open.

Clark lets out a funny breath, and it DOES sound like a laugh, but the look you give him is so wounded that he immediately bites his tongue, “No,” he says, breathless, “I’m–” Clark takes a step back. “Honey, I wasn’t expecting you to be– is– I’m trying so hard not to swear right now.”

“You can swear, Clark. You’re twenty nine.”

“Such a mouth on you,” he says without any heat. Then he’s quiet, and his fingertips reach for your arm. He brushes the length of your forearm to your elbow, your skin all hot and warm, waiting impatiently for something new. “So soft…”

“My bra was stupid, and my pajamas are so old, and I just– just wanna be pretty, for once. For–” you, you’d have said, if he didn’t cut you off.

“You’re pretty all the time,” he says, grasping your arm tightly. His eyes flick down to the valley of your chest, the slight curve of your side, your hips, your thighs. His eyes seem darker. The dim lighting must do you some good.

“Kiss?” you propose. It’s the only way you’re ever gonna be able to move your arm.

Clark nods surely. Eyebrows kissing in a pinch, like he’s pained, but good pain, his eyes scrunching shut tightly as he ducks his head for a kiss. It’s different from any other kiss he’s given you before, not for want of gentleness. You’re open to him, for this. He’s meeting you halfway, and he’s careful, but he isn’t shy like you are. His lips are sweet and then parting. Tingling pleasure, your hand straying slowly from your chest to hold his abdomen, fingers downward.

“Hey,” he gasps quietly, almost lost to your mouth.

“Sorry–”

He clasps a hand over yours to hold it there. “Hey,” he says again, “please. I was just gonna ask if you wanted to move. It’s not exactly warm in here.”

“And it’s warmer in your bed?”

He’s smiling as he goes in for another kiss, his teeth against your lips. “‘Xactly,” he mumbles, breathing in hard, turning his head, “you’re such a dream. So…”

His hand slips down your back. You cant your chest toward him, soft pressing into solid, begging to be held.

Clark drags you into his arms.

“Pretty,” he says.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic

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smilereads · 8 days ago

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🧎‍♀️oh sweet sweet Clark

𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀

You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that. (Or, Clark gets spoiled.) fem, 3k

established relationship, oral sex, messy gentle blowjob, a helping hand, mildly inexperienced clark

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Clark strokes the back of your neck gently. He has nice fingers. He’s tall, so his arms are long and his hands are wide, but they’re pretty, too, with trimmed cuticles and light hairs at the knuckles. You squint with an eye smushed close in his chest, daytime TV the only discernible sound beyond Clark’s breathing. You time your inhales to his, then your exhales. Clark probably hears it, but he doesn’t say anything. His touching grows softer still.

You shift in his hold some and wrap an arm around his waist. Under your arm, you can feel the bite of his denim jeans. They’re a good fit. They… accentuate things.

You try to pay attention. Clark put the cooking channel on because he knows that’s what you like. He is earnestly sweet, and likely heartily bored.

You let your hand fall to his thigh. His skin is warm even through the denim, heat seeping through your hand and his thigh, back and forth.

If your face were to fall a little further down, if his hand slipped higher, guiding your head…

You slide your hand up to his hip and feel at it accordingly. “Clark?” you ask, voice croaky with disuse.

“Mm?”

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

“Sure, baby. Ask me something.”

You could fall asleep like this if heat weren’t stirring in your stomach at even the idea. Clark calling you ‘baby’ with his Friday-night-tired voice doesn’t hurt the fantasy. Your knees hot against the hardwood, braced, Clark’s stuttering pleasure.

He must find a tell in your expression, going quiet and smiley. “What?” he asks.

“You don’t have to answer.”

“I doubt I’ll mind. I’d tell you anything.”

You let your thumb stray toward the inside of his thigh. Feel the muscles there twitching. “I know I’m not your first girlfriend, but you told me you aren’t… totally experienced.”

“Right. What, do you want to know what I meant?” he asks.

You know Clark’s fucked girls. Has gone down on girls, just not many. Clark has fucked and gone down on you, and he did it beautifully, but he’s never let you blow him: you’ve never asked. And it isn’t because you don’t want to, only, Clark seems to have a want to do things in his order and you’d been happy to follow his lead this whole time.

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” you ask quietly.

Clark goes slightly stiff, despite best intentions. “No,” he answers, scratching at the nape of your neck. “No one’s ever gone down on me.”

“You don’t want to try?”

“No one’s ever offered, and I guess I’ve never wanted to ask.”

“How come?” you ask, to gauge where he is with it.

“It’s different, to ask. Girls– women are expected to do certain things, but I’ve never expected anything of you. I still don’t. I figure if you want to, you’ll ask me, and if you don’t want to, it’ll never hurt anyone that you don’t.”

He’s so, so sweet. The thought of him being too shy or too unwilling to be that guy makes you want to do it more. There is an expectation in contemporary culture, but it doesn’t mean the act itself between you and Clark has to have that connotation.

“Can I blow you?”

Clark huffs a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to, honey.”

“Please?”

Clark can’t hide the heat of his skin under your hands, but he’s putting up a convincing front otherwise. His hair has fallen into his eyes again, sweet knocked curls kissing a pale forehead. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anyone,” you say. You’ve both fallen into the quiet voices you use before you fuck, and he’s wearing an expression you’d find mirrored if you could see your own face, like he’s waiting for the next move, and then the next. “Okay? It’s not rough. Not unless you want it that way.”

“Uh– I–” And while you’d like to say there’s something in him turned on at the notion, you genuinely believe that Clark Kent is astonished at the idea of hurting you on purpose.

“You can tell me exactly what to do, or I could,” —you let your hand rest at his belt buckle— “do what I think you’d like. I can make you feel good, Clark.”

Clark’s eyes fill with knowing. You’re seducing him and he’s being pulled in, but going willingly doesn’t mean he’s unaware. “Is that what you want? You wanna make me feel good?” he asks, teasing and testing.

“Will you return the favour?”

“I can lay you out right here,” he promises simply. Which is why getting on your knees in front of him is easy work. The eagerness on his face turns to worry, “Hey, you don’t have to kneel down there, we can move.”

“It’s easier like this. Can see everything.”

“Oh.” His mouth tightens.

“Not so easy, being seen up close,” you murmur. “But I know you’re pretty, Clark.”

He’s hardening in his jeans. You readjust your position and use your weight to spread his thighs some, which helps to send a little more blood to his cock. You watch the fabric tighten a touch, watch Clark’s cheek dimple as he bites the inside of his mouth.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Hey,” he says, taking your elbows into his hands, “I’m fine, just trying to act like a gentleman.”

Straightforward when he isn’t telling the flimsiest lies ever. You rally at his eagerness, holding his arms in tandem, fingers spread over curved biceps.

“You really are something,” you mumble, letting your fingers trail down his arms.

“Should I– can I take my belt off?”

“Yeah, honey, open it up. Or I can?”

He nods tightly.

You slip the leather of his belt from the buckle, heat pooling in your abdomen at the clink it makes, and the quiet shush as you free it from a belt loop on either side. Your fingers are steady as you unbutton him, as you take the zipper between your fingers and pull it down. His legs widen to let you in, and you slide into the space as well as you can. His thighs are muscled, solid around you, squeezing you gently as you push his shirt up his stomach.

“Lay back a li’l,” you murmur.

Clark lays back.

The erotica of his open jeans and his trimmed, dark tummy hair makes your eyes warm. Standing, you could rap your knuckles against his waist and hear it like stone, but there’s a new softness to his stomach when he slouches.

You work your hand up to his bulge.

“Are we done?” Clark asks, tipping his head back with a groan. There’s redness climbing his neck. “Fuck, let’s– let me take you to bed.”

He’s mostly kidding. Careful, you slip your hand up his cock and back down again, marvelling the rigidity of it already, saliva pooling right behind your teeth. “Can I move these outta the way?”

“Honey, don’t,” he says. Which means Honey, don’t tease.

“Baby,” you say, he’d felt it coming, but he still drags his head up to stare at you like you’re a dream, “do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Can I kiss you?”

He’s not so pale in the face now. “Yeah,” he says, “please.”

You take the length of his cock into a tentative hand and lean downwards. Clark makes a noise before you’ve so much as breathed on it, the red head of his cock dry but so full of blood it looks bruised as your fingers close at the shaft. You look up at him, and you feel his weight in your hand, angling yourself down to touch his cock to your cheek. Then you turn your face to brush it over your lips, and any cool Clark held swiftly dissipates.

It’s slow to begin with, just kissing a mouthing at the length of his cock, feeling it twitch on your tongue, the heat of his blood in your palm as you drag it up and down. With enough kissing the skin is slick, and stripping it makes a sound that’s almost as lewd as his shudder when you take the head against your tongue for the first time. He smells so fucking good, he smells clean, and he smells like his skin and that sweat scent before it has time to sour, like he’s overheating under your hands, and he smells like precum as it begins to dribble from his slit. You press your nose to his cock, drinking up the gasp he makes, his thighs tensing under your touch. And it’s perfect, but he needs to relax.

“Baby, take your pants off,” you say, drawing back from his cock, spit wet on your bottom lip.

“What?”

“I can’t kiss all of you–”

“I don’t think–”

“Clark, I’m not going to break your trust, baby,” you say, giggling lightly, not gonna kiss anywhere he doesn’t what, “just– just get undressed. I can– I can be naked, too.”

He’s better convinced. Clark shimmies his jeans off, then his shirt when you laugh. You strip out of your shirt and reach back for your bra, but Clark clasps your wrist and insists that the jeans be the first thing to go.

“Idiot,” you murmur without heat, standing off your achy knees to unbutton your jeans. You roll them down your hips.

Clark’s once over isn’t half as salacious as it could be. “Beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you. You like the set?” you ask, turning to the side to show him your blue underwear. The panties have see-through lace squares at the sides and the bra’s slightly too tight at the band, but his gaze doesn’t linger anyplace. He finds your face.

His eyes flicker to your panties and then back again. “Beautiful,” he says again. “Come and sit up here with me, sweet girl. Can’t do that to your knees anymore.”

“It’s easier–”

“I can move, but you can’t sit down there anymore.”

You love when Clark uses his voice like that. It’s like it’s not him anymore. It’s not, totally. Threads of his other half wrap you up, have you crawling onto the couch next to him to set yourself down across his thighs, left arm and shoulder leaning on his legs, right arm guiding the head of his cock back into your mouth.

“Guide my head,” you murmur around him.

He gives his sharpest pant yet. “What?”

You grab his hand and press it to your neck. “Move me onto it.”

“I don’t want to choke you.”

“Then be gentle,” you advise softly. “I won’t let you choke me, babe, I just need help finding a rhythm.”

For some reason, that’s what gets him most. Clark dissolves back into the cushions with his hand grasping your neck, guiding your head as you take his cock into your mouth. It’s all hot and humid and his crotch is quickly wetted, spit under your nose and on your chin, eyes misty as he brushes the back of your mouth with his cock. You refuse to choke and scare him off, so whenever he guides you down too close, you pull away.

You hold the swell of him rather sweetly, rubbing a thumb over them each time you pull off his cock. He’s eager to fuck against your warm tongue, just a little too much, and you’re staring up at him with your mouth full and your nose wet when his eyes go silver.

“That’s perfect,” he says, his pelvis flexing, “just like that– just– you’re perfect, I swear–”

“Love you,” you say, sniffing the heat that’s gathered in your nose away gently.

“I love you.” He grabs your cheek in his hand. “I love you more, honey, you look insane like this, I didn’t realise…”

“This is why people like it so much.”

He adores the hint of shyness he hears in your voice, you can see it in his smile. You can almost see his teeth. But behind his smile there’s a need there, something anxious, so you lean your face against his hip and begin pumping his cock in a slick hand. “Let me make you cum,” you say softly.

