twiceasbright

[twiceasbright]

⋆｡°✩ clark kent text messages ✩° ｡ ⋆

A/N: as promised, the bf text messages! these are very simple and silly but i think they're cute lol. pls let me know if you'd like more, or if you have any requests in general! my inbox is open :) love you all!!

[twiceasbright]

touch tank

you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.

wk: 14.8k (worth it i pinky swear)

the best and the worst part of teaching is that you never stop having summer break— two and a half months of pure boredom and relaxation that always go the same. you find a job, you visit family, you take random classes at the community center just to get yourself out of the house. you really did not expect this year to be any different, any better. you expected the same boredom, the same routine, the same desperation to find someone to occupy your time. 

however, you didn’t count on clark kent to stumble into your life and take your world by storm. 

you met in late may, the first time you came around the daily planet selling pictures for the paper. you spent a lot of your free time behind a camera, capturing moments you didn’t want to lose— and you really needed some extra cash. metropolis might pay better than most cities, but at the end of the day, a teacher’s salary is a teacher’s salary. 

you were hopelessly turned around, clutching a small, manilla file that was nearly overflowing with the photographs you felt were relevant enough to submit with one hand and biting your freshly manicured thumbnail with the other, staring up at the very useless building directory, reading the names and numbers with little understanding. the receptionist had told you to go to perry white’s office for your meeting— but she hadn’t been so kind to tell you exactly where you could find it. 

the signs were no help. you are embarrassingly lost, and—

“need any help?”

you turn around, dropping your hands to your sides. you’re met kindly with the direct view of a man’s chest, forcing you to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

and there he was. six foot four, built like a linebacker and stuffed into a suit, wearing glasses that looked a bit too small and a smile that seemed a bit too warm. the man you would come to know as clark kent— the center of your universe.

and those eyes. bluer than the ocean, captivating you so wholly you forgot to breathe. one’s that looked to you with such unequivocal kindness, coupled with a smile that was breathtakingly gentle— you forgot how to breathe. 

he’s staring down at you as if he’s not the only one who needs to catch his breath. as though he finds something about you to be just as overwhelming as you find him. 

he pauses, clearing his throat. “i just mean— ah, sorry, you look lost. i-i can help you. i work here. uh, reporter— um, i mean—“ he takes a deep breath, extending a hand. “clark kent.” 

god, he’s adorable. 

you smile up at him, taking his hand in yours and giving it a gentle shake. you note how large and uncalloused his hand is, and try to ignore the shocks of electricity you feel with that first, all-consuming touch. you tell him your name, thankful that you don’t manage to stumble over your words, and he jots it down in the back of his head like it’s sacred. “i’m looking for mr. white’s office? i have some pictures for the paper.” you explain, holding up your file. 

“oh, yeah, that’s my boss. i’ll walk you there.” he says, looking down at you with a soft grin that renders you so useless you nearly forget why you’re here. carefully, he motions for you to follow him, and you oblige, walking slowly down the arched hallways of the daily planet at his side. your heart begins to pound out of your chest.

there’s a beat of silence as you walk, before he breaks it with, “can i see them?”

he points to the folder in your hands, the one that you’re clutching like a lifeline. you hand it over without a second thought— how are you supposed to say no to the ridiculously cute, dorky guy guiding you through the building? you’re just not. 

he cards through them carefully, commenting on the quality, the angles, the color grading, basically just complimenting every picture while you try not to swoon. he pulls one of the prints out of the file, a rare picture of superman you managed to get two weeks ago. you consider it the strongest picture in your portfolio. most of the photos of superman are blurs of red and blue, or shaky selfies he’s taken with fans. this one is still, certain— hopeful. you took it candidly. he was crouched with a kid, one of your students, helping him fix his broken project with gentle hands. 

you think about that moment every now and then. it changed you from a casual viewer of superman’s heroics to someone who supported him completely. you watched him stop, and with hands capable of much greater things, sooth the worries of a child when he could have been doing anything else. it instilled a kind of faith in humanity you hadn’t felt in a long time. 

“i like this one.” he mumbles, sliding it out of the folder, staring at it like it means as much to him as it does to you. superman fan, noted. 

he pauses, staring at it a second longer than he did your other pictures, memorizing every detail before sliding it back inside the folder. “i don’t see how perry wouldn’t buy these— you’re an amazing photographer.” he says with a smile, handing you back the file. 

you do your best not to turn completely red at the compliment, looking up to meet his gaze. “i’m a teacher, actually.” you explain, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “just looking for a side hustle. that picture of superman? he’s helping one of my kids.” 

“really—? wow that’s really, uh, very cool.” he says, wearing a smile that you try your best not to read into. you both stop in front of an office with the name Perry White stamped across the door in shiny silver lettering. as anxious as you are to start the meeting, your heart sinks when you realize your time with clark is over. “well… good luck.” he says, all shy and dorky in a way that makes your knees weak. “i have a feeling i’m gonna see you around.”

you can’t help but grin, thanking him for walking you— and for the vote of confidence. you really don’t want to say goodbye, not when one look from him already disarms you.

he opens the door for you, and he’s lucky enough that you don’t realize how long he lingers by the office, memorizing every detail he can catalogue— the way you stand so confidently, yet with a demeanor that is so kind and genuine it makes him reevaluate everything he’s been looking for, the way the draft from the vent in perry’s office blows through your hair and makes you look like a movie star, the way you speak like it’s your favorite thing to do. 

you leave the meeting with a steady freelance gig, and a yellow post-it note you hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked into an interior pocket inside your file. 

i really hope you call me (xxx-xxx-xxx) 

-clark :)

you’re in your apartment when you find the note, and you can’t help but giggle like a schoolgirl, heat rising to your ears and dusting your face a rosy shade of pink. you waste no time dialing that number.

——

you meet superman before you see you clark again. actually, you’re on your way home to get ready for your first date with clark, trying to not let the nerves and anticipation shake you. 

you’re excited. like— bouncing off of the walls, can’t stop thinking about him kind of excited. you text constantly, and he calls you like talking to you is the highlight of his day, not some chore he has to do to maintain a relationship. you’ve been talking for about a week, and all the time with him has done is confirm your many blooming suspicions about him: he’s sweet, gentle, incredibly well-spoken and not afraid to be open about his interest in you in this shy, dorky kind of way that makes you kind of want to melt. 

you’re practically skipping down the street when it happens. it’s barely sunset, but you suppose crime doesn’t really depend on time of day anymore, not in the era of aliens and meta-humans. a hand darts out of the alleyway, grabs your arm, and pulls you into the shadows. before you can think to scream, to ask for help, anything— there’s a knife at your throat and you realize that your silence is a lot more valuable than your survival instinct.

“wallet, now.” you can barely see him— a combination of the dark alleyway and blurry vision. you make out dark clothes, dark eyes, and an expression that tells you to comply with whatever he says. 

your heart is beating so loudly you can feel it in your fingers. you’re shaking like a leaf— fumbling with your wallet, trying to hand it to the mugger. 

it drops from your hands. you look up at the man, eyes wide with the overwhelming fear for your life. you fucked up. it’s over. you can practically envision your funeral: sad, sparse, the death of someone who’s never really lived. you slam your eyes shut.

but then there’s a gust of wind, and the knife disappears from your neck.

it takes a moment for you to breathe, to process, to blink open yours and face a blue chest with a red and yellow emblem.

“are you okay, ma’am?” 

your gaze moves up to meet his. you’re not all there yet. there’s still adrenaline moving like shocks of lightning down your veins and the phantom breath of death sticking up the hairs on your neck. all you can really focus on is his eyes. impossibly blue like the deep sea, captivating you so wholly you forget yourself for a beat too long.

“ma’am?” he repeats, and his voice less authoritative. instead a gentle, concerned call to your senses, breaking out of your haze. 

you down, taking a deep breath. “yes, uh…” your hand darts to your neck, feeling for any imprint the knife could’ve left. you’re grateful to find nothing but untainted skin, like it had never happened at all. “i’m fine.” 

he nods, but there’s something in his expression that tells you he isn’t totally convinced. he hands you your wallet, a small, green leather clutch you’ve carried around since you were eighteen. somehow it had become the last thing on your mind.

“you’re safe, i promise.” he says, and his voice is so tender it makes you nearly forget that it’s superman standing in front of you, making sure that you’re okay. “the danger’s gone.”

you look up at him, eyes wide, brimming with tears you don’t know if you can hold back for much longer. he leans in a little closer, just enough for you to notice, his eyes checking over you carefully. maybe you’re just thrown off, because of the whole… mugging situation. but he almost looks a little scared, maybe a little relieved, like you mean a bit more to him than a civilian he saved.

you shake the thought. you’ve heard he’s like that anyways, kind, caring, a boy scout through and through. the look you’re seeing now can’t be anything more than that. 

he clears his throat, leaning back, taking on a more official, heroic posture. “can i take you home, ma’am?” and just like that, the moment’s over.

you nod, letting him guide you out of the alleyway with a touch that is impossibly gentle for someone you’ve seen pummel aliens into the ground with a single punch. a comfortable silence hangs between you, and you’re grateful the streets are empty enough for no one to pay the pair of you any mind. 

you must look ridiculous together. the thought makes you smile, and your adrenaline-induced panic is officially over.

 “thank you.” you say, breaking the silence. you smile up at him, craning your head to meet his gaze. he honestly looks a bit surprised that you’re thanking him. “for… y’know, saving me.”

“of course. i’m glad i made it in time.” he says with a quiet nod, his eyes meeting yours. his smile is so genuine, so human, you wonder how anyone could really hate him. 

you miss the lovestruck look in his eyes. 

you laugh. “me too.” you say, your hands swinging freely at your sides. “i know you don’t normally handle, uh, muggings, so… i feel pretty lucky.” 

his eyes dart away, looking around at the block— anywhere but you, really, but he doesn’t stop smiling. “well, i try to keep an eye on the street. y’know, on the rare days when aliens and robots don’t tear apart the city.” 

you grin, his eyes meeting yours again. “yeah, i know.” you say, looking up at him with wide, starry eyes that make him forget he’s superman and not anything besides the man lucky enough to be by your side.

your eyes are so focused on the god beside you that you miss a step, losing your balance because the tip of your heel got caught in a sidewalk crack. you fall into him— no, you practically dive into him, because of course you do. 

“woah there.” he says. his hands, which are just warm and huge and tender, carefully grab your sides and he steadies you, lifting you back onto your feet. 

you pause, flush with embarrassment. “i’m so sorry,” you cringe, looking up at him. “my heel got stuck because i had to humiliate myself and ruin the moment.” 

he laughs, sliding his hands away and looking down at you with a soft smile. “no harm done. just glad i caught you, miss.”

you pause, returning his smile with a grin that you just can’t seem to push down. 

“i saw you once, with one my students. he broke his history project, a popsicle stick model of the golden gate bridge?”

“i remember— jackson, right?” he asks, and there’s something so touching about him knowing the name of the random child he helped— it makes you want to melt. “smart kid, i’ve never met someone so knowledgeable about geography.” he says, nodding towards you. 

“right? he’s a little genius. i’m pushing him into architecture. i teach third grade, which is, i think, the best, ‘cause you get to see their passions develop in real time.” you say. you’re not sure why talking with him feels so easy, so natural. maybe it’s the whole superhero thing, or his impeccable bedside manner— but whatever the reason is, you can’t remember the last time you smiled so much.

“that sounds very rewarding.” he says, a gust of wind blowing his cape through the air. “i wanted to be a teacher, once.”

“got busy?” you ask, gesturing to the suit. 

he laughs in the sort of way where his shoulders shake and his voice booms throughout the street, even though you didn’t say anything particularly hilarious. 

“you could say that. how’s jackson doing now?”

“he’s on his way to becoming a very talented fourth grader.” you hesitate, before you continue. “i got a picture of you two, when you helped him.” you pause, stopping in front of your apartment building. “not in like a creepy stalker way— i’m a photographer too. kind of. hence the photo.” 

he pauses, peering down at you curiously. “may i see it?” he asks. 

you stop, your eyes locked with his. you can’t kick that feeling— how familiar he is. you can’t quite place it, so you push it back down deep for another day. “yeah.” you say, softly, pressing on the door. “i’ll be right back.”

it only takes you about a minute to retrieve the photo, digging through that same manilla file for your spare copy, the same file that clark stuck his number in. god— you were supposed to start getting ready, like, fifteen minutes ago. 

you pray clark is late. 

there’s a shadow over your window before you start heading back downstairs. right. flying. superman can fly. not crazy at all. you stumble over towards your fire escape, grinning up at him while you slide up the window.

you stick your head out, leaning on your arms, halfway out the window. 

“here, uh, this just a print.” you say, handing him the picture. he takes it gently, his fingers brushing against yours. he stares at it for awhile, his eyes tracing over every detail. 

“could i… keep this?” he asks, looking up at you like you’re the most important thing in the world— in a way that knocks the air out of your lungs. 

you nod, because really, how could you say no when he’s staring at you like that? you didn’t have a choice.

“thank you.” he says, before clearing his throat, floating back out towards the alleyway. “i, uh, i should be going.” 

“you got big plans tonight?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. 

he laughs, a soft chuckle that rings like wedding bells in your ears. “something like that.” he pauses again, looking back down at the picture and then up to you. “…see you around… miss.” 

there’s a burst of wind and just like that, he’s gone. 

and maybe, just maybe, you have a tiny crush on superman. 

——

your date with clark was an awkward, disastrous, mess— in all the best ways. the flowers he brought you had somehow gotten smushed, even though he insisted they came from the little shop on the corner right by your apartment— but they were your favorites. the restaurant lost your reservation, so you ended up having a picnic with food from the best food truck you’ve ever been to. the conversation was bumpy, at times a little difficult to navigate, but by the end, you had never laughed so hard in your life. 

you really had never met anybody like clark kent. 

he’s a gentle giant, a man who, despite being extremely built, you truly incapable of hurting a fly. he’s also the perfect gentleman, the definition of a man. for the entire evening, he refused to let you open a door, or pay, and when you started feeling a little chilly when he was walking you back to your apartment, late at night, he tucked his jacket over your shoulders before you even had the chance to complain. he’s also just… kind, plain and simple. he stopped to help an old woman cross the street, to ask a kid where his mom was and led him back to his parents, and, no shit, he literally rescued a cat from a tree. mind you, all in the span of four hours. he’s a good person, the kind of guy you read about in fairytales and grow up thinking doesn’t exist.

but here he is. 

“i had a really good time tonight.” he says, lingering by your door. you nodded in absolute agreement, looking up at him with a giant, uncontrollable smile that he returns in full. 

“yeah, me too.” you respond. the distance between you closes quickly, you lean in just enough to feel clark’s breath ghost on your face. 

he flushes and looks down to his feet, like he’s working himself up for something— before his eyes dart back to yours. “i, uh… i really want to kiss you right now.” 

you can feel a red hot fire spread to your cheeks, and you pray that the dim light of your apartment prevents him from seeing it. your eyes meet his, staring through his glasses into a sea of endless blue. 

you’ve never actually wanted someone to kiss you more than you do right now. 

“yeah?” you ask, your voice teasing him ever-so-slightly while you move in closer, your fingertips brushing against his. 

“may i?” he asks, sliding his unbelievably large hands on your sides then down to your waist, leaning over you in a way that makes you feel incredibly warm. you have to physically tilt your head back to meet his eyes, and your mood nearly sours at the idea that at some point you’ll have to pull away. 

you nod, and slowly, delicately, he leans in— pulling your body gently against him, his lips pressing into yours. it isn’t an eruption of passion, or some overwhelmingly fervent kiss, no. it’s soft, slow, sensual, an agonizingly perfect connection that makes you knees go weak when you’re in his arms. 

it’s too short, that’s your only complaint. he pulls away breathless, smiling down at you with a pink tint dusting his cheeks, ushers you back into your apartment and demands that you have a wonderful night, insisting that he’ll call you in the morning. 

you go to bed that night an hour later, only certain of two things.

this was going to be the best summer ever

you like clark kent so much it makes your head hurt

you want to see if superman is as good a kisser as clark

——

“here.”

clark pushes a cup of coffee that is somehow still piping hot into your hands, smiling down at you. you’re not sure how he even knew you were coming to the planet today, much less when to meet you at the door, but you liked that about clark. he always knows a lot more than he lets on. you chalk it up to the investigative journalist in him. 

“you got me coffee?” you ask, feeling the warmth from the cup spread through your hand. apparently, no matter how hot it is outside, none of that leaks into the planet. it’s freezing. 

“yeah, i didn’t know what you liked, uh, so there’s cream and sugar— not too much, though, uh, well, i mean, hopefully there’s enough—“

you press a kiss against his cheek and that effectively cuts off his rambling and leaves him quietly flushed, his eyes focused only on you. “thanks, clark.” you say, taking a sip. it’s a bit too sweet, but so incredibly thoughtful you might just start taking your coffee this way. 

he smiles, going red from his neck to is ears— god, he’s so cute. “you’re seeing perry today?” he asks, walking with you down the hall. you nod. 