Clark doesn’t answer. He gives you this besotted leap-of-faith kiss pressed to top of your head and nudges your mouth back toward his cock. “Kiss, please,” he begs.

You press tens of little kisses into his cock, letting precum bead up and drip onto the tip of your tongue.

“Clark,” you say, licking the salt from your lips as his breath starts to stagger, “you can cum, honey, do you want to? You can cum in my mouth.”

He shakes his head vehemently and covers your hand where it’d been pumping his cock. For a second, things are stopped, but then he drops his head back against the cushions and uses your hand under his to jerk his full length, sticky heat pressed into each finger, the pressure of each strip like a lick until he’s suddenly over the edge. He brings your hand up and tugs at the tip of his cock, cum dripping down your knuckles in fat rivulets.

You give an experimental pull.

“Fucking–” He moans your name like an afterthought. “Ah, baby, baby–”

“Sorry,” you say.

Clark catches his breath for so long you worry you’ve permanently maimed him. He’s still holding your sticky hand to his cock, letting it drip down his front and his hip the longer he leaves it alone, but who are you to judge? You force him to free your hand in search of a discarded t-shirt.

When you’ve managed to clean off your hands and Clark’s abdomen, he lifts his head from the couch to deliver a suspicious glare. “What the hell, babe?”

You startle. “What?”

“How’m I ever supposed to get off by myself now? I think you just ruined me forever.”

“I’m sure you’ll be okay. Idiot.”

He wipes his hands again and before he takes your face into both hands. “Kiss, okay?” he asks, pulling you forward.

“Mm,” you affirm against his lips. A kiss is sorely needed.

It’s an unashamed kiss that spans a half-second too long, like he’s forgotten you need to breathe to survive, but he says sorry with a chaste peck pressed to the very corner of your eye and one of his great groaning sighs as he gets an arm around you and manhandles you into his lap.

“Watch your dick, baby,” you mumble, ready for the quiet, dizzy afterparty that comes whenever you both fuck.

Clark just laughs under his breath. “It’ll be fine. Now let me see these,” he says, tipping you back enough to bring his free hand to your thighs. His thumb brushes the bump of your cunt. “I don’t think you can take these off. That’s, like, not even federal at that point. It’s international.”

“Crime to undress me?” you ask, not bothering to click into the conversation fully. Clark’s barely any better, all mumbly and sluggish as he brushes a hair off of your cheek.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t bode well for me, would it, beautiful?”

You wrap your arms around his neck to nuzzle under his jaw.

And Clark? He lets his head fall back again, sighing with the same dizzying pleasure he’d shown with his cock pressed to the roof of your mouth, as though he finds your affection just as heavenly.

“I owe you a debt,” he says to the ceiling.

You kiss his Adam’s apple, unhurried. As far as you’re concerned, he’s paid it forward greatly,

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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smilereads · 8 days ago

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cuteeee 🥹

Can I request Clark Kent x reader where Clark is more confident as Superman so he attempts to ask reader out as him. But reader turns him down and confess that he's a nice guy but reader is in love with Clark Kent. Not knowing Clark is actually Superman

stop, this is so cute 😭

•••

READ ALL ABOUT IT!

pairing. clark kent x reader

summary. you were almost certain the morning headline would read how you rejected superman, all because you can’t get your co-worker, clark kent, out of your head.

warnings. Not edited. slightly awkward (but in a cute way) reader & clark/superman! reader is down bad. clark is a cutie. may do a part 2 if the people would like!

word count. 2.1k

The Daily Planet was always buzzing. The sound of shoes clicking, keyboards tapping, and chatter ranging from serious to quick quips tossed around. You often relished in the noise, finding a sense of peace in the chaos.

However, your senses were on overload after a rather disastrous morning. You woke up late, spilled your coffee leaving your apartment, failed to hail a cab and ended up walking only to be rewarded with blisters on your heels. Your only saving grace from your bosses wrath was that you submitted your latest piece two days before the deadline, cutting you a sliver of slack. Still, you were at your wits end and it wasn’t even lunch time yet.

To make matters even worse, your cross-desk coworker was looking at you with those rounded eyes and pursed lips that you had thought about one too many times for it to be platonic.

Clark Kent was a dream, unfortunately. It would have made your life and crush easier if he were an asshole, even sometimes. But he was too good to be true, which made you sick to your stomach.

Workplace crushes were bound to be a disaster, you had told yourself. No matter how mature and adult you were, the stakes were too high. You worked hard for your job, and the possibility of something going wrong if you pursued a relationship or acted on your crush paralyzed you. Instead, you just glanced longingly at Clark from across your desk and tried not to pounce on the man when he smiled sweetly at you or brought you a coffee, like he knew you needed it. He even made it exactly how you liked it.

"You didn't need to do that," you said, accepting the mug from his hands with a soft smile that always graced your face in his presence.

Clark shrugged you off. "You always say a good cup of coffee can get you through anything," he repeated your philosophy back to you, causing heat to rise to your face. "And you seem a little..." he trailed off, like he didn't want to offend you.

"Like a mess?" you answered for him, rubbing the bridge of your nose.

He was quick to shake his head. "No! No, you're not a-a mess. Not at all. I was going to say tired."

"That too." Even though you had slept late, it was because you were up late, your mind refusing to let you rest. Sipping the hot coffee, you felt it fill you with the warmth you needed, paired with Clark's pretty gaze. "You're too good to me, Kent."

Clark chuckled and shook his head, retreating to his desk across from yours. The two of you fell back into your work, sharing ideas and snarky jokes about your coworkers as the day progressed. Your words had rang true, and that mug of coffee did turn your day around enough to lift your spirits. Before you knew it, it was time to clock out.

You weren't stalking Superman. That you wanted to make abundantly clear. If anything, Superman was stalking you, but not really. You settled for calling it a recurring coincidence that became an odd habit. To be fair, it was your apartment's rooftop, not Superman's. But not many people in your building found the same comfort in it as you did. There was something about standing on the roof, overlooking the city as the breeze painted your skin, that filled you with a sense of ease.

It wasn't a nice rooftop, but it was like your own little sanctuary. Then, one night, as you enjoyed the sounds of the city below, you were joined by a figure clad in red and blue.

You'd never seen Superman up close, only in photographs or flying overhead as he kept the city safe. In person, he was somehow more and less intimidating at the same time. He was tall and broad; his body capable of stopping a moving train or scooping up civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there was a softness to him, too, a gentleness you didn't see until gazing at him up close. The single curl that fell against his forehead, the glint in his eyes that told anyone looking into them that he was there for good.

That carried over in your conversations as well. From that first night that he explained the rooftop was the best vantage point for looking out for some threat that he was looking to take care, and every time he just so happened to come back and join you, you noticed the softness more. How he'd save everyone, from people to squirrels in danger, and believed that goodness was everywhere, you just had to know where to look.

It became routine for you and Superman to spend evenings on the rooftop when there weren't any immediate threats. He'd ask about you, your work, and everything in between. He, of course, was more elusive about his life of superhero-hood. He was a good listener, and you had that journalist habit of grilling him; he'd laugh it off, though, never annoyed as he tried to answer with a certain vagueness you had no choice but to respect.

"You are confounding, Superman," you said, eyeing him as you dangled your legs off the edge of the building.

He sat beside you, chuckling. "Is that so?"

"You don't even care about the credit or recognition." You understood that people sometimes did things for the sake of doing them, not expecting anything in return. But to repeatedly stand for good and expect nothing in return, it was confusing. Not even in a small or subtle way. Superman just saved the day and moved on. You wondered if he understood he had on the impact he had on those he saved.

"That's not what I do it for," he said.

"I know. That's what makes you confounding."

He stood to his feet and offered his hand. You accepted it, allowing him to pull you up effortlessly. "I should get going."

"So soon?" you said with a small frown. You could have spent ages talking to Superman, trying to figure him out. It was an itch you couldn't scratch.

His lips parted for a moment; you thought he was hesitating, which was the last thing you'd expect from Superman. But he pulled himself out of it, clearing his throat and glancing at you with a purpose in his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" You nodded, curiously rocking forward on your toes. "I like this, talking to you."

You smiled. "That's not really a question."

He playfully rolled his eyes. "Let me finish?" You held your hands up in mock defense, prompting him to continue. "My question is, do you...like it?"

"Talking to you? Of course I do. Why do you think I keep finding myself up here?" It wasn't just because it was a good place to clear your head, not anymore. You enjoyed his presence.

"Good. That's good," he said, more to himself than to you. "In that case, would you let me take you out?"

It took a moment for his words to register in your brain, stilling your body. As heat rose to your face, a chill ran down your spine, the two colliding in an unfortunate mixture in your body.

"Oh, that's not a good face," Superman said, his eyes peering into yours.

"I...you...oh!" Embarrassment and a strange tug festered inside your chest. You were almost certain that you were the only person in Metropolis who wasn't head over heels for Superman. It wasn't that you didn't find him attractive or ridiculously sweet. No, he was the whole package and more. He was most people's dream!

Unfortunately, you were hung up on your soul-crushing crush on your coworker, that you hadn't looked at anyone else romantically, not even the dream that was Superman. It was crazy, if you were being honest.

There you were, on a rooftop with Superman asking you out, and you had to reject him because of the off-chance that your co-worker picked up on your crush, even though you tried not to let it show. If any of your friends had been beside you, they'd push you off the roof for how stupid you were being, but you couldn't help it! Clark Kent took residency in your mind, leaving no room for Superman.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, covering your face with your hands. "This is...I don't-"

He was quick to cut you off. "There's no need to apologize. I overstepped."

You glanced at him through your fingers before dropping your hands altogether, shoulders sagging with them. "It's not that I don't think you're wonderful. I do! Really, I just...I'm sort of hung up on someone else at the moment."

If he had been like many of the men you knew, he'd throw a fit like a child. You half expected it anyway, despite the charged air that surrounded him. But that thought melted away with his soft smile. It was so genuine, it almost made you want to cry.

"They're lucky," he said. "I hope they know that."

You sighed, turning back to the city skyline. "They don't even know they're all I can think about."

"Why?"

"Because I'm scared to tell them," you admitted. "We're friends, and I don't want to ruin that, but...but I know I have to do something before I lose it, or him."

There was a small crease formed between Superman's brows. "If you don't mind me asking, who is this friend?"

"You know, actually. He's interviewed you a couple of times and works with me at the Daily Planet," you said. "Clark Kent."

The expression on Superman's face was unreadable. He just stared at you for a long moment, like he'd been frozen, before he snapped out of it with a shake of his head.

"Y-Yeah. Clark. Cool dude."

You couldn't help the guilt that rose in your throat. "I'm sorry."

Superman stepped forward and placed his hands on your shoulders. "Don't apologize, please," he said. "But as someone who knows Clark, I think you should just tell him instead of waiting for him to notice. He can be a little clueless, sometimes."

You weren't sure if it was the air that surrounded Superman, or the fact that you finally said your crush aloud to someone other than your journal, but a small tug of confidence befell you right there, on the roof. Maybe it would make things messy and work more complicated, but there was also a chance that it could work out. You just needed a little bit of confidence.

"And if I fall flat on my face?"

Superman shook his head. "I have a hunch he won't let you."

As the work day came to a close, you were jittery, like you had drunk several cups of coffee. You made up your mind after your conversation with Superman; you were going to ask Clark out and pray to whoever would listen that you didn't humiliate yourself.

It wasn't uncommon for him to walk you home when the weather was nice. Sometimes you'd chat about the day behind you, excited about Lois's latest piece, and laughing about Jimmy's latest relationship drama.

That day, however, you two talked in comfortable silence, close enough that your hands occasionally brushed.

It took one block for you to work up the courage.

"Hey, Clark?" He hummed, turning his head to look at you. He pushed up his glasses with his finger, cheeks lightly rosy and eyes sparkling in the street lamp light. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

He didn't think much about it, answering quickly with, "Nothing."

"Me neither," you said, fiddling with your hands in front of you. "Would you, maybe, want to do something with me? Together. Like, you know, a date...?"

Your heart was drumming wildly inside your chest. Once the words were out of your mouth, you couldn't take them back; it was just out there, lingering between you.

Clark stopped walking, and you felt like you wanted to throw up. You were so worried you ruined it, that precious friendship with one simple question. In the short time of Clark's silence, you thought how'd you kill Superman for setting you up to fall on your face.

"A date?" he repeated.

You couldn't help but wince. "Unless you don't want to, which is totally okay. I-"

He cut you off with a swift shake of his head. "No, no. I'd like to. Go on a date, I mean. With you." His words came out choppy, a little awkward, but adorable at the same time.

A smile stretched across your lips as the two of you gazed at each other in the middle of the empty sidewalk. "Cool. Then, it's a date."

Clark mirrored your smile. As you two continued to walk, he gently took your hand, intertwining your fingers.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic

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smilereads · 9 days ago

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YES

first off I love your writing so so much it’s so nice to read as someone who has a hard time visualizing text. second, if requests are cool can I please have Clark x reader whos having her first time with him and he’s doing everything in his power to be gentle but he’s so so big and she’s so so tiny. please and thank you :)

warnings: explicit sexual content・size difference・unprotected p in v ・f!reader | MDNI 18+ note. thank you so so much for the kind words anon

at least clark had the decency to look a little sheepish about it when he took his briefs off.

you’d sort of seen it before, hard through fabric, but seeing it bare, up close, fully erect—it was profane.

not so much a cock as a physical punchline, anatomically satirical in scale and proportioned with the kind of overkill that feels biologically implausible. pendulous, heavy between his thighs, thick veins ridging the shaft in ropes. it curved faintly to one side, looming rather than standing. his cock wasn’t just large—it didn’t look like it belonged to an earthly man. it looked like the last thing someone saw in a fertility cult nightmare.

you stared. then glanced at your own body.

“where’s that supposed to go?”

eyes downcast, clark rubbed the back of his neck, ��it’s uh—yeah, i know. we don’t have to do anything. really.”

it’s a goddamn weapon, you thought, and swallowed hard. he kissed you again, like he was trying to gentle the mood back into something manageable. but once he had you underneath him, big hands petting along your sides, lining himself up with the trembling slick of your cunt, his restraint was working overtime. “okay,” you breathed. “you’re gonna go slow, right?”

“so slow.” he repeated, solemnly.

it took effort. lube, patience, several pillows, and his constant stream of soft reassurances. and to his credit, he tried. god, he tried. you felt the thick head nudge against your entrance and every instinct screamed to tense and to close up, but his hand is stroking your back and his lips were on your neck, whispering between kisses, “breathe, honey.” one palm slipping up to cradle the base of your skull. “you’re doing so good. you feel like heaven.” the stretch was unlike anything you felt before. it burned like a slow wildfire, trying to take him. the sheer accomplishment of taking in the head made your water, fingers clutching his bicep as though it were a lifeline.

“too much?” he asked, voice hoarse. you shook your head defiantly, even as tears blurred your vision. inch by inch, he fed it in, until your belly felt full and your walls pulsed around him like it couldn’t decide whether to accept or reject the intrusion. clark looked down where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you with a sort of dazed disbelief. his hand came to rest on your lower abdomen, palm spreading just beneath your navel.

“look at this,” he marvelled. voice an octave higher than usual. “that’s me.” stroking where the obscene outline of him pressed from the inside. you keened, clenching around him. a wet, strangled groan escapes him.

“don’t do that—please don’t, ’m barely holding on.”

and clark, sweet clark, buried his face in your neck and mumbled an apology before he reared back his hips just to carefully rock back in. a gasp punched out of you, unbidden. legs locked tighter around his waist.

“you okay?”

you smiled, dazed.

“ask me that again when i can walk.”

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent x reader #clark kent fic

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smilereads · 9 days ago

Text

“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”

This part HITTT

💓💓💓

mysteries of our disguise revolve

clark kent (superman 2025) x f!reader

summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.

word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)

warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, happy ending.

a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world. and feel free to scream in the tags—i’ll be screaming too 🫂

Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.

It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.

Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.

And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.

If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.

The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:

It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.

But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:

It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.

Just so much for a girl in her twenties.

You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.

She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.

Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—

“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.

He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”

At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”

A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.

Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”

“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.

Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”

With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”

As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”

“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.

She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”

You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.

The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.

Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.

“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”

Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”

Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.

Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.

You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”

He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”

No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.

He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.

“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”

“Shut it.”

“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”

You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”

Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”

A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.

He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”

Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.

He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.

At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.

Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.

“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”

Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”

You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.

Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.

“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.

Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.

In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”

Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”

Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.

“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”

“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”

You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.

Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”

Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”

Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”

Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”

Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”

Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”

“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”

The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.

You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.

Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.

A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.

It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.

Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.

Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.

Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.

Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”

“Excuse me?”

“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”

“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.

“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”

“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”

His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”

To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.

You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.

Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.

You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.

“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.

You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.

He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.

Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.

An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.

At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.

Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.

Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.

It’s yours.

Goddammit.

Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.

[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]

[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]

[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]

You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.

The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.

A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.

It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.

Don’t beat yourself up over it.

It’s just one article.

Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.

What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.

You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.

Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.

He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”

Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.

“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”

Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.

The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.

You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.

You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.

You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.

A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.

You hear it. His voice.

“…Hey.”

Clark.

You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.

There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.

Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.

He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”

That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.

“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”

Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.

You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”

It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.

Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.

That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.

Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.

You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.

It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”

You choke on your own saliva.

“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”

Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.

He smiles, barely. “I know.”

A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.

Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”

You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”

He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.

“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”

His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.

“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”

Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”

His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”

“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”

“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”

Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”

There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.

“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”

You scratch your nose. “Sure?”

“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”

“…No.”

He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”

“Oh my God.”

“I warned you.”

“No, but—a thesaurus?”

“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”

“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”

“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”

“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”

He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”

“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”

You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.

“…Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he echoes.

A pause.

“Wanna hear another one?”

“Clark, please—”

“What do you call fake spaghetti?”

“I don’t even want to think about that one.”

“An impasta.”

You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”

Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Of terrible puns?”

“Of coffee and emotional support.”

You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.

By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.

“You always carry tissues with you?”

“A man needs to be prepared.”

He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.

You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.

“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”

Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”

Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.

Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”

Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.

You like Lois.

You really, really do.

She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.

You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.

Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.

They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.

In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.

All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.

“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay? You look like you just found out your favorite character dies in the end.”

You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”

Jimmy blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”

You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.

“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”

“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”

The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”

“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”

“Give me a break.”

“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”

“Drop it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”

You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”

“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”

You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.

Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.

Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.

Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”

You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.

And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.

Again.

They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.

And somehow, that settles it.

The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.

The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.

The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).

You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.

The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.

You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.

He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.

“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”

You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”

He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”

“Well, are you?”

His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”

You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.

Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.

“Are you annoyed?” you ask.

His smile fades. “What?”

“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”

“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”

You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.

Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.

Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.

“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”

“She’d eat you alive.”

“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”

“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”

Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”

Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”

“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”

He smiles then. “The team.”

“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”

“Caro?”

“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”

“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”

You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”

“Oh. You sure?”

“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”

“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”

He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” He’s already turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll grab our stuff.”

And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.

The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.

But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.

The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.

“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.

“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”

You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.

Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”

“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.

You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”

He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”

“How do you…?”

“What?”

“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”

“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”

“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”

“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”

“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”

“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”

Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.

He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”

“Excuse me?”

“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”

“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”

“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”

“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”

As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.

“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.

“You say that like I’m not honored.”

“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”

“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”

You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.

“Clark?”

“Hmm?”

“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”

He pauses. “I had a feeling.”

You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”

Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”

You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.

By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.

You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.

“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”

He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”

“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”

He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.

There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—

An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.

He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And give me a call if it gets worse.”

“Only if I want to be carried again.”

“Happy to oblige.”

And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.

You’re beyond head over heels.

Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.

Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.

Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.

You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—

“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”

“Clark told you,” you say flatly.

Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”

“I cannot believe he told you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”

“I hate you.”

He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”

“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”

“Not attention in general. Just his.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.

Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—

“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.

You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”

Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”

“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”

“...Okay.”

You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.

“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”

“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”

He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”

“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”

And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.

Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.

You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.

Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”

You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.

Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.

Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.

You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.

And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.

Your charger.

Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.

Jimmy Olsen.

You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”

“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.

“You left your charger here—”

“Don’t even get me started on that.”

“—but I already gave it to Clark.”

Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.

“You what?”

“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”

“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”

“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”

“Jimmy—”

“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”

The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.

You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.

Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.

In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.

“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”

You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”

He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”

You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”

He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”

You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.

“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”

You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”

He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”

Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”

“I doubt that.”

“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”

He says nothing. So you keep going.

“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”

You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”

Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”

You blink. “What?”

“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”

Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.

“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”

“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”

And so he begins to read.

You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.

There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.

“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”

“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”

He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”

“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”

Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”

“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”

Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.

You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.

He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.

“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”

“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”

When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.

You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”

“Do what?”

Does he want you to say it?

You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.

That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.

One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.

His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”

You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.

Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.

You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.

He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.

“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”

A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.

Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.

At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.

It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.

He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.

Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.

Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.

And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.

At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.

Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.

Then:

“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.

That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”

He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”

He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.

You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”

“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.

“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”

“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”

“How noble of you, Kent.”

Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.

But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.

Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.

It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.

Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.

One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”

Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.

Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”

He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”

“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”

“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”

Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”

Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.

Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”

The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.

“Mr. Kent.”

His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”

He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”

“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”

“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”

It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”

His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.

As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.

Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.

Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.

You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.

There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.

You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.

Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.

The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.

Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.

Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.

Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.

Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.

And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.

The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.

Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.

The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.

Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”

You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.

You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.

Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.

“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”

He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.

Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”

You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”

His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”

If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.

Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.

In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.

His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.

For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.

A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.

You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."

He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.

Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”

“I told you—”

“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”

He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Disappointed, then?”

“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”

“Then what is it about?”

You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”

He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”

You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”

That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”

“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”

“I’ve been telling you—”

“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”

“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”

“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”

“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.

Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”

“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”

“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”

You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”

“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"

“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”

Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.

He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”

“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.

“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”

Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.

The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.

One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.

You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.

Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.

He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.

It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.

Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.

Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.

But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.

You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.

Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.

Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.

Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.

Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.

His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”

You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”

He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”

“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”

He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.

His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.

Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”

You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know.”

“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”

“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”

For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.

Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.

So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”

“Then you know what comes next.”

Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.

It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.

Sleep won’t come.

You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.

So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—

You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.

And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.

It all makes you wonder where Superman is.

He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.

You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.

Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”

It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

You can’t look away.

The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.

For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—

No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.

Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.

“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”

Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.

Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”

You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.

Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.

There he is.

Clark.

Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.

Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.

Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.

Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.

Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.

Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.

If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.

If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.

They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.

Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.

You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.

The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.

The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.

Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.

For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.

Straight through you.

Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”

You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.

He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.

You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.

Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.

Gone.

You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.

“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”

The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.

Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”

Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside

At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.

“Clark—”

“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”

It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.

They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?

“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”

Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.

You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?

“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”

You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.

In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.

“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”

You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.

Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.

The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.

He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.

A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.

“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”

You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.

“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”

His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”

“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”

So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.

“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.

There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”

“What do you mean—”

Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”

It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”

“I love you.”

“Again. Please.”

You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”

He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”

“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”

“Then let’s keep it that way.”

You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.

Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.

But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you

He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.

You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”

“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”

“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”

You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”

“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”

A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”

“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”

Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”

“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”

Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”

“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”

You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.

“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.

He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous

Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.

He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”

“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”

Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.

“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”

You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.

You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”

A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”

“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.

Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.

“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”

Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.

“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”

You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.