“apparently he likes my work so much i get a daily planet issued camera.” you say excitedly. clark chooses to leave out the part where he practically begged perry to lend you one, a privilege freelancers don’t usually receive. he has to do an extra mountain of paperwork every night for a month— but gosh was it worth it to see you so giddy.

“makes sense.” he muses. “perry rewards the incredibly talented.”

he says it in a silly way, but you can tell he’s completely serious. he’s so sweet it literally makes your teeth hurt. 

you’ve been on three other dates since the first, and you’ve bumped into each other at the daily planet a couple times before this— everything is going extremely well. he’s so caring, thoughtful, and the more you learn about him the more infatuated you get. you swear, when he puts his hands on you it makes you dizzy. 

it’s perfect. he is. there’s only one issue: his constant tardiness, and his tendency to cancel last minute, or just not show up at all. it bugs you, when you’ve gotten all dolled up just to have to fight back tears at midnight, forced to leave an angry voicemail or two after you’ve downed a glass of box chardonnay, stuck alone, in your living room. 

but he makes up for it with a thousand apologies and small gestures that make you wonder why you were ever mad. 

it’s frustrating— the doubt creeping in about whether or not he likes you, the anger of being left behind without so much as a call, the loneliness that swallows you like a black hole. but when you’re with clark, he makes sure that his feelings for you are never in doubt, swearing up and down that he just has supremely bad luck and it doesn’t have a thing to do with you. still, it makes you wonder: what makes clark kent so busy?

“my lunch break is at one,” he says, taking your folder like it makes all the sense in the world for him to carry it and not you, “if you want to hang around a bit after your meeting, we could grab something together?” 

you nod, looking up at him as you approach perry’s office. “that’s perfect. i was gonna stop at the bookstore down the street and grab something for my mom’s birthday. pick me up there?” 

“yes ma’am,” he says in a way that is all too familiar, and he hands you back your folder, tucking it underneath your arm, his hand ghosting at your side. “good luck.”

“don’t need it. i’ve got you.” you say, opening the door and heading in. you don’t see the way clark flushes, this time redder than a tomato, nor jimmy laughing at him from all the way from across the building.

——

you’re on your way to the bookstore when it happens— the sky opens up, a giant alien-whatever pops down and starts wreaking havoc on the skyline of metropolis. the event is far enough away to where you would normally just shrug and continue on your path towards the bookstore while the people wait for superman to show up. 

except that you’re a photographer now. professionally. and professional photographers run towards their killer shot, not away from it. besides, your meeting with perry didn’t go… the greatest. he said most of your shots were unusable— and he wanted more pictures of superman.

but it would be stupid to run into danger like that— clark would disapprove, so would probably anyone with common sense. the ground is literally shaking because that demon thing knocked a skyscraper over like legos— you really should walk away. 

so, obviously, you end up climbing a tree about a hundred yards away from the creature (and superman, who stepped in about a minute ago), trying to find your perfect shot. it’s stupid, really, the way that you’re about twenty feet off the ground, perched just right on the branch so that if you can get superman and the alien to stay still for half a second— you’ll have your picture. 

unfortunately, you hadn’t accounted for the monster to have giant fireballs spewing out of its fingertips, with one specially aimed at you. foolishly, you expected it to be the normal kind of cryptid. 

so, you shut your eyes and brace yourself, praying that you’ll be the sexy kind of burn victim and not a crisp, dead one— but the impact never comes. instead, a pair of arms wraps around you and you’re on a rooftop— ridiculously far away from the scene with no way down. 

“stay here,” superman says, flying back with a harsh burst of air. he sounded… angry, probably from the fight but… you can’t shake his eyes met yours in that single glimpse, before he had gone back into the fray. 

the fight takes four minutes. you’re like, a mile away, on top of some random building with a pretty subpar view of the action— but you manage to still make out the flashes of blue and red that surround the being and shoot him back off to space. 

you frown, peering over the edge of the building. there’s no rooftop access, no door, nothing. you’re kind of just stuck— which is perfect, because it’s 12:55 and clark’s about to get off for lunch, so he’ll get stood up while you figure out how to get down. 

“you need to be more careful.” a voice behind you says, and you jump, nearly toppling over the side of the building. 

a hand grabs your arm and spins you around to face him, steadying you— it’s superman. thank god. 

you nod. “yeah. probably.” he looks unconvinced, and maybe a little pissed. his arm drops back to his side and he shoots you a stern look. 

“it’s irresponsible to run into danger like that. you could have died, ma’am.” he says. his hair looks a bit windswept, curling around the edges like clark’s does when he tries to tame it. his eyes zero in on the camera hanging around your neck. “no picture is worth your life, okay?”

you nod, looking down, a tad embarrassed. “yeah… adrenaline kinda beat me on this one.” 

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do anything like that again.” he says. when you look up at him, he doesn’t look angry anymore. he looks scared. its the kind of thing that makes your heart jump into your throat.

“please?” he asks quietly, his gaze locked with yours. 

you nod, swallowing down the strange feelings twisting around in your gut. “okay. i promise.”

there’s a beat of silence before he steps towards you, beaming down at you like you’re any other citizen. “let me get you down from here.” 

“please do.” you agree, and he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, slowly flying you down until your toes touch the concrete. 

“by the way,” he begins, speaking quietly as you land, stepping back, “i framed that picture you gave me. thank you.”

he’s gone before you can say ‘you’re welcome,’ just a blur of red and blue that disappears into the sky like a shooting star.

he remembered you. 

he probably remembers everyone he meets on the street— he’s known for stuff like that, being so kind, so hopeful. 

but he remembered you. and that feels different. 

your phone rings and you shake off whatever you’re feeling, because clark, the guy that you really really like and who really really likes you is calling and there’s no reason you should be thinking about someone as untouchable as superman in the way that you are right now. 

“clark, you will never believe what just happened—“

——

today is july first.

your one month anniversary with clark. the day that marks one of the best months of your life coming to a close— and hopefully a sign that these next months are going to be just as good, if not better. 

this month, clark kent has literally swept you off your feet. perfect dates, amazing chemistry, gentlemanlike in a way that all seems too good to be true. and maybe it is. 

because, well, it’s three hours after your date was supposed to start. clark had been talking about today all week, texting you every free second about the amazing evening he had planned— but he’s not here. he couldn’t even send you a text, “hey, so sorry i can’t make it. raincheck?’ nothing. 

you wonder what the excuse is, this time. had to work late? ma called and he lost track of time? you hate it, how small you feel when he forgets about you. you suddenly wish it was august again, so you could have school and a whole new pack of students to occupy your time with— you wouldn’t even have to think about clark, you’d be so busy.

right as you reach for another glass of wine, there’s a knock at your door. 

you frown, tiptoeing silently towards the peephole like you don’t already know who it is. 

it’s clark— and he looks rough. 

there’s a nasty shiner on his eye, and he’s got blood peeking out from under his collar, and you wonder what other injuries his clothes are hiding. it takes you half a second to swing the door open, your hands flying to his face. 

“holy shit clark— are you okay?” you ask, eyes wide, checking every inch of his face to see just how bad it is. you’ve never seen him have so much as an odd bruise before, but now…? he looks beat. “what happened?”

his eyes don’t follow your hands, or your movements, they don’t stick to the ground, they just find yours and hold your gaze once you’re done giving him an extremely thorough once-over for any prevailing injuries. “you were crying.” he frowns, looking down at you. 

you pause, lowering your hands. “yeah, but—“

he hands— which are notably shaky, press against your biceps, wrapping around your upper arms as if to ground himself. 

“i’m so sorry.” his voice is so tender it practically kills you, pure, genuine guilt and sadness that makes you feel like a jerk for even being mad in the first place. and those eyes— god, those eyes. they take you and they refuse to let go. 

“clark, you look like shit, i’m not upset—“ you start, biting down on your lip. he cuts you off by pulling you into a suffocating embrace, holding you so close and so tight he practically knocks the air out of your lungs, not that you mind.

he traps your lips in a kiss— one that isn’t soft, or gentle, not the way that clark usually kisses you. it’s fervent, sloppy and overwhelming— he surges into you like he never thought he’d be able to do it again. 

what you don’t know is— with the battle he had, the one he lost, that was exactly what was on his mind. 

“i’m sorry i missed our date. i promise i’ll make it up to you.” he mumbles as he pulls away. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, squeezing you like he can’t get you close enough. you have no idea what’s going on, but you like the way you feel when he holds you, so you don’t stop him. 

you tentatively wrap your hands around him, unaware of the fallen god that has you in his arms. “what happened?” you ask quietly, your voice just a whisper against his ear. 

he gives you a final squeeze that toed on the line of breaking your ribs before pulling back, looking down at you. “uh, i just… this lady got her purse stolen, picked a fight i couldn’t win. i’m fine, promise.” 

you nod, your heart swelling with both concern and pride. you picked the guy who’d risk his own safety to help an old lady get her purse back— the thought makes you all warm and fuzzy, especially now that you know he’s okay. 

you have to push down the feeling that there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. 

“do you wanna come in?” you ask, tilting your head. he shakes his head. 

“i uh, i can’t. gonna sleep this off— but i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank. i just didn’t want you to think i flaked for no reason.” 

you smile up at him, shaking your head. he’s too damn sweet for his own good. 

“okay, well, get home safe, okay?” you say, pressing a kiss on his cheek before sending him away with the promise that everything will be fine in the morning. 

——

you didn’t think that “i’m gonna make this up to you. i swear— you can take that to the bank.” meant breaking into your apartment to make you breakfast, but apparently that was clark’s exact line of thought. 

you didn’t even register the sound of him in your apartment when you stepped out of your bedroom— your hair a mess, makeup peeled off, wearing nothing but an oversized sleep shirt and your panties. you yawned, stretched, then nearly jumped out of your own skin when you noticed him staring at you from over your stove like you were the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. 

“what are you doing here?!” you yelled, darting back into your room, searching frantically for a hairbrush. 

“uh, i, um— i wanted to make you breakfast?” he starts, putting his hand to his face and shaking his head. “starting to realize how creepy this is.” 

you sigh, laughing softly to yourself, the shock slowly wearing off. “it’s really sweet, clark, just give me a minute to look… presentable.” you say through the door.

“you look beautiful— but, sorry. take all the time you need.” 

you emerge ten minutes later with your rats nest combed out, your makeup done, and wearing a pair of shorts that fit snuggly around your thighs. clark smiles at you in a sort of, i’m-sorry-for-breaking-in-but-hey-here’s-some-breakfast, kind of way. 

you shake your head, walking over to him and letting him wrap an arm around you, taking a deep breath to smell the absurd amount of pancakes he made for the two of you. seriously, there’s like, three stacks and half a bowl of batter left. you lean against him, enjoying the warmth. 

“sorry for freaking out.” you say as he presses a kiss against the top of your forehead. 

he shrugs. “sorry for breaking into your apartment.”

you laugh. “yeah— how long have you been here, and how did you get in—“ you pause, looking up at him, noticing how clean his face is for the first time. “your bruise is gone.” 

he leans back, rubbing his neck. “yeah, uh… i’m a fast healer.” he pauses and shrugs like that’s the only answer he can give you. “i’ve been here for like, thirty minutes. your neighbor let me in. mrs. stilinsky?” 

you nod— decide not to question anything, moving back to lean on the countertop. you note the way he shifts in the back of your head and move on. 

“i still feel bad about last night,” he starts, pausing to lift you up and onto the counter like you’re featherlight. you giggle, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. “hence the breakfast. if you’re not busy today, i’d like to make it up to you.”

you raise a brow. “you know you don’t have to make up ‘getting jumped’ to me, right? i kind of get that one.”

he leans back to flip another pancake, shaking his head. “this is non-negotiable, honey.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a pancake off of one of the stacks. “actually, i could use another set of hands to help me decorate my classroom…” you say, taking a bite of the pancake, looking up at him. “god, this is good— how did you make this?” you ask, mid-bite. 

he laughs, a motion that moves through his shoulders. “kent family recipe. ma would kill me if i shared.” 

“—is there pumpkin spice in this?” 

——

clark insisted on being the only one to carry anything— so you’re mapping out your classroom while he hauls stuff from your car, little by little. 

you’re switching to second grade this year, so you have a newer, slightly crappier classroom a mile farther from the teacher’s lounge, and a new curriculum to teach— but you don’t particularly mind. eight is a good age, you’ll just need to practice a little more crowd control during your lectures. 

most of your stuff was brought over from your old classroom last week, this is just the stuff you bought with your daily planet money to get a fresh new look for your class. 

clark drops the last of the junk gently by the door, smiling down at you as he approaches. he hooks an arm around your waist and presses a kiss atop your head, giving you a quick squeeze. “so, what are we doing today?” 

you grin up at him, leaning into his side while you begin rambling about your big plans for the room. 

you kinda prefer this to big dates. there’s something special about the mundane when you get to do it with clark. you just like being around him, basking in that sweet farm boy energy that has you totally whipped.

“okay, so, i’m gonna move my bookshelf to this corner, and then i’m gonna put up a bunch of posters in this area and make it, like, a reading corner, right. i’m gonna put up one of my big art wall things here and the other over there, and—“

you’re cut off by an earthquake. 

clark instinctively tightens his grip on you, looking up and around for any danger. your frown, leaning into him. 

he looks up at the ceiling for what seems like a beat too long when the ground shakes again. a couple trinkets fall off of a bookshelf, and one of your boxes topples over. he looks down at you, ushering you out of the classroom. “is there somewhere safe to hide?” he asks, looking up and down the hall. 

“here, c’mon,” you start, leading him down the hall. “kids go in the gym for tornado drills— it’s kind of the same thing?”

he nods, following you with his hand tightly interlaced with yours. the ground shakes again and little bits of drywall fall from the ceiling— none big enough to do any real damage, but enough to spook you. 

you and clark make it to the gym, where the infrastructure seems a lot more sturdy. you run inside— but he hangs by the door. “i’m gonna see if anyone else needs help, okay? i’ll be back.”

“clark—!“ you start, but he’s already gone. 

you frown. the school is empty save for the two of you. he should be back in two, maybe three minutes. 

but he’s not. he’s not back in five. or ten. 

by the twelve minute mark you’re worried in a way that is all-consuming— and the building keeps shaking. you nearly got smashed by a ceiling tile that came loose, and you’ve spent the last few minutes half focused on clark’s survival and your own. 

you give up on waiting, going to the administrative office to check the cameras for him, a relatively easy journey. you flip through them all twice. you give time for him to leave any blindspot. he isn’t there— he just ditched you. 

you try not to throw the computer across the room. you could, logistically, and you could blame the damage on the whatever going on outside— but you don’t. you just storm out of the building, looking up at the sky. 

superman’s fifty feet above your school fighting some robot-looking thing mid-air. to be fair, he’s winning, but not enough for you to be particularly thrilled about the sighting. you look around for clark, and he’s nowhere, which is just great. 

“clark!” you call out, looking for him, ducking debris from the action above you. you turn the corner of the building, looking around by the dumpster, trying to see if he was hiding with some sweet old lady or doing anything besides running away and abandoning you. 

you rush past the wall— and maybe if you were a bit less panicked and a bit more observant you would have noticed the pile of clothes peeking out from under the dumpster, or the glasses that belonged to clark kent reflecting sunlight onto the stack of bricks behind you. 

but you continue, rushing out to the courtyard, met with a great big field filled with nothing but astroturf and gym supplies. 

“clark!” you call again. he’s not there— you know he isn’t and you’re really, really freaking out. what if he got caught under a chunk of debris? what if that robot monster up there crashed into him? what if he really did just abandon you and leave you to fend for yourself?

you brush that last one off. he wouldn’t do that. you know him well enough to know that. he’s good to his core, he’s not the type of guy to run from danger. 

you look up at the fight above you. superman is pummeling into the robot like there’s no tomorrow, getting closer and closer towards the ground. he’s right above the field you’re hanging around, and—

oh shit. 

they both crash against the ground, knocking a literal crater into the field. the impact of the collision knocks you onto your ass, and despite being fifty feet away, the yelp you let out when you hit pavement attracts superman’s attention— and the thing he’s fighting. 

it happens in slow motion: you, with wide eyes, scrambling to get up on shaky legs, the robot, hurling towards you impossibly fast, and superman, an inch behind, trying to stop it

you’re frozen. you can’t run, or fight, or even move— you’re just stuck, shaking, your heart beating out of your chest, adrenaline shooting through your veins like fire. 

you think it’s the end, but superman grabs hold of the thing when it’s an inch away, pulling it back and throwing it across the field so hard the boom that follows sounds like a missile strike. you just stare, your breaths uneven and panicked, watching with teary eyes as superman punches that thing into the ground, ripping the machine’s head off with bare hands, tearing it apart until it’s nothing but scrap metal and wire. 

and then he turns to you, moving faster than the speed of light across the field to gently help you up. 