“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”

It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.

His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.

“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.

“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”

Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.

This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.

When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.

He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—

Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.

Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.

Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.

By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.

You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.

He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?

“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”

And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.

The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.

Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.

At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.

To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.

“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”

You slow your pace but don’t let go.

“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.

You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.

“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”

“Baby, I swear—”

“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”

“Then you deserve it.”

“But twice?”

“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”

Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.

“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”

One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.

“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”

He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.

Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.

In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.

Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.

His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”

“Condom?”

He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”

“I told you you could come inside me.”

That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.

“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.

He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.

“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”

“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”

Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”

“Yes.”

“Bare.”

“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”

He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”

“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”

“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”

He pushes in.

At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.

“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.

“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”

“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”

“Want me to kiss you?”

He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”

You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”

“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”

A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”

His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.

“Why not?”

“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”

It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.

As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.

Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.

He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.

The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.

It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.

“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.

The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.

You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.

“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.

It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.

His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.

You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.

“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.

“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.

“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.

It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.

He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.

Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.

You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.

He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.

Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.

“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”

You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.

The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”

You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”

“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”

You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.

There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.

“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.

A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”

“What does that have to do with what I just said?”

“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of.I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”

“That… was a weird route to get there.”

He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”

You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”

“It was like a week ago.”

“We weren’t even speaking.”

He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”

“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”

“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”

“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I—”

“Are you going to?”

“I—would you want to?”

You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”

When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.

“So is that a yes?”

“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”

“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”

At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.

Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.

Somehow, it feels even truer in his.

dividers by: @bbyg4rlhelps <3

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

12K notes · View notes

smilereads · 9 days ago

Text

“If it’s okay?”

“Is it okay?”

the softness that he holds, I’m going insane

Benny and the Jets

Clark Kent x female!Reader/OC Word count: 4.3k Warnings: angst, reader/oc has self esteem issues Note: this is written in third person & reader/oc is unnamed! you can also read this story on ao3 :) Summary/Excerpt: It wasn’t her proudest moment, sitting by herself in her apartment with a giant bucket of ice cream in her lap, watching her favorite comfort-film while emotionally exhausted from crying her eyes out for the past couple hours. There were a few questionable decisions she had made that had led her up to this point. And all of them began with her going to Jimmy Olsen for advice on her romantic life. (i.e., After the reader/oc tries and fails to get back into the dating scene, Clark Kent swoops in to save the day.)

It wasn’t her proudest moment, sitting by herself in her apartment with a giant bucket of ice cream in her lap, watching her favorite comfort-film while emotionally exhausted from crying her eyes out for the past couple hours. There were a few questionable decisions she had made that had led her up to this point. And all of them began with her going to Jimmy Olsen for advice on her romantic life.

It didn’t seem like a totally far-fetched strategy. She knew that Jimmy had quite the roster, and after years of no boyfriends, talking stages, or even dates, she was beginning to feel lonely. Just a little bit.

And that compounded the day she met the clumsy, polite, new-hire Clark Kent a few years back.

Clark Kent who sat just a few desks from her, but despite this, always seemed to be lingering around her own desk, asking about her day or recounting the time he saved a squirrel from being run over by a taxi.

Clark Kent who instantly memorized her preferred coffee order, sliding it onto her desk each day as he walked into the office, sometimes right on time, but most of the time an hour or two late.

Not that she was complaining, though, because she definitely wasn’t. She enjoyed having him around, and even looked forward to seeing him everyday. His fluffy hair. His cute glasses that he constantly had to push up his nose.

Unfortunately, though, she had never worked up the courage to do anything about her little (huge) crush on the man. And anytime she finally convinced herself to approach him about maybe going to a coffee shop or to see a movie, he rushed away, blaming his abrupt exits on family emergencies or food poisoning from his dinner the previous night.

So of course, it seemed pretty clear to her that he just wasn’t interested in her like that. Which was fine (not really). And this was what led her to Jimmy, asking him for advice on how to meet someone. Anyone who might fill the gap in her heart.

And Jimmy, the idiot he was, told her to just download Hinge and make a profile, insistent there were plenty of guys in Metropolis who would love to get to know a girl like her.

So she did, and that was how she met Haden.

Haden was sweet. He was talkative over their messages, and even more talkative in person. He took her to the karaoke night at a local bar for their first date, which wouldn’t have been her first choice, but he was a big advocate for stepping out of your comfort zone. Trying new things. And she couldn’t help but find that sort of charming.

Even better, the first song he picked was a classic.

Benny and the Jets by Elton John.

She nearly swooned on the spot.

She remembered talking his ear off as they walked back to his apartment that night, gushing about how the couple in one of her favorite rom-coms, 27 Dresses, sang that song together at a bar and how iconic it was. He laughed and agreed it was a cool coincidence.

Soon, their one date turned into two. Then three. Then four. They were meeting multiple times a week. Some days for lunch. Some days for dinner. Some days for lunch and dinner. Haden was great. Amazing even. So amazing that she almost forgot about her crush on Clark.

Almost.

In her defense, though, how could she forget about the guy who brought her a coffee every morning? How could she forget about the guy who would throw a bag of chips on her desk whenever she off-handedly mentioned having yet to eat anything that day.

But, of course, all good things must come to an end, and for her and Haden, that end was a little over a month after their first date.

He had taken her to get a sushi dinner that night, and as soon as they sat down she could tell something was off. After questioning him, he finally admitted that things were moving just a little too fast for him. This confused her at first. The conversation of becoming exclusive had never been brought up, and she wasn’t pushing for him to stop talking to other women or delete the dating apps off his phone. She knew that wasn’t a realistic expectation.

She hoped that one day, maybe after a month or two, he might want to just focus on her, maybe make things a little more official, but she didn’t expect that to happen anytime soon.

Plus, in all honesty, she agreed with him a little bit. They had gotten pretty physical pretty fast, and she had definitely done some things with him that the past men she had been with had to wait a couple months for. But she had just chopped that up to her loneliness, and maybe a little bit of desperation (even if that thought made her cringe).

Then she realized where his concern was coming from. A few dates ago, she had briefly mentioned this fact to Haden, before continuing to say that she wasn’t really talking to anyone else at the moment. Just him. And ever since then, he had been a little different. More distant. In fact, this date was the first time he had reached out to her all week, and it was a Thursday night.

Shit. She hadn’t even thought twice about her comments at the time, but now she could see it coming off that maybe she was hinting at something, even if that was not the case. But before she could explain herself, he shot her down.

“Look,” he had said. “You’re a nice girl, but I’m just not looking to settle down. I’m talking to a few other girls right now. Just trying to have fun, you know?”

“Right,” she swallowed. “Yeah, I get that. I wasn’t trying to freak you out or anything, I just–”

“It was just bad timing,” he interrupted her, continuing on. “But also kind of good timing too, I guess? Because it made me realize that we should probably just stop now while we’re ahead, you know?”

She looked at him dumbly. “Oh.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I mean I’m flattered that you were so focused on us, but it made me realize that this,” he pointed between the two of them, “isn’t really what I’m looking for. Like, you’re a really nice girl, like I said, but I’m just looking for someone with a little bit more…experience. If you know what I mean.”

She could feel her face pale as the blood drained from it. She tried not to crumble to the ground in embarrassment right then and there.

“Right, I understand,” she croaked out, looking at the table, out the window, anywhere but the man sitting in front of her.

He let out a sigh of relief. “See that’s why you’re so cool. You just get it, you know?”

She nodded again, even though she wasn’t really listening to him anymore. She was more focused on how to get the hell out of there before she started crying.

She ended up pulling the classic move, excusing herself to the bathroom before sneaking out the entrance. And she was sure to block Haden’s number and delete that stupid dating app before she made it home.

The next day she was quieter than usual. And Clark had definitely noticed.

She brushed off any questions Jimmy asked her about her date, and she declined Lois’ multiple invites to the bar with everyone else that night, simply stating that she didn’t feel too good and just wanted to get some rest after work.

But when Clark offered to get her some medicine, she refused.

She simply stayed glued to her computer all day, except for when slipped away for her lunch break. And when five o’clock rolled around, she left without a word.

And now she was here, wallowing on her couch with a tub of ice cream in her lap, her face puffy and red. It wasn’t her proudest moment. She had only known this guy for a month and some change, but she couldn’t get what he had said out of her head.

She knew she wasn’t the most experienced when it came to intimacy, and it was something she had always been self-conscious about. Intimacy was something she had shied away from in previous relationships out of nerves. Or maybe deep down her gut just knew that those guys weren’t the one. But she tried to be different for Haden. She put herself out there for him in ways that she hadn’t done in her previous relationships. But that had backfired big time, and now she found herself even more self-conscious than before.

Was she getting to the age where her lack of experience was embarrassing? Haden seemed to think so. And she had a feeling that most guys in her age range would probably have the same opinion.

As the end credits to her movie began to roll, she sighed deeply. She plopped the half-empty, half-melted ice cream bucket on her coffee table and sunk further into her couch, burying her head into her pillows and wishing to disappear from the world. She thought about how she should probably get up, brush her teeth, and just get ready for bed, but the idea just seemed too exhausting. Maybe she would just sleep on the couch tonight.

A knock on her apartment door caused her to jolt up. She looked over at her clock.

It was nine o’clock.

Who the hell was knocking on her door at nine o’clock?

She got up and stumbled over to her front door, not bothering to check out her peep hole before opening the door in a moment of delirium.

But oh boy did she wish she had when she saw who was standing outside her door.

Clark Kent, with a can of chicken noodle soup in his hand.

She was suddenly very aware of how insane she looked right now. Her face was still red and puffy, her hair was most likely a rat’s nest. She was wearing an old t-shirt from high school that was about three sizes too big along with a pair of sweats that made her look like a penguin waddling around whenever she walked, but hey, at least she was comfortable.

“Clark,” she squeaked as she smoothed her hands over her hair in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down at her, his eyes soft as he provided a polite smile and lifted up the soup can. “I–uh–brought you some soup. Since you said you weren’t feeling good,” he stumbled over his words.

“It’s nine o’clock at night, Clark,” she responded. Why was he bringing her soup this late? Why was he bringing her soup at all? She didn’t deserve it, not after how she treated him and the rest of her co-workers that day.

“I was just worried about you, I guess. So I wanted to check in,” he explained. He looked at her carefully as she took in his words.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, not quite sure what to do with the fact that Clark was standing at her front door because he was worried about her.

After an awkward beat of silence he cleared his throat, “May I come in?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Oh shit! Yeah sorry. Please,” she stumbled, opening the door wider and gesturing him in. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just…tired, I guess. Not thinking straight.”

“I can go–”

“No!” she said a little too quickly, surprising the both of them. She coughed awkwardly. “I mean, you can. If you want. But you came all this way, so if you want to stay…you can. If you want.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle.

“I can stay for a little bit. Make you the soup?” He lifted the can up again.

She looked at it for a moment. “Ummm…I’m not really…hungry.”

Her eyes darted towards the bucket of half-melted ice cream sitting a few feet away on her coffee table, and Clark followed her gaze.

“I see,” he stated, trying and failing to hold back a grin. “You’re feeling better then?”

She sighed. “I guess. I wasn’t really sick, just…feeling shitty…mentally.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Why were you feeling crappy? If you don’t mind me asking?”

She chewed on her lips for a moment, trying to decide if she really wanted to talk to Clark, who she had been crushing on non-stop for the past several months, about her boy troubles. But she didn’t really have anyone else to talk to about it. She sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to Jimmy, and Lois was never really into boy-talk. She sucked in a deep breath and nodded toward her couch, and Clark followed as she walked over and sat down.

He looked at her expectantly as he sat down, waiting for her to speak.

She stewed around in her thoughts for a moment, before she finally began.

“You know how I’ve been seeing this guy for the past few weeks? A little over a month, I guess.”

He nodded, a dark look coming over his eyes.

“Did he do something?” he asked, looking at her carefully. He looked like he was ready to fight the man, and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

“He didn’t necessarily do anything. I mean, he ended things, I guess. Which is fine, I mean, we didn’t see each other for that long, that’s not why I’m upset,” she rambled. “He just said some other things that kind of hurt…I guess.”

She snuck a look at him as she finished her answer, and he looked absolutely pissed off. “What did he say?”

“He said…” she began. She could feel her eyes burning again, and she blinked hard to keep the tears from falling. She turned her head away from Clark. God, this was so embarrassing.

He reached out and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she sniffled. “I do. I’m just embarrassed.” She let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he argued. “If anything he should be for letting a girl like you down.”

She huffed out a laugh, quickly wiping the tears from her face before continuing. “He just commented on how…inexperienced I am. And I just didn’t realize I was that bad that he needed to comment on it. So I’m just feeling a bit insecure. And wondering now if I’m ever going to find another man without completely humiliating myself.”

His forehead creased as he shook his head. “You should not be humiliated. He should be. That’s just,” he let out a frustrated breath. “That’s no way to speak to a woman. Especially you.”

She looked at him for a moment, noticing his clenched hands, one nearly crushing the soup can he was still holding. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Clark look so angry before. So disappointed. She didn’t understand why he was getting so worked up over what happened to her.

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his words, so neither said anything for a moment. Suddenly, she let out a short laugh, and he shot her a confused look.

“Sorry,” she shook her head. “I just realized that this whole relationship, or situationship, or whatever, totally ruined one of my favorite songs.”

“What song?”

She snorted before continuing. “Benny and the Jets? Elton John?”

He smiled. “Yeah I’ve heard that one. How’d this jerk ruin it?”

“Well we sang it together at a karaoke bar on our first date. And I told him about how this couple also sings it together in one of my favorite movies. Then we went to his place and watched that movie. I don’t know. Maybe it sounds stupid, but I kinda saw it as like our song. And now I guess it will always be linked to him in my head. Which sucks because I love that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites. It was on the first record he bought for me when he gave me my record player.” She was rambling again, but she didn’t really care.

And it didn’t seem to bother Clark, thankfully.

Instead he looked at her carefully again, before his eyes began to search the room. They landed on the record player next to the large bay window that sat in her living room, and they lit up immediately.

She watched him curiously as he finally let go of the chicken soup can he had been holding since he got there, placing it gently on her coffee table, right next to the forgotten ice cream.

“Come here,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up from the couch. He led her over to her record player. It was older, her father had gifted it to her many birthdays ago. He crouched down and began sifting through the line up of records that she had carefully organized in the cupboard beneath the player. His left hand carefully traced the spine of each record case as he searched.

His right hand still held her own, gentle but firm.

“Where is Sir Elton John…?” he mumbled to himself, entranced by the selection in front of him.

She watched him in awe, completely astonished that he was here, in her living room, searching through her prized collection of music, and holding her hand like it was a completely normal thing.

“Aha!” he said suddenly. He stood up, dropping her hand in the process, and turned towards the record player, quickly and efficiently taking the record out of its case and placing it onto the player.

As he fiddled with the player’s arm, making sure he picked the correct track, she eyed the album he had selected.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.

She let out a quiet laugh, and he turned to look down at her.

“What’s so funny?” he questioned. His eyebrows scrunched together as he glared, humour dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t know, I guess I’m just trying to figure out what you are doing,” she shrugged. She pressed her lips together and watched him as he finally found the track he was searching for. He straightened up, somehow growing even taller, and grabbed both of her hands this time, leading her to the center of her living room.

She was nervous. Undoubtedly so. Her head caught up in all of the times her coworkers had caught her staring at him from across the room, the playful jests at her obvious crush on the man. The sly looks they gave her whenever he visited her desk. He had a way of making her feel like she was back in school, all red-faced and giggly, and right now was no exception.

He was handsome. Extremely. And he was extremely more handsome at this moment. With the city lights breaking through the bay window of her apartment, shining like a disco ball throughout the living room. With her lamp casting a warm glow around them, its orange glow highlighting his features in all the right places.

And for some reason he had chosen to be extremely handsome here, with her, holding her hands like they held the answer to the universe.

She suddenly realized she was definitely just standing there staring at him like a dope. She felt her face get hot, and she looked down at the ground quickly trying to hide the growing redness in her cheeks.

She heard him laugh softly before whispering her name.

She looked at him again, only to find his eyes locked on her. She glanced away, out the bay window and into the night. Then back at him. Then away again, not really sure what to do with all of the attention he was giving her at this moment.

He tugged her arms lightly, finally sealing her attention. Then he looked at her. Really looked at her.

“You know you’re beautiful right?”

His words caught her off guard, and she rolled her eyes slightly, looking down at the ground again. It didn’t really help though. Everytime she looked down “at the ground,” her gaze just landed on her hands, which were still enveloped in his.

She snorted and shook her head, almost as if she was shaking off his compliment. “I don’t know about that, Kent.” She shot a quick look at him, clocking the furrow in his brows, before looking out the window towards the city line again.

“You don’t have to say that. I’m average at best. It’s fine.”

“No you’re not.” His response was instantaneous, and he shook his head fervently. “You’re not ‘average’ at all.”

He craned his neck, leaning over as he tried to catch her eyes. He said her name, squeezing her hands as he reiterated, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She looked at him again, her eyes searching his own for the meaning of his words. Trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was doing it. Clark Kent wasn’t known for being a prankster, but maybe Jimmy had dared him to come over tonight just to mess with her.

Elton John continued to serenade them, his voice and the piano accompaniment flowing through her apartment as she finally paid attention to which song Clark had chosen.

…Hey, kids, shake it loose together,

The spotlight’s hitting something,

That's been known to change the weather…

She bit back the smile threatening to grow on her face. “You turned on this song?” she questioned, her mind wandering back to Haden.

“I don’t know, I just wanted to try something,” he whispered.

A small smile played on his lips as he pulled her closer. Much closer.

...You’re gonna hear electric music,

Solid walls of sound…

He guided her hands carefully, moving one to rest on his shoulder while still grasping the other to their side. Their chests were pressed together now, and he wrapped his arm around her waist as he swayed her gently along with the music.

“Whenever you hear this song…” he began, leaning back slightly to look down at her. She looked up at him, curiosity bright in her eyes.

Elton John continued on, and he let go of her waist, using his other hand to twirl her.

…She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit…

She let out a quiet laugh as they collided again. He pulled her arms up and wrapped them around his shoulders, moving his own to rest on her waist, and continued as they began to sway again.

“...I want you to think of this.”

He leaned in slightly as he looked down at her. She looked back up at him in shock, her eyes dancing back and forth between his own, then down to his mouth as he leaned in closer. Was this actually happening? He stopped for a moment, hesitating, almost as if he noticed her nervousness. Like he could hear how fast her heart was pounding in her chest.

“If it’s okay?” he asked. He looked at her softly, waiting patiently for her reassurance.

She tried to respond, but her nerves kept her from being able to form any type of coherent word, let alone a sentence. So instead she nodded quickly, quietly laughing at herself and how ridiculous she must’ve looked.

“It’s okay?” he confirmed, smiling as he nodded along with her.

She wondered if her face could grow more red than it already was. She couldn’t believe that this is what her night led to. She had probably dreamed of this moment a thousand times, but she never really thought it would actually happen. But it was happening. Clark Kent was in her living room, arms wrapped around her, waiting for her to kiss him. If she had known being in an embarrassing situationship would have led to this, she would have downloaded Hinge way sooner.

“Yes,” she whispered, words finally coming to her.

His grin grew ever-wider, and she could feel his smile as their lips finally touched.

…B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets…

Elton John’s piano keys fluttered around them as Clark kissed her softly, their lips dancing around each other.

She hadn’t kissed many people in her lifetime, but, God, none of them came close to Clark. He felt safe, like she didn’t have to worry about messing it up. He guided her through it, just like his hands guided her through their dance. His hands eventually left her waist, moving up slowly along her sides until they cusped the sides of her face.

It felt as if he was her air. She didn’t need oxygen anymore, she could just breathe him in.

But, of course, that wasn’t really the case, and she did break away eventually, if only to catch her breath. His lips trailed her own, giving her quick, short kisses as they finally broke apart.

“Gosh, I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he confessed, peppering kisses along her cheeks, her nose, her forehead.

She breathed out a laugh and nodded her head, causing their noses to bump together.

“Yeah, me too.”

He smiled at her words, and she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him as happy as he was in that moment. She wasn’t sure if she had ever been as happy as she was in that moment. They stood like that for a moment, smiling dopily at each other before he pressed another kiss to her temple and pulled her in again.

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

532 notes · View notes

smilereads · 9 days ago

Text

Yes the angst, yes the comfort 🤩

Missed Calls & Make-Ups

Summary: Clark stands you up on your first date. It turns out he has a pretty decent explanation.

A/N: First fic in 3 years!! And about a DC character no less! The things I do for tall brunette lover boys <3

Warnings: Getting stood up, hurt/comfort, 24 hour clock mention, cursing, food mention, (extremely minor) injury mention, use of y/n, reader is described as having hair. Girl discovers how to use em dash.

Word Count: 8.2k

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

The skin of your legs sticks to the pleather upholstery of your chair as you bounce your leg. Face up on the table beside your empty glass, your phone displays the time.

19:37

Your messages and missed calls remain unanswered. He was late. That's what you repeated to yourself, Clark Kent would not have stood you up. Not Clark Kent, who stuttered and stumbled his way through asking you to dinner, a red flush creeping up from his collar. He’d even double and triple checked you were still up for your date as you walked out of the office together on Friday night, a mere 24 hours ago. Clark Kent would not stand you up… so why was he almost an hour late?

If this was any other man, you would have cut your losses after 5 minutes and no text back. But you were so stunned, so ultimately blindsided by the possibility that the Clark Kent could (and has) forgotten about your date. This is what you get for putting him on a pedestal.

Men, you think. Only it comes out more morose than scathing.

You joined the Daily Planet years ago, fresh from university and desperate to make a change. Your passion in science communication was stunted by an underwhelming lack of reader interest. You managed to put out a few columns here and there, but mainly you worked with Lois, Clark and Jimmy, getting swept up into the seedy dealings of the Metropolis’ rich and powerful. You’d spent many days and nights hunched over desks littered with notebooks, half-written memos on sticky notes, and letters from legal representatives. Corruption paid the bills in this city, as did writing about it.

That was until scientific misinformation about healthcare from capitalistic pharmaceutical companies became increasingly prevalent and public demand for fact rather than fiction rose—you were happy to rise to the challenge. Now your days are spent knee-deep in scientific journals, scoffing at social media rants about vaccines and having to bite your tongue in the bullpen when one of the sports journalists starts spouting off his questionable opinions on women's healthcare. The cease and desist letters didn’t stop though, only signed by a different set of lawyers now. That��s the one constant about your job you suppose—shitty coffee, red pens and threatened legal action.

“It’s how you know you’re doing a good job.” Clark had reassured you once, heavy hand on your shoulder, an unusually bold move of affection from him. Thumb brushing over your satin blouse, once, twice, three times before he squeezed softly, taking your dazed expression for dismay at the thick paper envelope that sat on your desk. “What you’re doing is important.” He said, quieter but with an unwavering surety in his voice, like there was no argument about it.

You wrote that article in record time, lawyers be damned.

When you first met Clark, you honestly thought he didn’t like you. He was quiet—polite—but quiet. He would chat happily to Jimmy, listen intently to Lois’ rants about a suspicious politician, chiming in with supporting observations where necessary, but with you it was like he short-circuited whenever you were near. Minimal eye contact, stuttering, he’d almost go out of his way to make sure there was never a situation where the two of you were alone together. It hurt, sure, but you figured he was just shy and hadn’t warmed up to you.