“are you alright?” he asks, taking your hand. your legs are shaking so bad that he has to practically hold you upright, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

you nod. “yeah, i’m okay.” you say, taking a deep breath, swallowing down your panic. 

he checks you over for any injuries, the same way he did the first night that you met. “you shouldn’t have been out here.” he says, and he sounds frustrated— you feel bad. bad that he always seems to be saving you, and that you seem to be his least favorite regular. he’s saved you once a week for the last month at least, sometimes when you’re taking pictures for the planet, sometimes when trouble just seems to follow you home. either way— you have seen a lot of superman lately. 

“i uh, yeah, i was looking for… clark kent? i know he’s interviewed you before, have you seen him?” 

his gaze softens, and he takes a breath, looking down and shaking his head softly like he’s having a conversation in his head you aren’t privy to.

“he’s fine.” he says, looking up at you. you’re captivated— it’s always those damn eyes. bluer than the pacific, you don’t know how a man so perfect can exist.“i, uh, he was about to get crushed by some debris, so i moved him half a mile west.”

you breath a sigh of relief. “thank you.” you say, steady enough to stand a bit taller. he doesn’t let go. 

“you get into a lot of trouble, don’t you?” he asks— not in a, ha-ha we run into each other a lot way, but in a, hey i’m kind of concerned about your well-being kind of way. your heart leaps to your chest. 

“yeah. kept my promise though. didn’t come out here for a picture.” 

he smiles— you almost swoon— and shakes his head. “do i have to start keeping a special eye on you, miss?” 

you try not to blush. you fail. “with my luck, that might just be necessary.” you say, smiling up at him. 

you pause. 

you are totally flirting with superman. and even crazier— superman is totally flirting with you. 

you have clark. loving, caring, sweet, handsome clark. 

but can it really hurt to indulge in the fantasy for a minute longer? 

“well, if you need anything, ma’am, call out for superman, and i’ll be there.” he says.

“anything?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “i might just take advantage of that.”

he laughs— a laugh that seems too familiar. “i hope you do.”

you look up at him, tilting your head. “thank you, again, for saving me.”

he smiles, looking down at you, giving your hand a final squeeze before he lets you go. he leans in a bit closer, smiling down at you in a way that makes your heart jump to your throat. “i’m always gonna save you. i promise.”

the way he says you gives you pause. it makes your knees want to buckle. it makes this whole thing seem completely unreal. 

because he’s talking about you like you mean a lot more to him than a pedestrian he’s had to save a couple times. like you’re someone he cares about— which confuses you a lot more than you care to admit. 

he leans back, clears his throat, acts like he said a bit more than he should have and returns to that superman persona he let slip for half a second. “you try to stay safe, okay?” he says, raising an eyebrow, and you nod, a little dazed. 

“on it.”

he steps back and shoots back off into the sky, and you stare until he’s completely gone, now just a whisper of blue in the skyline of metropolis. 

“hey! there you are!” clark’s voice echoes from behind you. you spin around, overwhelmed with relief that he’s safe and running back towards you. 

you practically crash into him, simply relieved that he is safe and not smushed under a building or something like that. his arms wrap around you so tight you can barely breathe, and you hold him so close you think your arms might break. 

“i got so scared when you didn’t come back.” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. he nods, pulling back, looking down at you. 

“yeah, uh, i was looking for others and this giant piece of wall almost got me— superman swiped me out and took me like, three blocks away.” he says, taking a deep breath. “i’m really glad you’re okay.”

you nod, swallowing down the guilt forming in your chest. here clark is, all worried about you, who literally ran back from half a mile away to come and get you, and you were just flirting with superman. 

“yeah, uh, superman saved me too. guess we both got lucky.” you say, chewing on your lip. you feel horrible. 

he frowns. “a-are you okay?” he asks, tilting his head. you hate how he can read you like that.

you nod. “yeah, uh, i think i just want to go home.”

——

that night you sent clark home, promising you would call him in the morning. you told him that you were just a bit shaken— and you were. but not from the whole… robot trying to kill you thing. from the superman one. 

you just felt guilty about it. confused on what made superman so keen on you. you’ve felt confused a lot, lately. about clark, superman, your own feelings. 

to make it clear: you are 100% whipped for clark. he is your perfect man, and he has never made you doubt for one second that he likes you just as much as you like him. the whole superman thing feels like a fantasy come true— having some angelic, godlike protector single you out. it’s probably very human to have some feelings, to get a little flustered when someone like superman flirts with you. 

there’s just something about superman that feels achingly familiar, in the kind of way that bugs you wholly. his laugh, his voice, his eyes. the eyes get you the most— like there’s something right in front of you that you just can’t see. 

you take another sip of your beer, looking out at the moonlit skyline from your fire escape. 

“are you alright?” 

you jump, whipping your head around to see superman floating ahead, approaching you slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll scare. he smiles, leaning against the railing of the fire escape, looking down at you with this weird, soft look in his eye. like he’s worried. 

you nod. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs. “i wanted to make sure you were okay, after today.”  he says, staring at you with those impossibly familiar blue eyes. 

you raise an eyebrow. “do you check up on all the people you save?”

he chuckles, and shakes his head. “just the lucky ones.”

you pause, offering him a beer. he waves his hands no, climbing over the rail to sit with you. 

“you’re real friendly.” you observe, taking another swig of your drink. he shrugs.

“just concerned.” 

there’s a long beat of silence before either of you speak again. you’re not really sure what to say, how to proceed. you can feel him staring at you, while your eyes trace over the buildings around you. 

“how’s your day going?” you ask, blinking back up at him. he stares for a second, then smiles— and those eyes capture you once more. 

“been an odd day. y’know, stray robot attacks and all.” he pauses, giving you a once over. “you?” 

you shrug. “odd’s probably the best word for it.”

“would you like to talk about it?” he offers. “i’ve been told that i’m a good listener.” 

do you wanna talk about it? it’s kind of been an emotional roller coaster of a day. of course, it’s the kind of thing that would only happen to you, having superman on your porch step, asking how you feel. at first, all the running into each other seemed like dumb coincidence— now it all feels a lot heavier. 

“i’ve been seeing a lot of you lately.” you say, tilting back your head to get a better look at him. 

he nods. “is that a bad thing?”

you shrug in response. “it’s an odd one. especially ‘cause—“ you start, cutting yourself off. you look down, chewing on your lip so you don’t confront superman for being a huge flirt. 

he looks at you inquisitively, a small frown playing on his lips. “‘cause?”

you take a deep breath, looking down. “i have a boyfriend. well— he’s not technically my boyfriend, yet. he hasn’t asked, but like, y’know. i really like him.”

you look back up and he’s smiling, almost like he’s trying to suppress a grin, which confuses you even more, because, like, two minutes ago he was acting all into you.

“and how are things going with your not-boyfriend?” he asks, leaning back. 

“great. so i need you to stop flirting with me.” 

he laughs— he actually laughs, with his full chest. acts like you saying that is the silliest thing in the world. like he didn’t randomly show up at your apartment to ‘check on you.’

he smiles up at you with this weird, knowing twinkle in his eye. “you’re right. i’ve got no business getting between you and clark.” 

you pause, your eyebrows knitting together. you didn’t mention anything about clark. 

“how’d you know it was clark?” you ask, frowning. 

he pauses— like his body stutters. “uh, well—“ he starts, stumbling in a way that seems so familiar, just like everything else he does. god, what is it about him? “i assumed, since he was who you were looking for at the school.”

you nod, training your eyes on the loose curl sitting on his forehead. you guess that makes sense, at least, enough for you to not dwell on it any longer. yet, coupled with everything else you’ve noticed, it’s all just… very strange.

“i’m onto you, superman.” you say, looking up at him, eyebrows raised. you see it, just the briefest, tiniest moment of panic in his eyes before the superhero persona sets back in. it’s just enough to let you know that you’re not crazy. 

“onto me?” he asks, slightly incredulous. “what for?” 

you shrug, leaning back against the railing, taking another quick sip of your beer before placing it down against the barred floor of your fire escape. “just whatever it is that you’re hiding from me.”

he nods, like he’s barely entertaining the idea. “i could just stop running into you.” he says, a bit more serious now than he was a minute ago. “if i was hiding something.” 

you smile, shaking your head, standing up and leaning back against the railing. “you could. i doubt you will.” you say, flashing him a grin, hoisting yourself up to sit on the railing. 

he tilts his head. “why’s that?” 

now, you wouldn’t do this if you weren’t at least two beers deep, and right now, you’re three and a half in, so your judgement is maybe… slightly impaired. besides, it’s not like this is the farthest you’ve ever gone to prove a point. 

you slide your legs over the rail, and without a single thought or hesitation, you push yourself off. 

you plummet for a bit longer than you thought you would— not like the drop would kill you, anyways, you live three stories up, but you’re a lot closer to the ground than you thought you’d be when he catches you. 

his arms wrap around you bridal style— and he looks kind of pissed. he doesn’t quite look at you, not until you’re back up safely on the fire escape and he’s floating back out in the alleyway. 

“that was, gosh—“ he starts, looking down at you, arms crossed. “why would you do that?”

“i knew you would catch me.”  you say, your eyes glancing up to find his. 

he shakes his head. “promise me you won’t do that again. ever.” he asks, eyebrows firmly knit together. 

you nod, which, doesn’t seem to be good enough for him, because he tilts his head and looks at you with a gaze that is incredibly stern. you reach out your hand, extending your pinky finger out towards him. 

“i pinky swear.” 

he smiles, locking his finger with yours. “thank you.”

there’s a boom somewhere off in the distance, one loud enough to attract his attention. his hand slips away from yours, and with a nod, he’s gone. 

you’re gonna figure him out. 

——

it’s been two weeks since that night— and that was the last time you saw superman, a new record for you and him. you enjoyed the space as much as it infuriated you— so your time has been spent cataloguing every interaction, sorting through everything that bugged you, even slightly. 

you don’t tell clark about it. it can’t feel good to hear that your girl is constantly thinking about another guy— especially one that is a god amongst men. 

you and clark do have a good rhythm, though. he spends most nights at your place now, and he spoils you with two ‘real dates’ (as he calls them) a week. it’s nice, having him around. someone you can force feed your baking to and cuddle up with when watching scary movies.

it’s nights like tonight, actually, that make you so into him it scares you. he came over after work, and after making you a pasta salad that tasted like heaven on your fork, you sat together on the couch to watch some random sitcom he liked. his arms wrapped around you immediately, and he held you so close and so tight it was basically impossible not to fall asleep in those big, bulky arms of his. 

you blink awake now, soft light and sound still playing on your television despite how quiet everything else seems. you listen to clark’s breathing, steady and even, snoring softly with his grasp loose around you. 

you slide out of his arms quietly, surprised that you didn’t manage to wake him when you knocked into the table behind you on your way to the bathroom. you come back two minutes later, wiping your hands on your sleep shirt and looking down at him. 

he looks so peaceful, so relaxed. it makes you smile. carefully, as to not wake him up, you slide his glasses off of his face and put them on your coffee table, and grab a blanket off of your armchair to throw over him. 

in this motion, you realize you’ve never actually seen clark without his glasses before. you look down at him, tilting your head, squinting for whatever shapes you can make out with such little lighting. 

you didn’t realize how strong his prescription was, because he looks quite different. like— noticeably different. 

huh. he looks a lot like superman. 

you frown. squint a little harder. besides the hair, he’s nearly identical. 

you shake the thought. it has to be some weird coincidence, right? clark, your clark? not possible. you’re too sleepy to give it much thought, anyways. 

still, it bugs you. it bugs you the next morning, when he makes you breakfast. it bugs you the day after, when you see him at the planet. it bugs you for another week, because the similarity is just too damning. 

you stare down at that picture you have of superman. of him, helping your student. the one that inadvertently led you to clark. the one that superman himself framed. you’re looking at all the similarities of note between clark and him. sure, they’re different, but everything different is something easily changed. hairstyles, tone of voice, hell, even posture. 

you chew on your lip. it’s 5:30, clark’s supposed to pick you up in two hours. 

but, hypothetically, if you went to his place now and looked around when he wasn’t expecting you… would you find this picture hung up somewhere? 

it would be just to get the thought out of your head. you’re like, 95% sure there is no way in hell that clark kent can be superman. especially because, if he was, and he’d been flirting with you as superman? you’d be beyond pissed. 

you knock twice on the door. “clark?”

you hear a shuffle and a pause. it takes thirty agonizingly long seconds for him to open the door, but when he does it’s all smiles and laughter— “hey, what are you doing here? thought i was picking you up later.”

he urges you in and gently shuts the door behind you, smiling down at you. your eyes trace every inch of the apartment, looking for something you pray you don’t find. 

“i didn’t want to wait any longer,” you say, looking back up at him, “i missed you.”

he grins, wrapping an arm around you and giving you a squeeze. he looks nice— white button up, black slacks, his hair impossibly perfect. you lean into him, nearly forgetting about your mission. 

“do you want to just hang out here tonight? skip the date?” he asks, sliding your purse off of your shoulder and setting it down on his mahogany front table— one that he made himself when he still lived in smallville. 

“actually,” you say, uncertainly, sliding off your jacket. “that sounds perfect. i wanna talk.” 

he raises a brow, taking your jacket and hooking it the coat rack. you lead him to the living room, flopping down on the couch. “do i need to be worried?” 

he sets himself behind you, leaning against the back of the couch, smiling down at you. you look around, still looking for that picture— one you’re sure you won’t see amongst the decor of his apartment. 

“yeah, maybe.” you say, your eyes meeting his. his smile fades, and those ocean blue eyes stare down at you with just enough concern to make your heart skip a beat. “what are we?” 

you don’t know why you picked that question to stall for time, but here you are. 

he takes a breath, like that question somehow relieves him— what an odd guy. 

“what do you want us to be?” 

he asks it gently, hopefully, like he’s easing you into it. he is— he wants you, bad. more than just a summer situationship. clark isn’t built for that. but he understands hesitation, he understands if you want to take your time. he’s got all the time in the world. 

you pause, taking a breath. “well, i really like you clark.” you say, scooting back on the couch, patting the empty space next to you as a signal. he dances around the side of the couch, extra careful not to knock into anything and disrupt a moment like this one. the couch dips beside you and you sit with your legs crossed, facing him. 

“i really like you, too.” he says, quietly, like it kills him not to say more. 

you nod, chewing on your lip. “and i want to be your girlfriend.” 

he breaks out into a grin, leaning back, looking at you with nothing but love in those ridiculously blue eyes. “yeah?”

“not that you don’t still have to ask me, cause you do, and you have to make it, like, the most romantic thing i’ve ever seen.” you say, smiling up at him. he nods— super serious, like one of your kids planning out an assignment in their head.

“i promise.” he says, leaning in. “i’m gonna romance your socks off, babe.” 

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him against you. he presses a quick kiss against your lips— one you’re careful not to get sucked into; you’re not done yet.

“now that that’s settled,” you say, forcing him back with a playful push that elicits a groan from him. “if i’m gonna be with you— you can’t hide anything. i need complete, open honesty.” 

he nods, looking away. you frown. “is there anything you haven’t told me? anything important?” 

he pauses, his eyes trained to the wall, like he’s deliberating on something super important. 

were you right? is clark really… superman? 

he looks back at you, smiling, like that moment didn’t happen. like everything is alright. “i stole one the toys from your classroom.” he shrugs, laughing a bit. “the stuffed deer? it reminded me of you.” 

you gasp, feigning offense. “i’ve been looking for him everywhere!” you exclaim in fake horror, but you can’t help but giggle. 

what were you thinking? clark, superman? sweet, adorkable clark? it’s more likely that he’s secretly mother teresa. 

his laugh grounds you, and he slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him. “i’ll let you know if anything else comes to mind.” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “wanna watch a movie?” 

you nod, looking up at him. “i’ll let you pick it if you make popcorn.” you grin, pressing a kiss against his jawline. 

“yes ma’am.” he says, standing up, lingering in your touch a second too long before leaving for the kitchen. 

you watch him, unable to suppress a giant, dorky smile. god, you love him. 

oh god, you love him. 

you decide to table that thought for when you get home. 

“i’m gonna change into one of your shirts!” you call out, standing up and heading towards his room. you’re still in date night attire, and you would much rather be dwarfed by one of clark’s nice, cotton, smallville t-shirts than brave the night in jeans and a tube top. 

“have fun!” he calls back, and you can hear the sporadic popping of the popcorn from the kitchen. 

you make it to his closet, filtering through the half-dozen tees he keeps hung up. he doesn’t have that many clothes, you note, a few dress shirts, a couple cheap suits, two pairs of jeans, and a box of ties below it. you look around a bit more, noting the weird amount of dress shoes he has lined up on the ground when you notice a pair of black wingtips sat above a silver, face-down picture frame. 

huh. 

maybe if you were a bit more trusting and a bit less suspicious you would have left it alone— but that isn’t you. 

your eyes flicker to the doorway, which is empty, and back to the frame. carefully, you crouch down, sliding the shoes down to the ground, tentatively picking up the frame and flipping it towards you. 

your heart beats out of your chest. 

it’s the picture. 

it’s the picture. 

the one you took of superman, the one you gave him that first night, the one he told you he framed— the one that you decidedly did not give to clark, the one that clark never told you he framed, the one that clark would have no reason to hide except—

that he’s superman. 

that you were right. 

that he lied to you. 

you take the picture. hold it so tight your knuckles turn white. walk out of the closet, out of the bedroom, into the kitchen. drop it on the countertop so clark can see it. 

the look on his face tells you everything you need to know. he looks shocked, caught, then scared, guilty. his eyes dart from the picture to you in an instant. the microwave beeps three times, the popping slows to a stop. it’s over. 

“i can explain.” 

you shake your head. he doesn’t need to— it’s pretty open and shut. he lied to you, and if it was just him hiding the superman thing, you could understand. “you talked to me as superman— flirted with me, asked personal stuff— you lied. you’ve been lying, this entire time, i—“ you take a deep breath, fighting tears. “i should go.” you say, spinning around on your heels.

he grabs your hand before you can move, squeezing it gently. “please, wait— let me explain it. please. you don’t understand.”

you pull away, looking at him with nothing but hurt in your eyes— because you are hurt, you feel betrayed and broken and everything you thought you wouldn’t feel with clark. you stare at him, trying your hardest not to cry— not in front of him. he looks hopeless, half-defeated, uncertain, and lost in a way that overwhelms him.

you sniffle, shaking your head. “i understand fine, clark.” you say, swallowing down your heartbreak and peeling towards the door. 

“this is over.”

——

the days that follow are bleak. all you have to show for the breakup are dark, lonely hours wasted in pints of ice cream and dirty tissues. your only solace is scrolling through article after article— either ones written by clark, or ones written about him. 

you push yourself through it with everything you can muster, praying that he doesn’t hear your sobs from across the city. you love him. loved him. and you’re not sure you’ll ever be so in love again. 

but he betrayed you, he lied to you— he hurt you in a way that you can’t explain. you don’t want to let that push you down any more than it already has. 

so, you push back. get up, out of bed, get dressed, call your friends, make plans. put yourself in a situation where you don’t have to think, especially about clark. it’s been ten days since you stormed out of his apartment and you have to move forward. it’s the last day of summer before you go back— you can’t have let it all been a waste. 

you club. you party. you convince yourself that you’re having fun. you drink too much and then you spend an hour sobering yourself up before you home. you kiss your friends goodbye and toss the numbers you had pocketed in the trash outside your apartment. you head upstairs, taking a deep breath to try an avoid letting yourself think about the silence.

about clark. 

and, when you get to your door, fumbling for your keys— you notice a piece of neatly-folded card stock taped below your peephole, your name encircled by a heart on the front of it. 

carefully, you take it down, removing the tape with little tear and opening the letter, recognizing the handwriting before you can even read a word. 

to start this, you were right. i shouldn’t have lied, i shouldn’t have pretended i wasn’t lying, i shouldn’t have spoken to you under false pretenses. the last thing i ever wanted was to hurt you, and for that, i am so sorry. 

i hope, for you, this past week hasn’t been as miserable as it has been for me. i hoped to have seen you at the planet, or bump into you on the corner, or find some way to see you and try and redeem myself— but i couldn’t wait any longer to explain.

yes, i am superman. i was born on the planet krypton, sent here as an infant, and adopted by my parents, john and martha kent. i have a cousin who too, is from krypton, but remembers much more than me about home, and i take care of her superpowered dog, krypto, in a secret fortress in the arctic. i can fly, i can move incredibly fast, i have inhuman strength, x-ray vision, laser vision from my eyes and breath that can freeze nearly anything, all given to me by the earth’s yellow sun. 

i came to you as superman at first by accident. the night i saved you from the mugger, before our first date. i had spent the days leading up to our date spiraling. you, who are so perfect, so beautiful, and so kind, were going out with me, and i was terrified to mess it up. i realized how easy it was for me to talk to you as superman, when it was difficult for clark kent. the times i saved you, i shouldn’t have lingered. the times i spoke to you as him, i shouldn’t have been there. at first, it had been a crutch, but by the last time, it had become a compulsion. 

i had to see you. to make sure that you were safe, and warm, and happy. i realize now that i violated you in a way i cannot make up for. for this and for everything else, i am truly sorry. while my betrayal is inexcusable, know that i did it because i love you. this summer has been the best of my life, i have never met someone as compassionate, hilarious, talented, and beautiful as you, i have never wanted to be around someone more than you, i have never had someone plague my thoughts and dreams the way you do. you have quickly become my everything, my reason for waking up, for helping people, for pushing through every day.

you asked me, the day of our fight, to make my request for you to be my girlfriend the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. and i promised you that i would. 

and while i have lied to you, hidden things from you, and hurt you, i have never broken a promise. 

open the door, please. 

you look up from the note, wiping away a river of tears that had just poured out of you. carefully, your hands wrap around the doorknob, slowly turning it and pushing the door open. 

and there he is. 

standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a thousand rose petals, holding a giant bouquet with an iron grip. candles litter the foyer, giving his face an ethereal glow in the low light. his glasses are gone. his curls are out. he’s someone between clark kent and superman now, someone who you desperately want to know. 

he clears his throat, his gaze holding yours hostage with those infinity blue eyes captivating you so wholly. 

“i promise never to hurt you again. never to lie to you, or hide things from you, or betray your trust— if you’ll let me be yours again.” he says, smiling down at you like he’s on the verge of tears. “will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, as you approach taking in the entire set up slowly, trying not to lose what little composure of yours you still have. 

you take a breath, your eyes locking with his once more. 

“yes.” you say, grinning while tears— happy ones, slip from your eyes. he smiles wider than you’ve ever seen, practically throwing the bouquet so he can wrap his arms around you in a giant bear hug. 

he lifts you up and spins you off of the ground, pulling an exciting giggle from your lips. it takes you a second to realize he’s off the ground too, that you’re both mid-air inside your tiny apartment— but you’re too focused on clark to mind. 

he holds you close, leaning in just enough to warm your face with his breath.

“i love you.” he says, quietly, like if saying it any louder would have scared you away. 

“i love you too.” you say, smiling. 

he grins, leaning into you and crashing against you with a kiss so fervent it nearly topples you over— so passionate it makes your chest explode with warmth. 

and suddenly, just for a moment, just for now— everything is okay again. and you know that as long as you have clark at your side, it always will be. 

——

there are two quick knocks on the door, followed by a rasp “honey? you okay?”

you tremble, sat with your back against the door, bunched up in your wedding dress, trying to force the tears to stop falling to avoid messing up your ridiculously expensive bridal makeup. ten minutes ago the pressure got to you, and five minutes ago you sent your entire party— bridesmaids, stylists, even your mom —out the door so you could properly break down. 

“yeah.” you say, sniffling. your voice shakes so much that the lie isn’t even half-convincing. clark can see right through you anyways (literally), so it’s not like you were really trying to lie. you just didn’t want him all concerned. it’s his wedding day too, you want it to be the happiest day of his life, even if your own experience is a train wreck. 

you can practically hear his frown. “kara told me what happened.” he says, softly. 

oh. yeah. your bridezilla breakdown. not one of your best moments. you aren’t exactly proud of screaming at your mom to stop messing with your hair, or your aunt for commenting on the fit of your dress, or your bridesmaids for giving you all sorts of unsolicited advice. you yelled, threw a fit, and pushed everyone out of the room so you could sob mascara into your veil. 

“can i come in?” he asks, gently, and you let out a weak laugh. 

“the groom can’t see the bride before the wedding, remember?” you say. he groans, sliding down against the door, his back to you. 

“that’s a silly rule.” he says, and you smile. you love how much he makes you smile. 

“i don’t need any more bad luck.” you wince. “did kara tell you about my bitch fit?” 

you hear him snort a little bit through the door. “she used nicer words.” he says, pausing. “wanna talk about it?”

god yes. it’s all you want to talk about. but you don’t want to bring clark down any further than you already have. you want him to have the perfect wedding, even if you are decidedly not. 

“it’s fine. i just needed a minute.” you say, your voice shaking again— enough to where you know clark won’t drop it now. you bury your head in your dress, taking a deep breath. 

“c’mon. i’m your husband in like, ten minutes. you can talk to me.” he says. his voice is so sweet and syrupy— you’re not sure how you can refuse him. 

you lean up, back against the door, shutting your eyes so tight it hurts. the words spill out of you so fast you don’t even think about them before they do. “i wanna be married to you so bad. but god— i know we spent so much on this and we spent so much time planning it but… i just want this over with. my dress is so goddamn tight and nobody can leave me alone for half a second without telling me something i need to be doing or something i’m doing wrong. and i just— it all got to be too much. and now my mom is probably gonna storm out ‘cause i yelled at her and then my dad won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, and i just ruined everything for no good reason.” 

the end of your rant is met with a beat of silence. a terrifying, overwhelming, moment where you think you might have finally scared off clark. 

of course, you didn’t. you couldn’t. “hey, honey— nothing’s ruined. look, don’t think about what your mom wants, or what your bridesmaids want, or even what i want. what’s gonna make you happy? ‘cause i could fly you off to a courthouse right now and ditch the party. all i want is to married to you— you could be in your pajamas for all i care and you would never have looked more beautiful. i just— darn it, i want you to be happy.”

you’re crying again, but this time you’re smiling, because god, your fiancé is just so sweet it makes your knees weak. 

“what do you want, sweetheart?” he asks again, his voice so soft and tender it makes you turn to putty. 

you sniffle again, wiping your tears with your fingers while trying not to further destroy your $120 makeup. “i really want a hug.” you mumble, staring down at your mascara-stained hands. 

“on it.” he says, and you hear him stand up and try for the door— which is still very much locked. 

you giggle a bit, standing up with him “i can’t let you in, though. the rule?” 

he scoffs. “that rule is just plain— gosh, it’s just ridiculous. let me in, please, or I’m gonna break this door down.” 

you laugh— god, it feels so good to laugh. you haven’t seen him all day and it felt like you were drowning. 

you pause, giving in and slowly turning the lock, but you don’t quite open the door yet. 

“promise me you’ll keep your eyes shut?” you ask, knowing how silly it sounds. god help you, you’re a bit superstitious. 

“scouts honor.” he confirms, and you slowly open the door, peeking out to see clark, who looks breathtakingly stunning, with his tie wrapped around his eyes like a blindfold. 

you laugh, smiling so wide the muscles in your mouth start to get sore. 

“there she is.” he says, reaching out blindly for you, his hands— impossibly warm, feeling around for your shoulders. “you feel very beautiful.” 

you laugh, wrapping your arms around him and burying yourself against him, your head in his chest. his arms circle your body and he squeezes you so tight you might faint— exactly the kind of hug you needed. 

you do your best not to let yourself cry, but clark has a way of forcing the tension out of you, one way or another. one hand presses into the small of your back, the other strokes your hair softly. little praises and comforts slip from his lips like sugar, while you sob into him.

“i love you so much.” he whispers, giving you another squeeze.

“i love you too.” you cry, holding him so tightly your arms ache. “i am so excited to be married to you— this is not cold feet i promise.”

he laughs, nodding against you. “i know, honey, i know.” he says, and god, he knows just how to sooth every one of your worries away. 

finally, you pull away, looking up at him. his glasses are tucked into his pocket, his hair is slicked back with one little curl popped out against his forehead. his suit is a deep black, with a navy blue tie (still covering his eyes) and a matching pocket square that makes him look irresistible. 

“you look really nice.” you say, sniffling, but you can’t wipe the smile off of your face. 

he shrugs. “i’m sure it’s nothing compared to you.” and he says it like you aren’t already a mess and you’re not blushing like, well, a bride. 

you grab the edge of his sleeve and use it to wipe away your tears. his thumb brushes against your cheek, falling to your bicep when you let his sleeve go.

“so, what’s the plan, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning down at you with that five-star smile that gets you every time. “are we sneaking out and going downtown?”

you take a deep breath, shaking your head. “no, no we’re doing this.” you say, leaning into his touch. “but if you, say, asked one of your superhero friends to slip a roach down my mom’s dress, i think i’d skip down the aisle.” 

he laughs, squeezing your arm and pulling away. “i’ll see what i can do.” 

you smile, memorizing how dorky he looks with that tie around his eyes and his cute open mouth smile. 

“see you on the other side?” you ask, tilting your head. 

“see you on the other side.” he confirms, stepping back with just enough uncertainty to let you know that he’s not using any x-ray vision. 

you watch him through the crack in the door until he’s gone, smiling so wide you might be stuck that way. 

half an hour later the music starts, your dad takes your hand, and you’re walking down the aisle like nothing ever went wrong.

first you eye the crowd, looking over the array of friends, family, and superheroes that showed up. thank goodness clark is a reporter and not, say, an office worker, because you don’t know how else you could explain the random celebrities like bruce wayne and oliver queen who are sat in the audience. 

then you look at your feet, which, are hidden beneath the dress, but you want to make sure you don’t stumble and embarrass yourself with a hundred pairs of eyes on you. 

finally, you look up at clark, who’s staring at you in the sort of way that makes you feel faint. like you’re the most beautiful woman in the world. like you’re about to make his knees buckle. like he’s in pure awe. he doesn’t even look nervous— a trait which you envy, because you’re an absolute mess right now. he just looks captivated.

you make up to the alter, looking up at him with a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. he’s looking down at you like he’s never been more certain of anything in his life. 

“i love you.” he mouths, grinning at you.

“i love you more.” you mouth back, and he shakes his head with glee.

“—you may now share your vows.” the officiant says, looking to clark.

he smiles, looking down at his feet, taking a deep breath before looking back up at you.

“for… for a long time i didn’t know what to write. i had about six… thousand drafts, but i don’t think there’s any way i can put into words how much i love you. how much i depend on you, how much of my happiness is thanks to you. i have so much purpose now. because if i can make you happy— if i can make you safe, if i can make you feel loved and supported and half as good as you make me feel every day by just being you… i’ll have accomplished more than i’ve ever dreamed of. i love you, honey, so much it makes my chest hurt. and i am the luckiest man in the world to be the man who gets to marry you— my soulmate.” he looks back up at you with stars in his eyes— your spaceman.

there’s like, five tears sliding down your cheeks by the end of that speech. you literally cannot stop smiling. you expected a lot— his job is writing for chrissakes— but wow.

wow.

“i, uh, wow. i don’t think i can top that.” you say, and a gentle laugh echoes from the crowd. you take a deep breath. “clark, i— i spent a lifetime thinking i’d never find someone like you. you’re, literally my knight in shining armor. when we met, and you walked me to perry’s office when i was so, horribly lost, i remember thinking how much i wanted this guy to ask me out. and then i found your number in my files, and i didn’t even realize how lucky i was. clark— my life has become so much better because you’re in it. having you, my rock, my best friend, my soulmate— i don’t have to dream any more. every morning with you is one come true. you are the incredibly dorky, adorable, and unfathomably amazing love of my life, and marrying you is the best thing i will ever do. i’ve never been certain of anything, but for this i have no doubt: i love you, clark kent, and i will love you no matter what life throws at us— i know that despite any tragedy or circumstance, i am yours, always and forever.”

you smile up at clark, droplets of water falling further down your face while a single tear drops from his eye. he smiles at you like you’re all he could ever want. you are.

“by the power vested in me by the state, i now pronounce you mr. and mrs. clark kent, husband and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”

clark grins at you and leans in, his lips pressing gently against yours, his hands pulling you in by your sides. the music plays, the church erupts in applause, and your husband knocks the breath out of you and for one moment, just one, everything is completely perfect.

this is so easily the longest fic i've ever written.... i am very proud of her though i very much hope you all enjoy!!

[twiceasbright]

hi lovebugs!! thank you for all the love you’ve been giving my writing :) now it’s time to find my next project 🩷

[twiceasbright]

Hey! It's the 'Gushing and kicking my feet' anon from your 'bad friend' fic on AO3!! AAHHH I am so happy to see the new chapter - thank you so much for feeding us, you absolute superstar.