Thankfully, he did warm up to you. It had all started with a tentatively placed coffee on your desk, your usual order from your favourite cafe nonetheless. You stuttered out a thank you which he politely brushed off, sitting down at his desk, his mouth twisting in a way that made you realise he was trying not to grin. You had stared at your desktop in disbelief as you sipped your coffee. From then on things between you two progressed. Clark often found an excuse to hover near your desk, either to get your opinion on an article idea he wanted to pitch or offering to proofread your piece before it’s sent to the copy editor, even just to ask about what you did on the weekend. If you had an issue with the printer jamming, he was always the first one up to help you tackle it. He’d take an interest in whichever published paper you were reading, listening to you intently as you explained the theory behind certain medications, unafraid to ask if he didn’t understand—a quality you found pleasantly refreshing after spending your college experience surrounded by boys who constantly tried to prove themselves as smarter than you. You learnt very quickly that Clark was a dorky sweetheart who’d grown far taller than was sustainable. Who, to your delight, seemed to enjoy your company just as much as you enjoyed his.

When the waitress loops back round to you, a poorly hidden look of sympathy on her face you decide to call it quits.

Your phone buzzes on the table. You hold your breath in anticipation.

Lois Lane: Superman sighting on fourth street. Aliens. Eye witnesses. You wanna come?

You sigh. The waitress, seemingly also holding out hope, grimaces, which is admirably her first slip of the night.

“Just the bill, please.”

You swipe your card, tip graciously, duck your chin as you leave. You’ll wait until your apartment door is locked before you have a full-scale pity party, but you may have wiped a tear or two from your cheeks on your walk.

Lois, thankfully, stands where you agreed to meet. “Oh.. wow. Hot date?” She nudges your arm, giving you an approving up and down. You can’t wait to see this alien and fling yourself into its path. Your aspiration for a quick end to the conversation must show on your face, as Lois grimaces. “Ah, do you want to pretend it didn’t happen?”

You snort, “Technically it didn’t.” You keep your eyes ahead, walking towards where the sky pulses with red and blue beams of light. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel Lois’ eyes on you, assessing, trying to figure out how far is too far in terms of questioning your poor friend who has clearly not had a great night. Investigative journalists, you think. Deciding you can’t emotionally take an interrogation, you throw her a bone. “He didn’t show.”

“Sorry.” Lois doesn’t have any follow up questions. You’re sure she does, but none she deems tactful to ask.

“So, what’s the game plan?”

“Superman’s currently occupied with the second alien in under an hour, so see if we can get anything from eye witnesses, ideally someone will have seen where that thing came from. It’s a long shot but if we can find anything that ties this to LexCorp it’d fit nicely into my piece.” You nod as the noise from fleeing civilians grows louder. You can’t be far away from the barricades now. Tremors from the fight ripple through the ground beneath your heels, your bracelets clink as the impact travels up your arms. You clench your jaw through the natural panic and the rising ire at your situation—an evening of being wined and dined has devolved into you willingly heading towards an intergalactic battle, chasing a lead for a story you’re not even writing. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I think you have a better chance of flagging Superman down for an interview than you do pinning this to Lex Luthor, Lois. We both know he doesn’t cut corners when it comes to covering his ass.”

Lois huffs a laugh, narrowly dodging a street vendor rushing away from the conflict, you watch him flee over your shoulder, smart thinking. “Yes, well we all know he’ll be too busy giving Clark an exclusive play-by-play of events to make time for the likes of little old me.”

The cacophony from the alien ricocheting between adjacent skyscrapers distracts Lois from the way you freeze at the mention of his name, making you thankful for the decreasing distance between the two of you and the fight. As you get closer, you begin to make out the grotesque appearance of the creature, it struggles to look formidable. It almost reminds you of a chewed up tennis ball a dog would drop at your feet, slobber and all. The gratitude you feel is short lived because, as you approach the police barricade, it becomes quickly apparent that A) the space creature-thing smells worse than it looks, which is no small feat, and B) any and all eyewitnesses have left the scene. Cause and effect. The only people remaining are a few queasy-looking cops, Lois, yourself and a few onlookers with apparently iron stomachs. As the stench hits the back of your nose, you’re instantly glad you didn’t eat anything at the restaurant - a silver lining if you will. If this thing was engineered, whatever expense was saved on the appearance of the creature doesn’t appear to have been spent on its attacking ability. An unfortunate combination of bad looks, horrendous smell and even worse fighting prowess—you almost feel bad. Superman seems to be making quick work of it, each hit is purposeful and on-target, albeit with more vehemence than usual.

“He seems… aggressive?” Lois says, muffled by the sleeve she's using to cover her mouth and nose.

“Can you blame him? If I had to smell that up close I’d want this over with as soon as possible.”

“Do you think he has a super sense of smell?”

“For his sake I hope not.”

Further up the street, fifty metres in the air, blue and red blurs as the hits increase in speed. With one final blow the creature falls to the street, rendered unconscious. A puddle of…drool? steady growing outwards from where it lays. When the two of you look back up to the sky, the hero of the hour has disappeared. A still silence surrounds the street.

“Well, that was a bust. Sorry for dragging you along.”

You shrug, looking around as a few stragglers begin to creep out of store-fronts, assessing the danger before stepping out into the street, heading back to wherever they were going. You see a couple, the man helping a woman over a piece of debris in the doorway, hand-in-hand as they walk down the street. You swallow back the burn in your throat and turn to Lois.

“It’s okay, not like I was having a good time before.” You attempt a lighthearted tone, but your ears and Lois’ face confirm it missed the mark by a mile. “Anyway, I was…” You trail off as Lois’ attention is suddenly snatched by something over your shoulder.

Not something—someone—you realise as you turn.

In front of you stands Superman.

The Superman.

For an awkward 5 seconds, no one speaks. Even Lois, who has all but begged Clark to be put in contact with superman, is speechless.

“Hello, are you two okay?”

Nodding in near perfect synchrony, you’re sure you and Lois are quite the sight. A subtle look of amusement flashes across Superman’s face before his eyes land on you. Humour fades into something more earnest.

“You look lovely.”

…Oh?

Taken aback by the sincerity in his voice, you flounder. Your poor heart has only just begun to pick itself back up and is wholly unprepared to handle whatever this is. You manage eye contact and a small but genuine smile.

“Thank you.”

He nods. He doesn’t leave, he looks like he’s thinking of something to say. It’s a strange sight, a man who moves with such purpose and determination, looking unsure.

“You’re journalists, right? From the Daily Planet?”

This turns out to be what is needed to reset Lois.

“We are, yes. We work with your friend, Clark.”

You look down at your shoes, the momentary distraction from what happened earlier in the evening is shattered. On Monday, you’ll see him at work. Hell, you’re standing next to Superman in the aftermath of a fight, Clark’s probably on his way here now. You can’t help but look around in a fleeting panic, there’s only a handful of people lingering, none of which have tousled dark hair, no one with a pair of glasses that seem incessant on slipping down the bridge of their nose, no one’s a hulking 6’4” whilst somehow never making you feel small. You look back down at your shoes and blink, hard. Good god, you need to get a grip.

When you look back up it’s directly into the eyes of superman. The intensity of an ice blue stare brings you back to the present.

“I’d be more than happy to do an interview, if you’d like?”

Your eyebrows raise and you turn to Lois. Much to your surprise, she’s not taking his hand off for the opportunity. Lois shakes her head and nudges you. It takes you a second, and a glance at the man before you to realise he’s asking you. Not only asking, the way he’s looking at you is almost imploring. The offer should be too good to pass up—it is too good to pass up. But you’re so tired of reading things wrong, your confidence has been decimated and then some, your dignity can’t take another hit for at least a month. You really, really, really want to crawl into bed and go to sleep.

So, pushing down every journalistic instinct that screams against it, you decline.

“Oh, if you want a piece written, Lois is the one you want. I’m uh- I’m a bit rusty on the superhero stuff.”

He looks genuinely crestfallen for a brief moment, before he nods. You can’t shake the feeling of his gaze on you. The way he’s looking at you is not usually how a normal person looks at someone they’ve just met—at least you personally would never look at a stranger with this much awed fondness. You’ll admit you looked pretty in the mirror before you left earlier, but pretty enough for superman to look at you like this? Maybe he just thinks you look familiar. Or maybe it’s more of a thing among meta-humans.

“If it’s okay with you, I’m going to head back home.” You tell Lois. You’d stay, obviously, if she wanted you too. Leaving her alone with a man you’ve both never met is not a move you’d normally pull, especially when said man is wearing his underwear over his trousers. However, she’s got a look on her face that makes you feel a bit guilty that you’re leaving Superman alone with her—Lois has an incredible talent at making an interviewee squirm with her relentless questioning. You worry not that even superman will be immune to her interrogation tactics. You’ve been on the receiving end of Lois when she gains momentum (read: the missing mug incident—it was Steve) and it's no laughing matter. Poor guy.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I just- I think the sooner this day’s over the better y’know.” Lois smiles softly in understanding. She squeezes your arm.

“You’ll be safe getting back, yeah? Text me when you get home.”

“Of course, let me know when you get back too.” You take one last look at Superman who is still watching you, an expression you can’t decipher on his face. You say a quick goodbye and start your walk home, Lois sending you a wave and a wink. At least you have some motivation not to call in sick on Monday—you can’t wait to hear that recording.

Monday comes around unpleasantly fast. Your phone has been switched off since you received Lois’ “I’m home!” text on Saturday. Opting to spend Sunday with every intention to bury your head in the sand for as long as possible, a big fan of delaying the inevitable.

Your commute is uneventful—no superman-related delays on public transport, an empty seat next to you on the bus (essentially gold dust during Metropolis rush hour), the forecasted rain blissfully holds off until you’re within touching distance of the entrance. Despite Clark being chronically late, you still watch the lobby door nervously as you wait for the elevator doors to shut. The last thing you need is to be trapped in a metal box with that man. You breathe a sigh of relief as the doors close without incident. So far so good.

Unfortunately, everything derails the second you step out into the Daily Planet bullpen. Despite being infamous for never being on time, Clark Kent stands by his desk nervously, muttering to himself whilst straightening his tie and brushing his hands over the material of his suit jacket. His head snaps up as you walk to your desk. You both freeze. The two of you look like deer in headlights, only on opposite sides of the road.

He clears his throat. “Y/N, I-”

“Hey, Y/N!” Grateful for any escape route, you whip around to see Lois racing towards you. “I’m transcribing the Superman interview, d’you wanna listen?” Truthfully, Lois could be offering you the chance to scrub the sidewalk and you’d take it.

Quickly leaving your bag and coat at your desk, making a great effort to not spare Clark any attention, you hightail it after Lois as she motions for you to follow.

“Did you make the man cry?”

Lois snorts. “That was one time, and no he didn’t cry. To be honest after you left he didn’t seem too keen on sticking around. Kinda antsy.”

“Really? Clark always seems to get a decent amount of information from him.” You follow her into an empty conference room, the recording already loaded on her laptop.

“That’s what surprised me. Maybe Clark has a technique of getting him to talk that we don’t know about, might be worth asking.” You hum in agreement despite having absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. “But if you ask me…I think it's because Superman wanted you to do the interview, not me.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois, you know that’s absurd. He wouldn’t know enough about our writing styles-”

This time it’s Lois that rolls her eyes. “I don’t think it had anything to do with writing styles.” At your oblivious expression she shakes her head at you, a sly grin on her face. “You should’ve seen the way he was looking at you. I’m telling you, that man looked like he was one second from dropping to his knees.” You splutter. Before you can respond, you’re stopped by a tentative knock at the door.