And as always, reading your writing was SOO good. The way Clark says that the Reader's kiss won't be with Superman, but with him instead, cause he knows there's a symbolic difference between being himself and the hero he is for everyone else.... Aaah that's so sweet of him, oh my gosh. You get it so much. 💖💖

You are an amazing writer; thank you for sharing your work with the world. If you want, please have some flowers from me, of whatever kind you like. 💐💐💐💐💐💐💐 Hope everything's going well, and take care! 💖

ahhhh hello and thank you this is so so sweet!! it makes me so happy to see the love you’re all giving my writing, and it inspires me to create more for you all. i’m so glad you’ve liked what i’ve done and i hope i can continue to keep you well-fed!

this is such a lovely message, thank you so much for taking the time to share your thoughts with me <3 and thank you for the flowers! 💐 🩷

[twiceasbright]

bad friend (pt 2) ┃ clark kent x reader

previous part

summary: it's the day after your almost-date with clark, and you're ready to make amends and give it another shot. with a do-over on the horizon, will things go according to plan or is it destined to fall apart all over again?

pairings: clark kent x reader

tags: fluff, happy ending, first date re-do, clark kent is an adorable dumbass, confessions, secret identity reveal, sfw, superman never gets a day off, gn!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 4.7k

a/n: the long-awaited second part to bad friend! sorry this took awhile to post, i have had a crazy couple of days. that being said, i really hope you enjoy and feel free to leave your thoughts! also, if you'd like to request i write anything, you are more than welcome to! i'd love some suggestions :) have a great day! xoxo

Clark’s late for work.

This isn’t surprising or unexpected, but it’s sort of irking you right now. Usually, you find it endearing to watch him stumble in and hurry to his desk. Hair askew, eyes wide, coffee cup in hand. It’s the best part of your morning. If it were any other day, it still would be.

But you’re waiting for him now, holding a tupperware of cookies that you'd slaved over all night. You want to apologize for your weirdness yesterday, maybe explain Sadie’s psychotic plan, and try to suss out what had him running off before you’d ordered drinks. He’s late, though, and every second that passes tightens the knot in your stomach. It’s giving you ample time to worry, to doubt both yourself and his feelings.

Sadie’s been watching you for the last 15 minutes, giving you a thumbs up whenever you catch her eye. It’s nice to have her support. You just wish it would do more for the nerves buzzing under your skin.

You like Clark. You really, really like him. It’s embarrassing how badly you want this to work.

As if he can sense your inner turmoil, he suddenly appears. As frazzled as you expected him to be, with a coffee in each hand and a pastry bag tucked under his arm. Your heart leaps into your throat. His eyes are on you. He’s walking towards you.

You jump to your feet just as he stops in front of your desk, baked goods clutched in your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you say at the same time he does, and the nervous energy fizzles away. You snort, he chuckles, and you’re both shaking your heads.

“Sorry,” you say again, lighter this time. “You go first.”

He nods, letting out a breath. Then he offers a coffee—and the pastry bag—to you. “I brought you coffee, and one of those sandwiches you like. From the place around the corner. It’s part of my apology.”

The smile tugging at your lips feels like it has a direct connection to your heart. You set down your tupperware and take the goodies from him. “Dabbling in bribery, are we, Kent?”

His expression almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. Almost. “No, no, I just- I wanted to do something nice for you. I feel terrible about last night.”

“I do, too. And great minds must think alike, because-” you trade the drink and sandwich with your container, holding it out to him. “I made you cookies as part of my apology.”

Clark looks awestruck. Like you just gave him a million dollars, and not shitty cookies you whipped up in the middle of the night. He takes them with the gentleness of someone handling a wounded animal. “You made these for me?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, trying to play it off as no big deal. The way he’s looking at you makes you want to run and hide. “I can’t vouch for how good they’ll be, but… same thing. Doing something nice or whatever.”

He smiles, something soft and warm that forces your lungs to contract. “That… is so much better than my nice thing.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff, smacking him on the shoulder. “Fresh coffee that’s not the sludge they have here? And a sandwich? You’re spoiling me, peanut butter.”

That gets him to chuckle, but some of the tightness lingers around his eyes. “Listen, I’m really sorry about last night. I’ve wanted to take you out for a long time, and when it finally happened, I- I messed it up.”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes speaking. “If anything, I messed it up. With the way I was acting, it… I’m not surprised you left.”

“No, it wasn’t you. I left because I had- there was an emergency.”

“Well, no matter what, I’m sorry. I’ll explain the whole thing to you, but it’s kind of crazy. And it got me stuck in my head, so I couldn’t really let myself be in the moment,” you tell him, chewing nervously on your lip. This is the scary part. “I’d love another chance.”

Clark grins, putting those dimples to good work. You almost slump down in your chair. “Nothing would make me happier. I’d love another chance, too.”

Returning his smile, you try your best to tamper down the butterflies in your stomach. All of your anxiety has melted away. It’s just Clark—kind, beautiful Clark—smiling at you with your cookies in his hands. He wants to go out again, and this time there’s no mistake to atone for. This time, it’s nothing more than a date.

“Tonight?” You ask before you can talk yourself out of it. “Two days in a row might be a lot, so feel free to say no, I just-”

“Tonight’s perfect,” he interrupts you, successfully silencing the beginning of your anxiety spiral. “I’ll plan something for us, and let you know by lunch, okay?”

God, you’d grab him by the lapels and kiss the daylights out of him if you could. Instead, you nod in agreement. “That’s perfect.”

“Alright, I’ll let you get back to work,” he responds, stepping back. He holds up the tupperware, shaking it a little. “Thank you for the cookies, jelly.”

“Well, I know how much of a sweet tooth you have,” you laugh, waving away his gratitude. “Thanks for the coffee and the sandwich.”

“Of course,” he responds, and unceremoniously moves towards his desk. You watch his retreating back for a moment too long.

When you glance over at Sadie, she’s already looking at you. The two of you share a knowing smile.

True to his word, Clark announces the plan for your date as soon as the clock strikes 12. He wants to take you to that new place across town—the fancy restaurant already making waves because of its gorgeous rooftop terrace. The waitlist is a month and a half long, give or take. Clark somehow gets a reservation within a matter of hours. You’re not surprised; he’s gotta be good at persuasion if he’s getting all those interviews with Superman.

He appears at your desk as soon as you both have wrapped up your work for the day. Though you’re quite positive he finished an hour ago and just twiddled his thumbs until you were done. He’s considerate, always has been, and it comes as no surprise. When he offers you his arm, you take it without hesitation. Like it’s second nature, like you’re two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly.

Clark leads you out of the office, and you feel like you could fly.

The restaurant is a 5-minute subway ride away, the duration of which you spend talking about Star Wars. There’s a marathon coming up at the old theatre on Main Street—Clark’s dying to go, and you’re practically inviting yourself to go with him. The grin he sports tells you he’s not too mad about it, though.

When you walk into the restaurant, your date by your side, your jaw drops. The place is gorgeous; it’s held up by ivory-colored marble pillars, accentuating the mural painted on the ceiling, and every wall has an enormous window in the center. The sun sets on the Metropolis skyline, setting the place aglow. It’s gorgeous. It’s the type of restaurant where celebrities and superheroes eat.

You feel wildly out of place. But Clark's presence next to you, warm and solid, bolsters your (nonexistent) courage.

“Oh my God, this place is beautiful,” you gush, looking up at him. “How the hell did you ever get a table?”

 He smiles, those damn dimples making your knees weak. “Called in a couple of favors. I had to make it worth your while considering our mishap last night.”

That makes you laugh. “Well, mission accomplished. Jesus, I bet the food is gonna be so expensive.”

“You won’t need to worry about that. It’s my treat.”

You frown at him the moment he says it, ready with a rebuttal. “Clark, I’m not just gonna let you- oh! That actually reminds me-” you dig into your bag and pull out the money he’d given you the night before, “I wanted to give this back to you. It didn’t feel right to use it without you, so…”

His brows furrow as you hold the bill out to him. “You should’ve used it. That’s why I gave it to you. Keep it and buy yourself something nice.”

Always the gentleman. You roll your eyes and, in a moment of bravery, slide it into his breast pocket. Electricity sparks in your gut, heart rate spiking, as you force yourself not to blush. Clark goes still as a statue, watching you with wide eyes. For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the room.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment to choke out your response. “You buy yourself something nice.”

A smile spreads slowly over his mouth. “You’re so stubborn.”

He says it like it’s a compliment. You feel like the most beautiful person in the world. “Yes, I am. Now let’s go on our date.”

He doesn’t need any additional incentives. Clark checks in with the host, and then you’re being led to your table on the terrace. Of course, it’s on the terrace. He’s pulled out all the stops for this. Your heart’s going to burst out of your chest.

He pulls your chair out for you again before taking his own. Your server comes by and takes your drink order. One glance at the menu confirms your suspicions—everything here is ridiculously expensive. Clark orders a bottle of wine anyway. It’s a special occasion, he tells you.

You’re daydreaming of dangerous things, like children’s names and five-year anniversaries.

When you’re alone, he turns to you. “So, how about you tell me why you were acting so weird yesterday?”

You visibly cringe. There’s no going back after this. “Okay, but you have to promise not to make fun of me. Or hold it over my head.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, an amused smirk on his face. “I’m not promising either of those things.”

His response is equal parts expected and frustrating. You show him as much with a groan, burying your face in your hands. He chuckles, deep and warm.

“Come on, jelly. It can’t be that bad.”

“You say that now,” you warn, shaking your head. You decide to just dive right in. “Basically, Sadie asked me to set you guys up. She said she liked you and she knew we were friends and so she- she wanted me to put in a good word.”

Shock overtakes Clark’s features, and he opens his mouth to comment. You continue before he gets the chance.

“I told her I’d do it because she’s my best friend and I love her. But it was killing me because I like you so much. And so I went to ask you, and I… God, I messed it up. You asked if I was asking you out, and I just went with it. Because I panicked! And because I wanted to go out with you.

“But literally right after, I felt so bad. I felt like I’d betrayed Sadie, and like I’d tricked you, and the whole thing was a mess,” you explain. You’re avoiding his eyes, afraid of what you’ll see there. “I decided I would tell you at the end of the day, when the date started. And I’d just hope you didn’t hate me. But you left early, and I didn’t get the chance, and I just went home feeling like shit.”

He sighs, the sound overwhelmingly apologetic. You know he feels terrible about having to leave—just like you know his excuse for leaving was bullshit. But you’re letting it slide.

“When I got home, Sadie called me. And Clark, you will never guess what she told me. The whole thing was a setup! She knew how I felt about you, and she thought I just needed a push. She thought her saying she had feelings for you would make me confess. It didn’t, obviously, but I messed it up so badly that we still ended up here. God, I was so mad. And so amazed at her mind.”

You finally look up at him, nerves getting the better of you. “So I just- I was scared that I was ruining things between her and me, or between you and me, but I wasn’t. She was actually being a crazy powerful wing-woman.”

The weight of the story lingers between you. A million emotions flash across Clark’s face, each one as incomprehensible as the last. You’re getting nervous when he finally breaks the silence.

“That is…” he lets out a breath, eyes glittering. A shit-eating grin grows over his face. “You like me so much?”

Your face lights on fire. You roll your eyes and attempt to hide it, throwing your napkin at him. “You’re focusing on the wrong part of the story, peanut butter!”

Clark bursts into laughter, catching the linen with ease as his head falls back. He’s beautiful like this, of course, as if the sun itself is seeping out of him. Even if he’s laughing at your expense, even if you’re so terribly embarrassed, you’d do it all over again to see him laugh.

“Alright, I’m sorry,” he wheezes, righting his glasses while he attempts to regain his composure. “I just- you have to admit that it’s cute. All of this because you like me. Because you like me so much that Sadie had to intervene.”

You’re beginning to feel self-conscious. You laid your feelings bare for Clark, and he’s taking amusement from it. He’s not making fun of you. You know he would never do that, but still. You’re vulnerable.

You pick at the skin around your nails, lips pressed into a thin line. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No!” he exclaims immediately—intensely. He reaches over and wraps his fingers around your wrist. Your hand twitches. “No, not at all. It’s a great thing. The best thing I’ve heard in a long time. I like you so much too.”

“You do?” Your smile rivals his.

“Of course I do. How could I not?” He says it as though it should be obvious. His eyes reflect how serious he is. “You’re my best friend. You’re amazingly talented, kind, beautiful, and a million other things. I’ve liked you for a long time. I think I… I think we both needed this push.”

Clark has a way of making you feel like your heart is going to explode. Right now, it’s pattering ruthlessly against your ribcage. Like a bird trying to escape. Again, images of what could be float in your brain. Making him a birthday cake, picking out sheets for your bed together, slow dancing in the kitchen.

“We owe Sadie the world’s biggest thank you gift,” you say, because everything else feels like too much and not enough at the same time.

Clark chuckles, his thumb rubbing circles into your wrist. “Yes, we do.”

You take the plunge. You pull your hand away just enough to grab his, intertwining your fingers together. He’s warm against your skin—large, comforting, safe. You never want to let go. He squeezes your hand in a way that says he feels the same.

The wine comes not long after, and you order dinner before taking the glass Clark offers you. You don’t even want to know how much it was, but the way the flavors burst on your tongue says enough. He’s doing too much for you. He’s too damn good.

When he pulls his hand away to refill your glasses, he puts it back just as quickly. Your pulse skips. Thank God he can’t hear it.

“Why didn’t you ask me out sooner, if you liked me too?” you ask halfway through your second glass. The sun has disappeared below the skyline, and the twinkling lights bordering the terrace have lit up. Everything has a warm glow, making it feel like a dream. You’re almost convinced it is.

Clark clicks his tongue and sets his glass down. He looks even prettier under the cover of night. With his curls mussed up, a light pink to his cheeks, his coat discarded and sleeves rolled to the elbows. You could take a bite out of him right now—which is most definitely the alcohol talking.

“Honestly? I was worried it would ruin this. What we have,” he explains, and the fear is all too familiar. You’d been scared of the same thing. It was a big reason you never said anything yourself. But now, sitting here with him, you can’t believe you’d waited this long. So much time wasted. “You’re such an important part of my life. Having you as a friend was easier to swallow than not having you at all.”

You give him a sad smile, squeezing his hand. “I felt the same. I couldn’t imagine losing you. But this… this is nice. It feels right.”

“It does,” he chuckles, ducking his head. You want to take him in your arms and never ever let go. When he looks back up at you, his expression is serious. “I’m sorry it took us so long to get here.”

“It’s okay. It’s just as much my fault as it is yours,” you console him, waving away his apology. “But now we have plenty of time to make up for it.”

“I’ll drink to that, jelly,” he raises his glass towards you. You grin and raise yours in tandem.

It’s halfway through dinner when the best night of your life (so far) takes a turn for the worse. Clark tells you a story from his childhood—something about a tractor mishap that ended with him stuck in three feet of mud—that’s making you laugh so hard your sides hurt. You can see it so clearly, sweet farm-boy Clark trudging home in soaked, dirty boots, and it’s warming your heart. You wonder if there’s anything in the world that could make you less charmed by him. The chances feel slim.

He laughs along with you, polishing off the rest of his wine. Something in his expression has suddenly gone stricken. It’s a microscopic difference, nearly imperceptible, but you notice it anyway. It makes your gut twist.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick, okay? Sorry,” he murmurs, getting to his feet.

“No worries,” you tell him, even though you are worried. There’s been a shift in the last ten seconds, and you both can feel it. You just wonder what it means. “I’ll be here.”

He quickly disappears back inside the restaurant, leaving you with a half-eaten meal and a pit in your stomach.

Three minutes later, the terrace becomes a flurry of activity when Superman lands in the center of the dining area. People gasp and exclaim, jump to their feet, pull their phones out to snap pictures—the typical reactions of civilians coming face-to-face with an extraterrestrial superhero. No one seems very distressed at seeing him. But if he’s here, it surely means trouble isn’t far behind.

You’ve never seen Superman close-up. Sure, you’ve seen pictures and seen him from a distance, but nothing like this. He’s only a few feet away from you, looking very hero-like in the cape. That signature curl falls across his forehead, contrasting against his icy blue eyes. You’ll admit that he’s very handsome.

He’s also infuriatingly familiar. There’s something about him—you can’t place it, and it’s driving you crazy.

“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, folks!” he calls, holding his hands up apologetically. “There’s an attack happening down the block, and we want to make sure everyone’s safe, so I’m gonna have to ask everyone to start heading home.”

There’s an immediate uproar of questions, complaints, and fearful cries. You feel smugly validated. You’d been right about the trouble. Of course, the smugness gives way to panic when you remember that Clark’s in the bathroom. You have to go get him.

A loud boom echoes through the air right then, followed by the entire building shuddering. Just where Superman had said the trouble is, the skyscraper down the block begins to crumble. You see a brief flash of green, a sure sign that the Justice Gang—name pending—has arrived on the scene. There’s a moment of silence as everyone comprehends what happened. And then it’s chaos.

Chairs are knocked over, tables upended, and glassware thrown to the ground as people flee. You get to your feet just in time to avoid being trampled by a panicked couple in matching purple cardigans. They quickly veer left, heading to the terrace exit with the rest of the evacuating diners. You watch them for a moment, stunned by the frenzy, before decidedly heading the opposite way. Not towards safety, but towards the restaurant where Clark resides.

“Excuse me, you can’t go in there,” a voice says from behind you. It’s Superman, now only a foot from where you stand. “You need to evacuate to safety.”

“Yes, I know. I will. But my- my friend’s inside,” you explain, gesturing to the door. “I have to go get him, and then we’ll go.”

The crumbling skyscraper is nearly demolished now. The building next to it—one building closer to the restaurant—is being targeted instead. Superman’s expression is growing panicked.

“I’ll make sure everyone gets out, you need to head home now.”

You’re shaking your head before he even finishes speaking. You’re not leaving without knowing Clark is safe. “I’m sorry, I can’t. But I’ll be quick. I just need to grab him and-”

“I need you to go home, jelly. Right now.”

Every bit of blood in your body turns to ice. There is only one person in this entire world who calls you that. You look at Superman—really look at him. You blink and let your eyes unfocus. When they clear up again, it’s not a superhero you’re looking at.

It’s Clark. Your Clark.

He’s without his glasses and clad in an ‘S’ marked suit, but it’s him. You have no idea how you didn’t see it until this moment. Honestly, it’s making your head hurt a little.

“Oh my God,” you breathe. You don’t know what else to say. What can you say? Your world has just fallen off its axis.

“Go home,” he pleads, sounding like his life depends on it. Based on the damage happening behind him, it might. He takes your hands in his and squeezes. It feels like Clark. “Please. I’ll come to you when this is over.”

You don’t have a response. You just nod numbly and pull away. Head towards the exit that everyone else has already taken. You don’t look back when you hear him take off into the sky, feeling a gust of wind against you. You don’t look back the entire way to your apartment.

When Clark comes to you, it’s nearly two hours later.

The knock on the door breaks you out of your dissociation, and you peel yourself off the couch to open it. He stands on the other side, still in his suit, looking like a kicked puppy. You almost feel bad for him. But you’re still kind of in shock, so mostly you just stare.

Clark Kent is Superman. Superman is Clark Kent. And he’s standing in your doorway.

“Hi,” he says, quieter than you’ve ever heard him.

You attempt a smile. “Hi.”

He inclines his head towards the apartment. “Can I come in?”

“Oh. Yeah,” you move out of the way for him, attempting to shake off some of your awkwardness. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re alright,” he assures you, moving into the room. You shut the door behind him.

The sight is a little ridiculous. Superman, wearing the face of the man you’re halfway in love with, is standing in your living room. He looks taller as Superman. Clark hunches down, makes himself smaller, and you suppose he doesn’t feel the need to do that now.

Things are different. He’s different. You’re just not sure how deep that goes yet.

“Were you going to tell me?” you ask, surprising yourself. You didn’t think you’d break the silence first. Maybe it’s the journalist in you. Or the part that has feelings for Clark Kent.

“Yes,” he says immediately, turning towards you. He moves to step closer to you, then stops. Hesitates. “If we- if this became… something. I was going to tell you. Otherwise, the risk just isn’t worth it.”

“Risk?”

He gestures to himself, to the ‘S’ symbol on his chest. “Being close to Superman means putting a target on your back. I didn’t want you in that position unless I knew you’d be around for a while.”

“So why tonight? Why’d you give yourself away?” your next questions come quickly, your brain desperate for more information. For an explanation of all of this. “Or was that just a slip-up in the heat of the moment?”

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing up the curls. “I needed you out of there. And I knew you wouldn’t go unless you- you knew I was safe.”

He’s right. And he’s so earnest right now that it’s hurting your heart. You’re not angry at him, not really. You knew why he didn’t tell you even before he said it. It’s protection, both for you and for himself.

You don’t need answers because you’re upset. You need them because, despite going on two failed first dates, this moment feels like the beginning of something. Something real, something lasting. And you’ve got the feeling that you’re willing to go all in. As long as he’ll meet you in the middle.

“When you left last night, it was a Superman thing.”

It’s not a question. He nods anyway. His jaw tightens, his eyes bleeding regret.

“I knew it,” you shake your head. “I knew the family emergency excuse was bullshit.”

Clark chuckles. It eases some of the tension between you. “Good job, Detective.”

You smile at him. There’s silence for a beat, and then he speaks again. “Listen, I know this isn’t what you signed up for. And you have every right to be angry at me. If you never want to see me again, I understand. But I… I like you. A lot. And I want-”

“Oh my God, peanut butter, can you shut up for a second?” you interrupt his spiral, earning a surprised look from him. You give him a smile. “I like you a lot, too. And I’m not angry at you. I’m not sure what having a superhero boyfriend will be like, but… y’know. I’m a quick learner.”

He grins, bright as the sun. You wonder if that’s one of his powers. Jesus. The man has powers. That’s gonna take some getting used to. “I’m your boyfriend?”

You roll your eyes. Talk about selective hearing. “Let’s get a first date officially under our belt before we throw labels around.”

This time, he doesn’t stop himself from moving closer. He grabs your hands again, brushing his thumbs over your wrists. “I’m really sorry. I’m gonna make it up to you. For real, this time.”

“Well, you better,” you tease, looking up at him. “I’d like a date without a villain attack one of these days.”

“And you’ll get it. I promise,” he vows. His eyes scan your face, his own barely restraining the glee he’s feeling. When he looks at your lips, he hesitates for a moment. “You’re everything, jelly.”

Your heart skips a beat. He probably hears it, which is mortifying.

When you respond, it’s barely above a whisper. “Am I about to have my first kiss with Superman?”

“No,” he murmurs, and you try to extinguish the flare of disappointment. But then he speaks again. “You’re about to have your first kiss with Clark Kent.”

God, you like him so much. You lean up to meet him as he lowers his head.

Clark kisses you, and it feels like every nerve in your body sings. His lips are soft against yours, gently caressing as if you’re something priceless. His hands slide to your hips and pull you close. There’s no demand, no urgency in the motion. Just the desire to have you near.

You slide a hand into the curls at the nape of his neck, and you can feel him smiling into the kiss. It feels right. It feels like home.

Maybe things didn’t have the smoothest start, or go how you wanted, but you wouldn’t change it for anything. You’re here, in Clark’s arms, and you’re quite sure you’ve never been happier.

You owe Sadie your life. And a very expensive thank you gift.

Taglist: @sflame15-blog @missmontiopath @kissmxcheek @reh-llik @lisiliely @stereading @nina357 @bxtchopolis @trulovekay @reblcaptain @bubby-barnes @oscarisdaddy69 @lecwife

[twiceasbright]

The One With the Ring | Clark Kent

PAIRING: Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Clark knew he was going to put a ring on your finger the day he met you, but when he slips up and lets the entire world know that Superman is off the market, things get a little more... interesting.

WARNINGS: None

W/C: 1.4k

There are some things in life that you just know, which rang true the moment Clark Kent met you. Watching you walk into the Daily Planet bullpen with Lois, arms moving animatedly as you spoke with a smile on your face, he knew in that moment that he was going to marry you someday.

Of course, he took his time getting there, but he was prepared to wait for you. He was nothing if not a gentleman, politely introducing himself before finding any excuse to talk to you. He would bring you coffee in the mornings, figuring out how you liked it and doing his best to make sure it was right. If you stayed late at the office to finish up an article, Clark would be staying behind too. He would walk you to your door when you finally headed home, making sure you were safely inside and pretending that he couldn't hear the way your heart skipped a beat when he kissed your cheek goodnight.

He was awkward, though. Superman was approachable, talkative, open to conversation with strangers he had just met, but Clark was a bumbling, stuttering, nervous mess when it came to you. It took Lois spelling it out for him, saying in no uncertain terms that you liked him, for Clark to finally ask you out on a date.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

Clark married you a few years after that first date, in a small ceremony held on his family's farm. You walked down the aisle, radiant in your wedding dress, all smiles as you practically floated towards him. Clark knew how it felt to fly, but in that moment he felt utterly weightless watching you approach. His eyes had clouded with tears and Lois elbowed Jimmy rather harshly in the ribs when he couldn't contain his laughter.

You and Clark didn't care, though.

All that mattered was those soft-spoken vows, the way his hand held yours so delicately, keeping you close until he could finally kiss you as his wife.

There was no doubt in anybody's mind that Clark was in the running for Husband of the Year. Any excuse he could find to bring you up, he would be proudly calling you my wife. If you got the front page with an article, he would boast about it as if it was his own achievement. Something as mundane as cooking a dinner for the two of you? He'd be showing Jimmy and Lois a picture and declaring that his wife could be a world-renowned chef. You'd be somewhere to the side, blushing with your face hidden in your hands because you could tie your shoelaces and Clark would find some way to sing your praises.

He wore his wedding ring like it was the greatest prize he'd ever won. Every day, he looked at you and thanked the stars that they'd sent you his way that day. Somewhere, the fates had aligned and created you both from the same stardust, bonding you together in ways that were cosmic and inevitable.

Clark Kent was happily married and would shout it from the rooftops for anybody to hear, but Superman? As far as the world knew, he was a lone wolf.

Whenever Clark had Superman business to tend to, he would leave his wedding ring with you. He knew that you sometimes got anxious watching him head off to face whatever danger threatened the city that day, so he left his ring as a promise to you.

He would be back.

Whatever it took, he would come back for that ring, because there was nothing in this universe that would stand between Clark Kent and coming home to you every night.

So you would wait, watching the newsfeed of Superman fighting the most recent invader, rolling Clark's ring between your thumb and forefinger absentmindedly.

But even heroes slip up sometimes and the day Clark forgot to leave his wedding ring behind, you can bet the entire world had something to say about it.

It started with a blurry picture, taken by someone after Superman landed in the crowd and greeted people like they were his longtime friends. Although it was unfocused, it was obvious that he was wearing a wedding ring and the moment you saw it flash up on your newsfeed, your eyes had widened.

He was trending almost immediately, different angles of his left hand and an internet ablaze with speculation over who Superman's mystery man or woman could be.

"Y/N," Lois said, snapping you out of your deep-dive through the articles already spawning online. "Weigh in on this. You think Superman's married?"

"Oh, come on," Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair dramatically. "He was wearing a ring. Clear as day. He's obviously married."

You turned in your chair, shrugging. "I don't know. I guess it's a possibility. I mean, what do we even know about the guy?"

"That's such a boring, objective answer," Jimmy said, rolling his eyes. "The reporter in you is showing."

You flipped him off and went back to your computer, eyeing Clark's desk opposite yours. Ever since you started at the Planet, your desks had faced one another and you always questioned whether Chief Perry had made it that way on purpose. Not that you minded, because it gave you an excuse to stare at Clark's pretty face all day, but right now he was missing.

Unsurprising, considering he was just seen not twenty minutes ago in a park downtown.

You didn't have it in you to be mad at him for his mistake, but you couldn't help but wonder what the ramifications of this would be. Superman would be under more scrutiny than ever, with people prying into his personal business like they had a right to know everything about him. How long would it be before somebody figured it out? How would that affect Clark?

Speaking of the devil, he returned to the bullpen with flushed cheeks, windswept hair and his tie loosened around his neck. You shook your head at him as he approached you, an iced coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Placing the latter down first, he bypassed his desk and approached yours, leaning down to greet you with a kiss while he slid the coffee onto your desk.

"Hi," he mumbled against your lips.

"You're trending." You reached for his tie and adjusted it, keeping him hunched over your desk as you watched his eyebrows furrow in confusion. With a sly grin, you turned your gaze to your computer screen, feeling Clark's eyes follow you to the blurry picture of him and his very obvious wedding ring.

"Oh," he said softly, a look of panic flashing across his face as he looked down at his left hand, where his wedding ring was still on his finger.

You couldn't help your smile. "There's worse things to trend for."

Clark straightened up when you released his tie, his cheeks reddening further as he leaned against your desk. "I'm sorry-"

"You don't have to apologise," you told him, resting a hand on his knee. "Just promise me you'll say good things about me when people ask."

Clark leaned down to kiss you again, ignoring the mocking gags from Jimmy across the room. When he pulled away, he looked at you with blown pupils that reflected just how much he loved you. It was the same way he looked at you the day you got married, every day before that and every day since.

"I have nothing but good things to say about you."

Superman went on the record the next time he did an interview with Clark Kent to say that he was happily married to a woman that brightened up his entire world. He asked for privacy in his personal life and although the internet unanimously agreed to give him that, it did not stop the onslaught of comments about how his eyes lit up when he talked about his wife during a recent public appearance.

You had laid in bed with Clark, scrolling through the endless flood of support for Superman and his wife, smiling despite yourself. When you got married, Clark promised you that he would do his best not to let his life as Superman interfere with the life the two of you were building. That was a whispered promise for only you when you were wrapped in one another's arms after the guests had all gone home.

Watching the world learn what you'd known all along, that the man currently wrapped around your body without a care in the world was the biggest loverboy in the universe, was enough to warm your heart.

"I don't mind them knowing that you're married," you mused, lifting your head from where it had been resting on Clark's chest. "But if you name-drop me it's going to cause an absolute scene at work for poor Clark Kent."

[twiceasbright]

٠ ࣪⭑ you are in love

‎pairing: clark kent x reader (3.0K words)

summary: clark kent had always been a good friend to you at the daily planet—but as the two of you fall head over heels for each other, you can’t help but notice the striking similarities between him and superman

warnings & content: mutual pining, clark is a sweetheart and a goofball, female reader, reader is too perceptive for her own good, journalist!reader, clark is a little bit of a loser

Clark Kent was something out of a dream.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and way too polite, like someone had ripped a leading man from a black-and-white movie and dropped him into the bullpen of the Daily Planet. He brought you coffee on Mondays, held the elevator even when you were running across the lobby like a lunatic, and laughed at your jokes like they were actually funny.

Maybe he actually did find them funny.

So, it wasn't very hard to believe that you fell for him hard. Head over heels hard.

Cat and Lois cheered you on every time you spoke to Clark. You thought they'd tease relentlessly, but they were actually incredibly supportive. Lois thought you two were a perfect pair, and Cat.. well, Cat just loved to be a part of gossip. Especially romantic gossip. But she'd never dare tell a soul you liked Clark; that's what was so great about her.

And Clark? Clark was.. clueless. Or maybe not, you couldn’t tell. He blushed when you complimented his ties. He once held eye contact for a solid ten seconds before walking into a filing cabinet. But then he’d disappear halfway through lunch for “an errand,” only to show up later with windblown hair and an excuse so flimsy even Jimmy side-eyed him.

There was something about him—something too gentle, too careful. Like he was constantly trying to shrink himself down to fit the room. Like he wasn’t just Clark Kent, but something more.

Sometimes you had to double take and remind yourself this was your coworker, your friend. But then again.. he did remember your coffee order down to the extra shot of espresso. He always made room for you on the elevator, even when it was packed. And he looked at you like you were the first good thing that had ever happened to him.

So maybe it wasn't a shocker that you fell for him. Maybe it was just fate.

Clark and you had become fast friends from the first day you'd landed the job at the Daily Planet. His desk was right across from yours, making it easy to just turn to each other and chat. Clark lit up a room with his bright, dorky smile and his boyish charm.

There was something so special about Clark. You knew it even before you fell hard for him. Clark had such a gentle, kind heart. The kind that's not just worn on a sleeve, but rather worn everywhere. If there was ever some argument about justice or truth, he was the first to defend it. The first to defend the innocent, the helpless.

It was infuriating, sometimes. How someone could be so good and soft and sincere without it being some kind of act. And it made the nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that much worse.

Because there was something else. Something you couldn’t quite explain.

Like how Clark seemed to vanish the second anything chaotic happened. How his clothes always had that faint singed smell, like he’d walked too close to a lightning strike. How sometimes, just sometimes, you’d catch him staring at the television in the breakroom right as some new reporter spoke about Superman. It was the way he listened so intensely that caught your attention.

You weren’t trying to snoop. Truly, you weren’t. You just noticed things. Small things. Quiet things. Things other people overlooked because Clark Kent was so.. unassuming.

But you noticed. And you were starting to connect the dots.

“Do you think Superman is just some regular Joe?” You asked, spinning in your chair as you avoided your computer screen. Sports column. Oh, how you hated when Perry gave you the damned sports column.

Clark's head whipped over to you, his face an expression you couldn't quite read. “Sorry?”

“Like.. do you think he just has some boring old day job like us?” You continued, the pen in your hand clicking over and over. “I mean, what does Superman do when he isn't.. super.”

Clark chuckled nervously, you noted. “I… guess I never thought about it.”

You clicked your pen, once, twice. “I mean, he’s always around when big stuff happens. But in between? He’s gotta eat, right? Pay rent?”