“Come in.” Clark Kent peers around the door, a flush across his cheeks. After spotting you, he opens the door fully. His eyes lock onto yours, the man who once would immediately look away when you met each other's eyes long gone. Whoever this is seems intent on not letting you out of his sight.

“I was wondering if I could speak with you? Alone?” You pause. It’s sickening, really, the way your immediate reaction is to nod and follow him blindly. You have to remind yourself that he had the chance to speak with you, alone, on Saturday night. But even with him right in front of you, it’s still difficult to put his face to all that hurt.

“Can it wait? We’re kinda in the middle of something.”

“Oh no it’s fine, she’s all yours, Clark.”

“Lois-” Too late, she's already shutting her laptop and sliding off her chair.

“There were no tears, promise. Not even a little bit of squirming. You’re not missing out on anything here.”

“But, Lois-” She slips past Clark, still in the doorframe, and disappears down the corridor. You sit in shocked betrayal.

Clark pushes his glasses up his nose - a nervous tick or a necessity you’re not too sure. He closes the door. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic ticking from the clock hanging on the wall. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the hem of your skirt.

“I’m- I’m so sorry.” To his credit, he sounds genuinely remorseful. You don’t think you have it in you to look at him. You don’t know what a contrite Clark Kent looks like, but you have a gut feeling that it would be potentially life-ruining. In the interest of self-preservation, you don’t look up. Clark, filled with an increased sense of desperation, makes his way towards you. He hesitantly pulls out the chair next to you and weighs up his options when you stiffen. After a brief second he decides sitting is still better than towering over you. As the chair squeaks under his weight, you find your voice.

“Did you forget?”

“No, of course not. I- I was looking forward to it the whole week.” He sounds wounded at the accusation, which only makes you more frustrated.

“You didn’t even text, I called you, and you couldn’t even-” You shake your head and look directly at the fluorescent ceiling light, hoping the searing burn will distract from the tears welling along your waterline.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, I swear. I was on my way to the restaurant and… something came up.”

You laugh, it’s pitiful and humourless. Out of all the excuses in the book, that’s the best he can do?

“Something came up?” You say sardonically. When you finally look at him, you can’t tell if he flinches at your teary eyes or the poorly concealed ire in your voice. You’ve never spoken to him with anything other than kindness or good humour before—you’ve never had a reason to. This is unfamiliar ground for both of you.

“Y-yes, I… I’m so sorry.” He looks at you with a heart-stopping hurt. Behind his glasses, you think he’s about to cry.

“You’re going to have to do a bit better than that, Clark. What could possibly be so urgent, that you had to abandon our dinner plans without even sending a text? I sat there, alone, for almost 40 minutes, like an- an idiot! And you couldn’t even spare ten seconds to let me know you weren’t going to make it?

His face twists, an internal debate going on in his head that you’re not privy to. He looks at you, really looks at you. You can see the moment he comes to a decision, his shoulders slump impossibly further and his eyes squeeze shut before he looks at you, resigned. You brace yourself for the impending let-down.

“I can’t…” He sighs, shaking his head. “I can’t tell you. I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

You search his face for any sign that he’ll change his mind, but his face remains the same—pained, but resolute. You push up to stand, all thoughts but one blurring—you need to leave this room. A shaky hand reaches to wipe away a tear rolling down your face. You take one unsteady step, then another until you reach the door.

“For future reference, Clark, there are much kinder ways to let someone know you’re not interested, instead of leaving them to figure it out for themselves.”

Clark feels physically sick as you shut the door behind you, leaving him sat in the aftermath of your words. His instinct to immediately refute the possibility that he doesn’t like you, dies on his tongue—because how could you not think that? As you pointed out, he invited you to dinner and didn't show, he didn’t even give you the courtesy of letting you know he was going to be late. If he was in your shoes, he would come to the exact same conclusion. The months of building up to asking you out unfortunately means nothing if he can’t even show up to the date. The way you looked at him, as if you expected more, as if you never thought he would be the one to cause such pain, has burned into the back of his retinas—he sees it even as he drops his head into his hands, scrunching his eyes shut. He wishes he could replace it with the image of you dressed up on that night. You looked gorgeous, pretty in your shiny jewellery and a dress he hadn't been lucky enough to see you wear before.

Clark was a firm believer that a relationship can never be built on lies—a lesson Pa had instilled in him during his teenage years. He knows if he wants something meaningful with you (and he does, he really does) the superman conversation is one that will have to be had sooner rather than later—that is, if by some miracle he hasn’t ruined any chance he had to get to know you in that way. But he doesn’t think it’s fair to use it as an excuse—this isn’t how he wanted to tell you. Your feelings are understandably hurt and whilst there was a glaring reason as to why he didn’t show, he still got too caught up in the motions to send you a quick text. He’s admittedly not above blame, so he won’t use superman to get him out of a corner he’s backed himself into.

The soft sound of your sniffles hit his ears—he rips his glasses off to scrub a hand over his eyes. He’s made you cry. Super-hearing is a tool he can dial down when needed, but Clark doesn’t try. He sits there and tortures himself with the muffled whimpers from the upset he caused. He figures it’s the least he deserves.

After taking some time in the bathroom to compose yourself, you return to your desk. You keep your gaze steadfast on the screen of your desktop for the rest of the day. No matter how often you feel Clark’s eyes flicker towards you, you don’t let your eyes stray from your desk.

For the rest of the week you feel like you’re constantly expecting Clark to corner you again. You don’t linger in corridors, you don’t spend more time next to the printer than you absolutely have to. Every morning he shuffles in, bouncing his shin off Jimmy’s desk chair, perilously balancing a tray of coffees, stacks of papers, and his briefcase. He always sets your coffee down with the utmost care, as if he’s terrified he’ll spill it onto your neatly stacked papers (an entirely plausible scenario, in his defence). You’re determined to be professional, so you say a polite "thank you". He looks as if he wants to say something but decides against it as you turn back to your work. Behind your back, Jimmy shakes his head, Clark waves him off.

Saturday night—an entire week since the Incident. You’re curled up on your couch finishing off a nice, yet deceitful, one-pot meal (you can count at least three from where you’re sat). A movie you’ve seen before plays idly on the TV, but you catch your focus straying back to the events of last week every five minutes. Saturday nights are something you look forward to the entire work week and it’s starting to grate that you can’t settle. Sighing loudly, you drag your hands over your face. Without thinking, you flick the TV off, stand up and grab your bag, pulling on your coat and shoes before leaving your apartment.

Distant rumbling a few blocks down and a quick look at your phone notifications is all you need to confirm that superman’s saving the city once again. Only this time you’re walking away from the fight. When you arrive at the office it's peaceful—no hubbub, no news livestream, no telephones ringing—so different from the day-to-day that it feels almost surreal. The novelty of being there at night is a guilty pleasure. You turn on a few desk lamps in order to get enough light without having to turn on the dreaded fluorescents, and make yourself comfortable at your desk.

For a span of almost an hour, you manage to get a productive start on your newest piece—a deep dive into the health consequences of inadequate sanitation caused by the mayor's neglect of the rundown neighbourhoods of Metropolis. Eventually, your fingertips slow over the keyboard as your bout of inspiration wanes. You stare at the blinking text cursor as you try to rack your brain for any ideas on things to add. That’s one of the downfalls of trying to work at night, there’s no one around to bounce ideas off of. After a failed attempt at reinvigorating your focus with some online games, you figure a walk around the office couldn’t hurt.

Once you’ve trailed aimlessly for twenty minutes or so, and nosed around the supply closet to see if there’s anything worth nabbing for your desk (there wasn't), you idle back to the bullpen.

You freeze.

Superman is standing at Clark’s desk.

“What the fuck?” You whisper under your breath.

He whips around, startled. A piece of paper flutters to the floor by his red boot. You blink at each other from across the bullpen before he straightens up to his full height, broad shoulders squaring.

“Hello.”

“...Hi?” You glance between him and Clark’s desk, papers in a state of disarray from where he’d been rifling through them. “What are you doing?” It comes out more as a squeak than a question, so much for being a journalist.

“Oh,” He looks behind him to the desk as if he’ll find a suitable answer there. “I was looking for something.”

You nod hesitantly. “Is Superman breaking and entering these days?” A weak attempt at a joke that you instantly regret. Because, if for some reason he has gone rogue, in what world are you able to take on superman? You give him a once over in the suit—you’re not sure any human would be able to take on superman. Mortifyingly, he catches you looking. You wish the ground would swallow you up as he raises an eyebrow slightly, a small smirk on his face. He chuckles lightly at your nervous questioning.

“I wouldn’t call this breaking and entering, I-.” He pauses, his eyes lingering on you as he thinks through his options. “The journalist, Clark Kent, mentioned something about a link between LexCorp and a new development in the suicide slum—he thought it may have been used to stash weapons, or house something illicit.” His eyebrows pull together in concentration. “Something caught my eye earlier, when I was fighting the kaiju, and I wanted to see if he’d found out anything about it.”

You didn’t know Clark was investigating something in the underbelly of metropolis, nevermind a dodgy dealing in the suicide slum. Is that where he disappears off to? You can’t picture Clark in those streets, a bumbling dork (said with nothing but love), wonky glasses, suit and tie—it’s a wonder he hasn’t been mugged. Eager to have something to do and quietly curious to see what Clark has been getting himself into, you nod at the remaining stack of files.

“I can help you look, if you’d like?” He looks appreciative of your offer, but hesitates to accept.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your..” He trails off as he looks towards your desk where you monitor sits, a more genuine look of humour appears on his face. You follow his gaze and curse loudly in your head—FreeSudoku is displayed at a dazzling brightness on the screen, on a maximised tab nonetheless. The serious journalist image you were aiming for dissipates into thin air in seconds—falling victim to a partially filled 9x9 grid. He’s kind enough to bite back his toothy smile when he looks back at you, but it appears that dimples are a little harder to conceal.

“It’s okay, I've got plenty of time before the deadline.” You wander towards Clark’s desk, quickly pressing the standby button on your monitor as you pass. “I don’t normally come in at night. I just- I, uh… needed the distraction.” He pauses at this, regarding you with a look you don’t have time to analyse before he turns to grab half of the stacked files. Your fingertips graze his hand as you take the manila folders from him. You’re about to go back to your desk but Superman has other ideas, clearing space on the bench adjacent to Clark’s and pulling out the nearest desk chair, also Clark’s, for you to sit in.

There’s a comfortable silence between you, filled only by the shushing of the pages as you scour through the headlines, pull quotes and everything in between. It’s heart-warmingly similar to the nights you, Lois and Clark would stay late when a deadline was fast approaching—surviving off of nothing but takeout, the dregs from the coffee pot, and hope that a hive-mind approach would be the key to finally piecing together conflicting tip-offs and witness statements.

You’re not confident in what you’re supposed to be looking for, but you’re determined to impress. What you lack in direction, you make up for in tenacity. You feel the familiar rush when you notice a small insignia, almost indistinguishable, in the corner of a photograph in the article you’re holding. Something to disregard, except you’d seen the exact same insignia earlier. Flicking through the pile of read articles you finally find the one you’re looking for. You compare the two badges—identical. There’s an inkling in the back of your mind, one which years of investigative journalism has taught you to trust, that makes you grab the remaining stack of unread articles and tear through them. You grin as you find one after the other—articles, all about unexplained and unsolvable crimes in the suicide slum. Granted, not an uncommon occurrence, but the presence of two L’s encased in a square in at least one image per article is unusual. Spray painted on a wall, tattooed on someone’s arm, a sticker plastered on a streetlight—easy to miss, but a clear message for those who know to look for it.

Superman’s thigh bumps your chair, subsequently bringing your attention back to him.

“You got something?” You nod eagerly and spread the articles in question out for his convenience.

“Here, see this logo? It appears in almost every article to do with crimes in the suicide slum. Only it’s never mentioned because it’s never noticed.”