“I suppose so,” he said slowly, voice just the tiniest bit too tight. “I don’t think Superman has to worry about rent.”

“No rent,” you repeated. “Right. Because he’s what? Crashing at a super secret lair no one knows about?”

Clark cleared his throat. “Uh. Maybe.”

You finally looked at him, raising a brow. He was doing that thing again—adjusting his glasses like they were a nervous tic, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve, not quite meeting your eyes. You leaned your elbow on your desk, resting your chin in your hand. “What do you think Superman eats for breakfast?”

“I don’t know,” Clark muttered, clearly flustered. “Toast?”

“Toast,” you echoed, trying not to smile. “The Man of Steel eats toast.”

Clark shrugged. “Everyone eats toast. I eat toast. I love toast.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You’re sweating.”

He blinked. “It’s.. hot in here.”

It wasn’t. You both knew it. But he was already ducking his head, pretending to refocus on his screen, the tips of his ears turning suspiciously red.

Huh. Very interesting.

You didn’t let the topic drop, no, not yet. You could see the way Clark’s fingers hovered stiffly over his keyboard, typing nothing.

“Okay, toast,” you said, twirling your pen between your fingers. “But what about coffee? You think Superman takes it black? Or is he secretly the type to order something ridiculous with oat milk and whipped cream?”

Clark glanced at you from the corner of his eye, lips twitching like he wanted to smile but was scared of what might come out. “Probably black,” he said. “He’s efficient.”

You snorted. “That’s boring.”

“Maybe he likes boring.”

“Maybe he pretends to.”

That earned you a real smile—crooked, boyish, so bright it made your stomach do a little flip. And just like that, the teasing slipped out before you could stop it.

“You know,” you said, resting your chin in your palm again, “you smile just like him.”

Clark froze. Like actually froze. He looked like a baby deer in headlights.

For a second you thought maybe he’d short-circuited. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his mouth half-open like he was trying to think of a word that didn’t exist yet.

“I—what?” he stammered.

You bit your lip, half enjoying this, half swooning at how adorably flustered he was. “Superman,” you clarified, tapping your pen against your notepad. “You kinda smile like him.”

“I don’t—” he shook his head, letting out a breathy laugh, “I mean, that’s—he’s—I’m—that’s not—”

“You okay over there?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I just—no one’s ever said that before.”

“Why not? You’ve got that same thing. Like…” You waved vaguely toward his face. “Hopeful. Heroic. Like you’re trying to save a kitten stuck in a tree with your eyes.”

He made a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cough. “You’re—uh. Very observant.”

“Occupational hazard,” you said sweetly.

He looked like he was trying to melt into his chair. You were pretty sure if he was Superman, he’d have flown straight through the ceiling to escape this conversation. You smiled to yourself, eyes flicking back to your half-written sports column.

Interesting, indeed.

There were more times that Clark seemed to get oddly strange about Superman. Like when you said he was tall enough to be Superman and he spit out his coffee. Or when you said his hair was curly like Superman and he tried to say his hair was just wavy.

You really weren’t trying to torture him. Not intentionally. It was just.. so easy. And kind of adorable. It was also a good way to test your suspicion.

Like this morning, when you caught him watching the news broadcast from a rooftop rescue the night before. Superman had carried an entire bus off a collapsing bridge—again—and you’d found Clark standing by the breakroom TV, arms crossed, brows furrowed in concern like he was the one who’d pulled it off and was now second-guessing the landing.

You leaned against the doorway, sipping your coffee. “Think he ever gets tired of saving the world?”

Clark jumped, like you’d caught him stealing. “Who?”

You grinned. “Superman.”

“Oh. Uh. Probably not. I mean.. it’s kind of his thing, right?”

“Maybe.” You tilted your head. “Or maybe he’s just really tired and doesn’t let anyone know.”

Clark looked at you then. Really looked. It was like he was scanning for something beneath the surface of your words. You didn’t flinch. You were starting to enjoy this little dance a little too much.

You took another sip and added, “If he ever wanted to take a day off, I’m sure the world would survive. One day without Superman wouldn’t kill us.”

Clark swallowed thickly, turning back to the TV. “I don’t know about that.”

You stepped beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, and leaned in just enough to make his breath catch. “I think it would. Kill you, I mean. You’d go crazy not being able to help.”

He turned to you again, blinking rapidly. “Why would I—?”

“If you were Superman, I mean,” You replied instantly. “It would kill you to not go a day without helping. Seems like you and our Kryptonian have that in common.”

You and Clark always liked to have pasta night. It wasn’t a date. At least, not officially. It was just something you did after those long, soul-draining Daily Planet days, when the world felt too loud and the newsroom felt too full of egos and deadlines and bad coffee. Pasta night was the safe zone. Laughter over stovetop steam. Old movies on the TV. Clark humming as he chopped garlic with annoyingly perfect knife skills.

Tonight, after a tragically long day trailing Cat Grant around while she whispered office secrets like she was auditioning for Gossip Girl, you were practically crawling to Clark's apartment.

It was locked, unfortunately. But it was so late, so you weren't sure why he wasn't home. Thankfully, Clark kept a spare key under the mat, a terrible hiding spot in a city like Metropolis, but very on-brand for someone who still believed in the good in people. You grabbed it, unlocked the door, and slid it right back where it belonged.

“Clark?” you called softly, just in case.

Confirmed: not home. Lights off. No rustle of movement from the bedroom. No familiar clatter in the kitchen. It was quiet in the way that felt wrong. Clark’s apartment was never silent. It always hummed with soft music, the occasional kettle on the stove, the warm shuffle of him padding around barefoot.

You checked your phone. 7:03 p.m. Weird.

You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you and locking it with a quiet click. His apartment was tidy, as usual, but lived-in. Cozy. A blanket still draped over the arm of the couch from the last time you'd watched movies together. A pair of glasses on the coffee table. His laptop still open on the dining table, half a document glowing on the screen.

You dropped your bag by the door and took off your shoes. Something just felt so off about this.

You wandered to the window, peeking out at the skyline. The familiar neon glow of Metropolis buzzed in the distance. Traffic rolled steady. People moved like ants below. But the longer you sat in the quiet, the more the nothing started to feel like something.

And the more you were sure, without a doubt, that Clark Kent was hiding something.

After about fifteen minutes, the front door opened. You turned your head around, ready to question your friend about why he was out so late like a worried mother. Then, you saw it. That unmistakable S symbol on his chest. Not just on his chest, but on his suit. Superman's suit.

That was Superman.

Or.. no. It was Clark. Same height. Same shoulders. Same eyes. But the glasses were gone. The tie was gone. The soft sweater and rolled sleeves were gone. And in their place: the suit.

For a second, he didn’t see you. He had one hand on the doorknob, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, jaw tight. He looked like he’d just flown through hell and back. His suit was scuffed, a tear at the shoulder, a faint smear of soot across his cheek.

Once he turned around, his eyes widened when he saw you. His whole body stilled, like his mind was catching up to what his heart already knew; he’d been caught.

“Are you hurt?”

You didn't expect those to be the first words from your mouth. Maybe a scold, anger because how could he keep such a secret from you? But for some reason, your worry and care for him made the words tumble from your lips before you could even think about saying anything else.

Clark shook his head, “No, no. I-I'm okay. What.. are you doing here? How'd you even get in?”

“Don't worry about that,” you shrugged his question off. “You look tired.”

“Fights are still tiring,” Clark replied, giving you a soft, crooked smile. He sounded breathless. Whether from the fight or the fact that you were standing there, in his apartment, seeing him.. you couldn’t tell.

You nodded to the couch. “Sit down, Clark.” He hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself with a quiet exhale. You sat beside him, close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin, but not quite touching.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched between you, soft and charged and full of everything you hadn’t asked yet.

Finally, you broke it. “Were you going to keep it from me forever?”

Clark stared down at his hands. “I didn’t know how to tell you. Every time I tried, it felt like I’d be asking you to see me differently. And I didn’t want to lose the way you look at me now.”

“I see you the same,” you instantly assured. “The way I look at it? You aren't Superman. Superman is Clark.” He perked up at your words, just a fraction, but you caught it. “That heart of yours is a Clark Kent heart that Superman represents.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again, then finally said, “Sometimes I feel like Superman is who I have to be. But Clark…” He looked down again, voice gentler. “Clark’s the real me. The part I hoped someone might love, even if the rest of the world only ever sees the cape.”

Your breath caught. And before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to rest on top of his. The word fell from your lips again, like some sort of mind control or truth serum:

“I already do, Clark.”

His gaze snapped to yours.

“I already love that part of you.”

For a beat, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, tentatively, he laced his fingers through yours. You could feel the shift in the air between you. Something unspoken settling into place. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward, but sacred.

Clark looked at you like you were unreal. “I’ve wanted to tell you for so long,” he murmured. “But I was scared. Not of what you’d think of Superman.. but of what you’d think of me.”

“Clark,” you whispered, “I’ve been falling for you since the first time you offered me coffee and spilled half of it on your own shirt.” Your words made him chuckle airly, a sound that always made you smile in return.

His free hand came up, hesitant at first, fingertips brushing your cheek, then settling softly at your jaw like he was still asking permission. When you didn't back away, he leaned in slowly like a moment stretched thin with meaning, like he wanted to savor every second before it broke.

And then, his lips met yours.

He kissed you like you were fragile and eternal all at once—like he didn’t want to overwhelm you, but he needed you to know. Needed you to feel everything he hadn’t been able to say.

You kissed him back, and he melted into it—like the tension he carried every day, in every fight, in every lie, finally had somewhere to go.

When you pulled away, just barely, your foreheads rested together.

You whispered, breath warm against his lips, “Hi.”

Clark smiled, eyes still closed. “Hi.” After a moment, he spoke again. "Gosh, I've dreamed about doing that for months now.”

“Live up to your expectations?”

“Beat them significantly.”

You grinned, cheeks warm, still close enough to feel his breath fan across your lips. “Significantly, huh?”

He nodded solemnly. “Astronomically.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That’s a pretty high bar. I hope I don’t disappoint you on the second kiss.”

Clark blinked, momentarily stunned, then gave the goofiest, most love-struck smile you’d ever seen. “There’s going to be a second kiss?”

“I mean.. I hope there's going to be a second kiss,” you answered. “Right now, preferably.”

With a small laugh, Clark leaned in. The kiss was passionate, but more natural, casual than the first one. The kind of kiss you could imagine sharing after a long day of work or in passing.

And when you finally broke apart, barely a breath between you, you couldn’t stop smiling.

“I should probably change out of the super suit,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Kind of ruins the whole normal guy vibe I’ve been going for.”

You gave him a once-over. “Mm. I don’t know. It’s growing on me. Seeing it this close is kind of amazing.”

He flushed instantly. “Don’t say things like that. I might have a heart attack.”

You leaned in one last time and whispered, lips brushing his, “That’d be kind of impressive, considering your heart’s, you know.. bulletproof.”

He laughed, bright and helpless, and you swore you felt it in your chest. And in that quiet, wrapped in warmth and half-lit shadows and truth finally spoken, it felt like the world could pause. Just for a little while.

Because this wasn’t about Superman. This was about him. It had always been about him.

[twiceasbright]

immune | clark kent

fandom: dcu

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader, corenswet!clark kent x psychic!reader

content: reader is a psychic/metahuman, clark kent is immune and suspiciously sweet about it, secret identity tension, slow-burn vibes if you squint.

summary: in which your psychic abilities work on everyone except clark kent — and the more you try to figure it out, the more everything starts to make sense.

author’s note: my first longish clark kent oneshot !! this one took me a while, so pls show it some love 🙏🏻🙏🏻 comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated.

There were perks to being a metahuman. Free coffee was one of them.

“You want the last cup?” Jimmy offered, already reaching for it — until your eyes met his. A slight tilt of your head. A subtle pulse of psychic energy. His hand froze. Then, smiling as if it was his own idea, he said, “Actually, you go ahead. Looks like you need it more.”

You did. But that was besides the point.

The ability to influence people — gently, subtly, never maliciously — had made life at the Daily Planet significantly easier. Deadlines weren’t challenged. Conference rooms weren’t contested. Even Perry approved your story pitches faster than anyone else’s.

Nobody ever noticed. Because it never felt like a shove, just…a good idea they hadn’t realized was yours.

Except it didn’t work on him.

Clark Kent.

He was maddeningly immune. Like a rock in the middle of a current, unmoved by your waves. You realized that during your second week at the Daily Planet, after he’d bumped into you — apologizing profusely as your coffee spilled down the front of your blouse.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” He said, retrieving a roll of paper towels from his desk.

You met his gaze and allowed your power to flow — smooth as silk. “Actually,” You suggested, “it would be really helpful if you could get me a fresh cup.”

Nothing. No hesitation. No flicker of compliance behind those glasses.

He blinked at you. “The coffee? Uh—sure, yeah. How do you take it again?”

No moment of blank surrender, no silent acceptance of your thoughts as his own. Just Clark, doing a kindness because he chose to.

You laughed it off like you always did when your ability slipped, but it kept happening. Every time. With everyone else, the lightest suggestion became reality. But not with him.

At first, you chalked it up to nerves. Maybe you had a thing for him — he was cute, after all. Tall, steady, old-fashioned in a way that should’ve grated but didn’t. Always held the elevator. Kept track of everyone’s birthdays. Smiled like your voice was the only one that mattered whenever you pitched a story.

Maybe your ability had no sway over Clark because, on some level, you never truly wanted it to.

But then you began to notice other things. Like the fact that every Superman interview published by the Daily Planet bore Clark Kent’s byline.

You knew plenty of reporters who’d chased Superman through rooftop stakeouts, bureaucratic red tape, and half a dozen dead-end leads. But Clark? He never had to chase. He always landed the first quote, the exclusive, the one-on-one.

“How do you always land these?” You asked as he submitted yet another polished draft — cheeks flushed from what he called a “quick trip to the scene.”

He adjusted his glasses, looking modest. “Right place, right time.”

You offered a polite smile, but something in your gut pulled tight. Clark Kent was many things, but lucky was not one of them.

Then the disappearances started. Whenever Superman appeared downtown, Clark would vanish from his desk.

Perry barked orders — “Get me boots on the ground!” — and Clark was already gone. Taking an early lunch. Stuck in an elevator. Nowhere to be found.

He’d return to the office breathless — loose tie, tousled hair. “Sorry, I missed it. You all right?”

And like clockwork, Superman’s quotes would appear in his next draft.

Immune to your psychic nudges. Always gone whenever Superman appeared. Somehow landed every exclusive with the most elusive man in Metropolis. It was almost laughable, how obvious it was.

You decided to test your theory during the next bullpen rush.

Perry was in a mood — cursing zoning permits and vigilante damage reports — and Clark was buried in a report on LutherCorp’s latest stunt.

“Clark.” You leaned against his desk, smiling.

He looked up, attentive. “Yeah?”

“Could I borrow that highlighter?”

Clark glanced at the yellow highlighter beside his keyboard. You didn’t move to take it — just tilted your head slightly, sending a soft pulse of power his way, like a breeze brushing up against a mountain.

Stillness. Then, after a beat, he blinked and passed it to you, casual as ever.

“Thanks,” You said, watching him carefully.

“You’re welcome.” His smile was guileless — sweet and entirely unreadable.

That night, Superman rescued a train full of passengers just two blocks from your apartment. Clark skipped the staff happy hour.

You cornered him three days later.

The Daily Planet was nearly deserted. Perry had gone home, and Lois was asleep at her desk, worn out from of a day of chasing dead ends. Clark was in the bullpen, coat draped over one arm, bag slung over his shoulder, already halfway to the elevator when you stepped into his path.

He smiled when he saw you. “Hey. Burning the midnight oil?”

You didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’re immune to me.”

He stilled — just for a moment, but it was enough.

You stepped closer. “Everyone else — one glance, one thought — and they’re bending over backwards. Doing favors. Oversharing. Letting me skip lines. But you…” Your eyes narrowed. “You never do anything I suggest unless you want to.”

Clark shifted his weight, expression unreadable. “Is that…a problem?”

“No,” You replied slowly. “It’s impossible.”

You studied him. Kind, powerful, gentle-eyed Clark Kent. The only person who’d ever helped you freely — not because you nudged him, but because he chose to.

Then, without a trace of psychic influence — just your voice — you said, “You’re not human, are you?”

A pause stretched between you. Then, softly: “No, I’m not.”

You exhaled. A quiet laugh. “Holy shit.”

Clark cast a quick glance around, as if someone might be listening. When he saw the coast was clear, he gave you a small, rueful smile. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just didn’t want to assume you’d be okay with the truth.”

“I’ve been casually psychic-shoving half the office since day one,” You spoke dryly. “Pretty sure I lost the moral high ground a long time ago.”

That earned you a real smile, one that lingered. “You figured it out,” He said, like he was genuinely impressed.