Superman leans over you, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of your chair. Your eyes dart from his forearms to his clenched jawline then swiftly back to the articles in an attempt to calm yourself. The hand leaves the back of your chair to grab the nearest page, he stands tall as he brings it closer to his face to get a better look.

“Yes! This is the insignia that was branded on the kaiju's back.” He shows it to you enthusiastically, as if you hadn't just been searching for it.

“So whatever’s going on down there is linked to wherever the…kaiju came from?” He’s started to pace now, deep in thought but nods along with your pointing-out-the-obvious anyway. You watch him as he turns things over in his head. He eventually comes to a stop. You’re feeling far too inquisitive to sit quiet for much longer.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing tonight. I’ll have to scout it out first, try and get more information on what the badge means.” You nod along, a glint of a name plate catches your eye.

“You should tell Clark.” He blinks. “You’ll probably be due an interview soon—you should definitely tell him about the insignia in the articles, and now its connection to the kaiju.”

He swallows and nods. “I will, but I imagine you’ll see him first.”

“And exactly how do I explain that I know it was branded on an alien?”

“You interviewed Superman?”

“You think he’ll take that well? With you two being exclusive and all?” You tease, revelling in the reluctantly amused eye roll you get in return. He ducks his head, and for the first time you notice a cut near his hairline.

“Are you hurt? He raises his head, looking puzzled. The earlier events of the evening must come flooding back as he raises a hand to poke at the abrasion.

“Oh, no. Really it’s nothing.” He tries to disregard your concern but to no avail, you’re already on your feet.

“It’s alright I have…” You rifle through the bottom drawer of your desk before you pull out a small first aid kit—nothing too fancy, but enough to patch up a scrape here and there. “This. If you’ve been near that alien-thing you never know what germs might have gotten into it. The last thing Superman needs is an infected wound.” You open the box open where you were previously, and pull out an alcohol wipe. Superman is standing so close to you that your elbow brushes against his firm torso as you tear the packet open.

“You’re going to have to sit if I have any chance of reaching that.”

In an uncharacteristic show of false confidence, you stare up at him expectantly as he looks down at you. You wait for an argument, but he relents suspiciously easily, easing himself into Clark’s desk chair. You wonder if there’s more to his injuries than he’s letting on.

“You sure it’s just this?”

He nods affirmatively. You notice, with a burn in the pit of your stomach, that he shifts to spread his legs further apart, a silent invitation for you to stand between them. He watches you closely as you take a step forward, your heart jumping as his muscled thigh brushes yours. You take his face into your hands, tenderly, and begin carefully cleansing the wound. After a second, he leans into it, eyes dropping closed followed by a long, drawn sigh easing from him along with the remaining tension in his shoulders. Your previous notions about superman blur at the edges as he softens under your tentative ministrations. Does he have a family? Does he have anyone looking out for him? Someone to hug? Under careful consideration, it dawns that he is more likely to be on the receiving end of touches meant to harm than those with the sole purpose of comfort. You resist the startling urge to kiss his cheeks—coddling the universe's strongest superhero is probably a futile venture. Or at least you thought it was, only he suddenly appears alarmingly human. This monolith of a man squeezed into a too-small desk chair, who can shoot lasers from his eyes, one-two punch a foe back to whatever planet they strayed from, practically melts under your gentle touches.

If he notices you take a bit longer than necessary to disinfect a surface wound, he doesn’t mention it— he seems more than content to keep your hand on his cheek, fingers grazing his jawline. When you stop, unable to pretend there's more to clean, his eyes slowly open to meet yours. Again, almost a mirror image of the way he looked at you when you first met, with so much familiarity and intimacy that you struggle to put it down to coincidence. It’s far more than a fleeting appreciation for how you look, you’ve seen men who stumble after Cat—the double takes, the agape jaws, a poorly concealed heat behind their eyes—but this is different, this is more. This man must know you.

Letting your lingering hand drop from his face, you tuck the wipe back into its packet. You immediately miss the warm bracket of his thighs pressed against yours as you step back to discard the wipe in the small pedal bin under your desk. His warm gaze tracks each movement, drinking you in. The persistent questions bouncing around in your mind—where could he possibly know you from?—become uncomfortably loud. As if he can hear your thoughts—shit, can he mindread too?—he shifts in his chair, only to wince as something in his side tinges.

“I’ll get you a glass of water.” You’re halfway across the bullpen before he can begin to protest.

The breakroom fridge buzzes in the corner, a small noise you can never hear during the day. You let the water trickle down your hand as you wait for it to run cold. Naturally, your hand drifts towards Clark’s mug before you even realise what you’re doing. You course correct, take your mug from where it’s tucked beside Clark’s—a gag gift from Lois, Jimmy and Clark when you got your first front page. An exposé that had earned itself the title of cover story, despite Clark’s newest superman exclusive running that day—MetroPharma had been selling a glorified placebo to healthcare providers across the city and beyond, claiming it would provide an array of medicinal benefits. You’d toiled for months in order to make sure you landed the hit, working yourself to the bone to ensure no stone was left unturned, and that no rectification was made without supporting, reputable sources. You’d been nominated for a Pulitzer. A mug emblazoned with Science Investi-gator, and a ceramic alligator adorned with glasses and a lab coat modelled as the handle, was sat waiting on your desk the morning the story broke. The entire bullpen had wished you congratulations—even Perry, who was swamped with phone calls from MetroPharma’s legal team, had given you a proud nod when you peeked your head into his office. Clark had hugged you so enthusiastically your feet had left the ground. The smile didn’t leave your face the entire day. The joys of having a work crush.

You linger on that memory as you fill your mug under the tap.

When you make your way back to the bullpen, Superman is back on his feet, hunched over Clark’s desk as he pores over the papers spread across the hardwood. Your stomach drops to your feet—you’re grateful that you have two hands on your cup or that would’ve joined your stomach—because just for a split second it’s not Superman standing there, it’s Clark.

You’ve never noticed how the broadness of Superman's shoulders is the exact same as Clark’s. Or how, tussled from his previous fight, Superman's hair is identical to how Clark’s looks when he rushes in late. Could it be?

Superman(?) turns towards you, somehow made aware of your presence. He smiles at you, slightly bemused. “Are you okay over there?”

You nod, then have to manually put one foot in front of another to walk towards him. With each step, it feels like another piece of a puzzle slides into place. Clark, who is the only journalist to interview Superman. Clark, who is never around when all hell breaks loose. Clark, who swears he doesn’t live in the gym but is built like a greek god. Clark, who is never seen without his glasses. Clark, who stood you up at the exact time when superman was occupied with an alien three blocks down.

Oh god.

You’re close to him now, your heart beat loud in your ears. Your eyes dart around his face, scrutinising, desperate to find any similarities. It’s the same rush you get when you’re chasing a lead—when you know a breakthrough is in reach but you just need a final push to get there.

Superman double takes as he catches the expression on your face and pales. From your look alone, he knows you know. And a man who stands tall, a man who rarely falters, begins to fidget nervously.

That’s what does it.

The final piece clicks.

Clark Kent is standing in front of you.

“Clark?” It’s barely even a whisper. You’re petrified to be wrong, scared to be right. He reacts as if you’ve screamed it, flinching back.

“W- what do you…” He trails off as he sees the look on your face, a mix of confusion, desperation and shock. Clark is tired of having to lie to you. “I’m sorry.” He hesitantly steps towards you, like he’s unsure if he’s allowed but can’t help himself. You feel that pull too, it's what keeps you rooted in place.

“When you didn’t show, at the restaurant-” He nods urgently.

“I wanted to be there. I can’t tell you how badly I wanted to be there. I bought you flowers, I- I’m so sorry, honey.”

The pet name and the tenderness he delivers it with breaks your shock. You feel tears creeping along your waterline.

“You were right, I should’ve texted you. I was too caught up in trying to wrap it up as quickly as I could that I- gosh, please don’t cry.”

You’re still staring at him, he reaches out and, when you show no signs of pulling away, wipes your tears away with a level of care that causes a fresh wave of tears to join them.

“I thought you didn’t like me.” Clark can’t handle the gut wrenching vulnerability in your tone, or the slight wobble of your voice. He swiftly takes your mug from between your trembling hands and places it on the desk—his desk—then wraps his arms around you and tugs you towards him. You sniffle and hug him back as a large hand comes to cup the back of your head, tucking your face into his neck as he stoops down to press his nose against your hair. His other hand tightens around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“It would never be because of that. I really like you, and I’m sorry that I made you doubt that.” You slowly lean back to wipe the wetness off your cheeks, a warm sticky feeling settles in your chest when Clark doesn’t pull away from you, keeping you enveloped between his solid arms and even sturdier torso. You meet his eyes and smile softly. He visibly melts, affection and adoration almost tangible as his eyelashes touch. Clark slowly drops his forehead to rest against yours.

“You looked beautiful in your dress.” His gaze traverses your face with enough dedication you swear he’s trying to memorise every feature. He gently strokes his thumb from your cheek to your hairline, tracing the path with his eyes. “You always look beautiful.”

“I can’t believe you’re superman.”

“How did you figure it out?”

“Superman suddenly looked like Clark…and the whole interview exclusivity thing doesn’t help.”

He frowns lightly, lips forming an endearing pout. “I offered you an interview, I gave Lois an interview.”

You smile up at him. “Lois said Superman was a bit reluctant to share any information though, not quite the same in-depth report you get.”

He shrugs, “Well, we’ll be sharing a byline for this piece. If you’d like? Technically you got the in-depth report from Superman for this one.”

“It’s your article, Clark. You did all the research.”

“And you made the connection.”

You both stare at each other, honeyed with affection. Clark squeezes you gently.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me, please?”

You tilt your head, a semi-teasing grin on your face. “That depends, are you going to turn up?”

“There’s nothing in this universe that could stop me, I promise you.”

Emboldened by his unguarded eagerness, you dare to relish in the adoration of a handsome man. “I’ll wear that dress again.” An elated grin lights up his entire face, accompanied by dimples that beg to be traced with your fingertips—you grant yourself the pleasure, and Clark’s happiness turns enamoured.

“I can’t wait.”

You can’t help the happy sigh that slips from your mouth. Clark’s eyes flicker to your lips, then quickly back to your eyes when he catches himself—you have the small joy of watching a pink flush spread across the apples of his cheeks.

“Clark,” you say softly. “Kiss me?”

He looks stunned for a second before his brain catches up. A large hand raises back up to your cheek, thumb softly brushing across the skin it touches. Clark leans in slowly, giving you the chance to back out, like he can’t believe he’s been given permission. You close your eyes and he closes the gap. The kiss starts off slow, with a tentative press of his lips to yours before you slip a hand around the back of his neck, fingers weaving into the soft curls that lie there. With your hand in his hair, Clark unravels. His other hand snaking around you to rest on your back, pulling you closer to him as he deepens the kiss. Your teeth clack and you remember you require air to breathe. Reluctantly, Clark pulls back just enough so he can see your face.

“I still have your flowers at my apartment, if you’d like to come home with me?” You raise your eyebrows in shock that he kept the flowers—Clark misinterprets this and flusters. “I swear that wasn’t a line I-“ His soon-to-be rambles are cut off by your laughter.

“I know, Clark. I was just…you kept the flowers?”

“They’re on my coffee table, I hoped I’d be able to give them to you before they wilted, I got your favourites.” You smile at the sentiment, reaching up to squeeze his hand that still cups your face.

“I’d love that. Let me grab my bag.”

As you hurry to pack your bag you share giddy glances with Clark as he hastily tries to tidy his desk, lest your coworkers think it’s been ransacked when they arrive on Monday morning (no doubt before Clark).

You pause, an abrupt realisation hits you. “Wait, are we flying there?”

Clark beams at you.

#clark kent fic rec #clark kent fic #clark kent x reader

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