“I had to. You were driving me insane.” You tilted your head, your voice softening. “Why don’t you tell people? You’re Superman. It’s not like anyone’s gonna stop inviting you to parties.”

Clark held your gaze — steady, warm — and then, gently: “Well, why don’t you?”

The words settled between you, quiet and heavy.

You didn’t respond. He didn’t press.

You didn’t have to. Because for the first time since stepping into the bullpen, someone saw you — really saw you. Understood what it meant to live half a life in plain sight. The hiding. The restraint. The quiet ache of knowing you could change the world, if only you were willing to lose a piece of yourself in the process.

Two people, both wrapped in the same quiet lie, carrying truths just beneath the surface.

A moment passed. Then another.

And finally, you let out a slow breath, allowing the stillness to linger before tipping it towards something lighter.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You jerked your head towards the elevator, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Wanna grab a coffee sometime? No psychic interference, I swear.”

That smile of his bloomed, slow and sure. “Yeah,” He said. “I’d really like that.”

[twiceasbright]

— phases to love !!

clark kent x journalist!reader warnings: mentions of a past breakup, workplace meddling (lois & jimmy being matchmakers), miscommunication, force proximity, angst (fluff ending) word count: 4,000k

he doesn’t mean to make two coffees. his hands just move the way they always do—reach, pour, lid, stir (extra sugar, just how you like it). it’s barely seven am and the newsroom is half asleep, so no one’s watching when he stands there holding both cups like an idiot. the sharp ache in his chest says your name before his brain even catches up. the cup in his right hand is yours. well, was yours and is not yours anymore. his jaw clenches. he moves to the sink and dumps it out. steam curls up into his glasses like punishment. he doesn’t flinch. he just rinses the paper cup out and sets it gently in the recycling bin like it’s a wound that might reopen if he’s not careful.

across the bullpen, you haven’t looked at him once. not even when the coffee hit the drain. not even when he willed you to. your eyes have been glued to your screen since you sat down. even on your walk through the building, you found yourself suddenly interested in the floorboards—especially when you passed his desk. you couldn’t look at him. not with the way he’s been sulking like a kicked puppy.

he hasn’t said your name in three days. not out loud, anyway. it’s in the way he lingers when he passes your desk, like he thinks maybe you’ll say something first. like maybe you’ll tell him it was a mistake—this whole pulling-away, closing-off, breaking up thing. it’s in the second coffee he doesn’t mean to make. in the way he never brings a second one again, but always glances toward the machine like his hands are still waiting for permission. it’s in the hollow silence that replaces the little rituals—the walk to the elevator, the split pad thai on tuesdays, the quiet smiles across meetings.

clark’s not good at heartbreak. he doesn’t rage. he doesn’t throw things. he just…folds in on himself. disappears into his work like he can outwrite the ache. and you just keep your eyes forward. you rehearse professionalism like it’s armor. because what else are you supposed to do? tell him you didn’t want to end it? that you only left because you thought he didn’t care enough to fight for it? because god, it really did feel like that. you were always the one texting first. always the one reaching out, bridging the space. he, well, he smiled and kissed you goodnight and made you coffee, but sometimes it felt like you were loving for two.

you hadn’t realized he was just scared. that he thought if he leaned too far in, you’d vanish. but maybe you should’ve because even now—three days later, coffee circling the drain—he still looks at you like he’s waiting for the day you stop walking past him without looking back. and clark isn’t the only one. “just look at them,” jimmy leans over his desk, whispering to lois. she lifts her gaze from her computer to you…then to clark…and back to you. she bites her lip, shaking her head like that’ll help her find the words. “he looks like a dog left in the rain and she looks,” he pauses, “well, she actually looks good, but that’s just her way of hiding her emotions.”

“i actually can’t stand to see them like this.” lois frowns, hand coming up to rub her temple. after all, she was the one who brought you and clark together. “i somehow feel at fault for this.” she stifles out a laugh.

“you’re not,” jimmy mutters, chin propped in one hand as he watches clark misspell ‘mayor’ for the third time in five minutes. “they’re just-” he gestures vaguely toward the emotional minefield that is your corner of the office. “dumb.”

“profound,” lois deadpans, then sighs. “we should lock them in a supply closet. classic soap opera resolution.”

jimmy perks up. “i have keys.” he’s already patting down his pockets for the janitors keys he borrowed a few days ago.

“that was a joke, jimmy.”

“…was it?”

but lois is already standing. stretching her arms like she’s preparing for battle. “no more watching. i’m interfering.”

you barely notice her approach. you’re mid-edit, jaw locked. “hey,” lois says casually, too casually. you glance up, suspicious. she’s holding a folder that doesn’t belong to you. her eyes dart, calculating. “donuts in the break room,” she says. “raspberry-filled.”

your heart trips, but you don’t let it show. she knows those are your favorite. you raise a brow. “and you’re telling me this because…?”

“because you’ve been glued to your screen for hours and i think your blood sugar’s low,” she says sweetly. too sweetly. “and because you need a break.” before you can protest, she’s walking away, leaving the decoy folder on your desk like it’s something important. it’s empty. you check. of course it is.

at the same time, across the newsroom jimmy’s doing something eerily similar. “hey, man,” he says, sidling up to clark’s desk. “there’s donuts in the break room. raspberry ones too.” he moves his eyebrows suggestively. “you should check them out before steve devours them.”

clark blinks. “raspberry?”

“your favorite, right?” jimmy smirks, holding up finger guns in an awkward manner (the girl in the desk across practically faints at the motion). clark hums with a faux smile. raspberry wasn’t always his favorite. he actually preferred glazed or chocolate better. then he met you, and all of a sudden raspberry donuts became routine.

he stands, tugging at the edge of his sleeve as he glances at the break room. no one’s in there—yet. just the fluorescent lights buzzing and the vague smell of cinnamon and baked goods. he doesn’t notice the way jimmy hurries off after, ducking behind a semi-wall like he’s setting up a stakeout. you reach the break room first, your heels tapping softly across linoleum. your stomach growls at the sight of the pink box. now that you think about it, you haven’t had much to eat today. your mouth salivates as you flip open the box. there’s only one left. powdered sugar and raspberry-filled.

your fingers hesitate on the lid. “oh,” a voice behind you. you freeze. he stands in the doorway, looking just as surprised as you feel. “i didn’t think you’d…” he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. his glasses have slipped a little down his nose. he doesn’t fix them.

“same,” you mutter, stepping back from the donut like it’s a ticking time bomb. you both just stand there, awkwardly glancing back-and-fourth between the donut and each other.

he nods toward the box. “you should take it.”

“why? because i’m the girl?” you say, folding your arms. the words come out sharper than you intended. too defensive. too tired.

he flinches—barely, but it’s there. “no. because you got here first.”

you look away, crossing your arms. you focus on the click on your heel as you tap it against the ground. “we could split it.”

he blinks. that unreadable clark kent softness pulling at his brow. “yeah. okay.” he curses himself for sounding so eager. but how could you blame him? he hasn’t talked to you for days. let alone cuddle or kiss you. the thought of sharing something edible with you was heaven. he was getting flashbacks to the touch starved clark that he was before you. you break it down the middle of the donut, your fingers brushing for a second too long. his half ends up with slightly more of the filling. he doesn’t comment on it. just offers a small smile and sinks onto the edge of the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

you both eat in silence and avoid eye contact like it’s the plague. powdered sugar clings to your lip. he doesn’t tell you, but it makes something warm bloom in his stomach. outside, jimmy and lois are peeking from behind a filing cabinet, whispering like teenagers in detention. “they’re talking,” jimmy says with a triumphant grin.

“they’re eating,” lois hisses. “that’s progress.”

“should we do something else?”

“no. we wait,” she mutters, narrowing her eyes like a sniper. “we wait for phase two.” jimmy nods and smirks, although he has no clue what that means.

~

the operation begins on a thursday. slow news day, grey sky, half the office running on fumes and bad coffee. lois calls it phase two—said with all the gravity of a military op and none of the actual planning. she and jimmy huddle near the copy machine like spies trading intel, eyes flicking between your desk and clark’s. neither of you notices. you’re too busy pretending not to look at each other. too busy pretending like your matching heartbreaks aren’t taking up every inch of space between the desks.

“okay,” jimmy says, ducking behind the corner of your desk like he’s doing something illegal—which, technically, he is. “are we sure about this?”

“shh.” lois doesn’t even look up. she’s rifling through clark’s desk drawer with the casual recklessness of someone who’s been doing this kind of sabotage since high school. “you said she was writing on a blue notebook, right?”

“yeah, and he’s got the black moleskin. labeled CLARK in all caps, like a dork.” jimmy winces. “god, this is either gonna fix them or we’re gonna get fired.”

“they’ll thank us at their wedding,” lois mutters. she finds the notebook and holds it up like it’s a bomb about to go off. then, just as you duck out for coffee and clark gets called into perry’s office, she switches them—blue notebook for black moleskin, quick and clean.

jimmy whistles low. “that was disturbingly smooth.”

“i have three younger siblings and a toxic ex. this is child’s play.” she grabs the sleeve of jimmy’s shirt and tugs him away from the scene of the crime. “and now we wait.” she smirks, plopping down in her chair and casting one final glance at your desk just as you reenter the room, coffee in hand and exhaustion in your posture.

“you think she’ll even notice?” jimmy asks, scooting his chair in with a loud scrape. he squints across the floor like it’ll help him see clearer. “she didn’t even look at it.”

“patience,” lois mutters, sipping her coffee like it’s wine and she’s settling in for the second act of a tragedy. “they’ll both crack. it’s just a matter of who breaks first.”

you don’t notice at first. you set the coffee beside your keyboard and sink into your chair with a sigh, already bracing yourself for the mountain of edits waiting in your inbox. you reach for the notebook without thinking—mistaking the soft leather cover for your own—and flip it open, eyes flicking toward your screen as your fingers skim the first few pages. it’s not until nearly an hour later, when you need to double-check a quote from a press call, that you really look down and pause. the handwriting is neat, but not yours. the notes are structured, organized, yet, your name written in margins like an echo. there are circled sentences that have nothing to do with any article. little drabbles, sentences written down for safe keeping like “she said her favorite coffee was the small cafe nextdoor” or “her favorite flowers are orchids”.

your fingers go still. the next page is worse or better—you don’t know. the margins aren’t notes or reminders. they’re filled with sketches. some rough and a little crooked, like he’s drawing fast, like he’s afraid of getting caught. they’re of you. one of you sitting on the fire escape with your hair up. one of you sipping coffee, mid-sentence. and one of you laughing, head tipped back, and cheeks shaded darker than the rest.

you stare at the notebook—at his notebook. clark’s name is right there on the cover in bold, confident letters, and you somehow missed it. now you’re holding something you were never supposed to see. across the newsroom, clark looks up. almost like he could hear your heartbeat pick up (he could). his eyes meet yours first. then he glances down to the notebook in your hand that looks eerily similar to his. he tries to breathe but his throat runs dry. he breaks eye contact and stares at his computer. the dark screen reflects back his wide eyes and pink cheeks.

you slam the cover shut like it burned you. it did, in a way. what the hell were you even supposed to do with that? pretend you hadn’t seen your name scribbled in the margins like an afterthought he couldn’t shake? act like you hadn’t caught those shaky, lovesick sketches? the ones that looked like they were drawn on instinct, like his hand was telling the truth even when his mouth didn’t? you drag your hand down your face, cursing under your breath.

clark—poor clark—spends the next few minutes pretending to type. there’s nothing on his screen. he hasn’t even logged in. he’s too busy trying to think of something to say that won’t make things worse. should he pretend it’s nothing? ask for it back? joke about it? no, god, definitely not that. you already think he doesn’t take things seriously enough. that’s why you—never mind.

he stands before he can think twice. too fast. like he’s been launched by nerves alone. he walks across the room stiffly, palms sweating. the journey feels like a mile. your desk has never looked further away. you look up just as he stops beside you. “uh,” he says, voice low and awkward, “i think you have something of mine.”

you practically jolt in your seat. “i didn’t mean to,” you rush out. “i wasn’t—i wasn’t snooping or anything. i thought it was mine. i just grabbed it without looking and then i started flipping through, and—and i swear i didn’t read all of it-”

“okay,” he says softly, smiling just a little. “i believe you.”

“seriously,” you say again, still flustered. “it was just muscle memory or something. i didn’t-” you pause. you definitely saw the sketch of yourself biting your pen and staring out the window. the caption had read: thinking hard about something. maybe me. you clear your throat.

meanwhile, ten feet away, lois has her face buried in her coffee cup to hide her grin. jimmy’s biting his fist like a sitcom extra. they’re both practically vibrating in their seats, watching like it’s a live show. lois elbows jimmy. “okay, but phase two is definitely working.”

jimmy snorts. “i’m gonna cry. they’re so awkward.”

“awkward and still in love,” she mutters.

back at your desk, clark’s fingers curl around the notebook tight enough to leave creases. his skin is warm to the touch, stomach filled with something acidic, and heart beating too fast. “thanks,” he says, even though you should be the one saying it. even though he means more than just the notebook.

you look away. “yeah. of course.” and maybe it’s the coffee or the leftover adrenaline or just the fact that your guard is a little cracked now, but when he starts to turn, your voice slips out—barely above a whisper. “i liked the sketches.”

he stops and turns back. his ears go red. “you…what?”

you blink up at him. “they were nice,” you say. “really nice.” he stares. says nothing. just holds the notebook a little tighter to his chest like it might keep his heart in. and then he nods—soft, stunned—and walks back to his desk with a dazed sort of awe, like he’s not entirely sure what just happened.

“phase two,” lois whispers again. “total success. time for the grand finale.”

~

sunlight peered through the windows of your white curtains. golden rays danced along every corner of your room. you hum, stirring from your sleep. the clock on the bedside table reads 5:30am—thirty minutes before your set alarm goes off. you’ve been waking up earlier recently. taking more time to get ready, and dressing a touch cuter than usual. not for any reason in particular. not on purpose. it’s just…you’ve been seeing more of him lately—clark. accidental collisions in the break room. passing glances in the glass between conference rooms. the notebook and the donut. all these stupid, quiet things that shouldn’t matter—but they do. they sit under your skin, humming soft and persistent, like the echo of something that used to be warm.

yesterday, lois told you that perry assigned you for the dreaded archive duty—three whole hours in a dusty basement searching through files older than your parents. the only part that sounded somewhat enjoyable was that you had to pass clark’s desk on the way down to the elevator. so this morning, you pull on a skirt instead of slacks. swipe on a deeper lip color than you usually wear to work. it’s stupid really—dressing up with hopes that your ex-boyfriend might glance your way— but something about it makes you feel steadier and less like the version of yourself that shattered his heart. your heels click softly on the hallway floor as you move through your apartment. keys, badge, and phone. you don’t think about what he’ll be wearing. or if he’ll look at you differently. or if he’ll remember the last thing you said to him before everything cracked and caved.

“archive duty!” lois calls out with a grin. you step out of the elevator with warm cheeks. “yay, right?” she asks, maneuvering around the desks to walk besides you. your heels click as you walk through the floor.

“surrreeeee,” you drag out with faux-excitement. “what’s not to love about kneeling in a probably haunted basement for hours?” lois elbows your side with a chuckle.

she bites her cheek to suppress a wide grin. “i think you’ll have fun down there.”

you squint at her, suspicious. “why do you sound like you’re sending me off to summer camp?”

“me?” she asks innocently, eyes wide. “no reason.” you scoff but don’t push it. she’s been weird lately—too cheerful. like someone who knows something they’re not supposed to say. or maybe just someone who’s already said it and is waiting for the fallout. your eyes flick to clark’s desk as you pass. it’s empty. which is fine. it’s not like you were looking. (you were absolutely looking). the elevator dings, and you step inside, the silver doors hissing shut behind you. lois doesn’t follow. she just leans her head in dramatically and calls out, “don’t come back up until you’re best friends again!”

you stare. “what?” the doors close before she can answer. your stomach dips a little, twisting low. a beat passes. then another. you let out a breath and lean your head back against the wall, watching the numbers descend. the basement smells like dust and something faintly lemon-scented. the lights flicker in that charming haunted asylum kind of way. a few hours. that’s all it is.

just as you’re setting your bag down beside one of the metal filing cabinets, the elevator creaks again. you glance over your shoulder, and there he is. clark. he’s holding a box of gloves and a stack of manila folders. his hair’s a little messy from the wind, cheeks pink like he rushed. he pauses when he sees you. his cheeks turn darker. his voice is soft, cautious. “hey.”

you blink. then nod. “hey. didn’t know anyone else was assigned with me.” you gesture vaguely at the room. “lois told me i was alone down here.”

his mouth twitches. “jimmy told me the same thing.”

you pause. narrow your eyes. “lois also once convinced me that perry wanted us to write our headlines in glitter pen because it helped with creativity.”

he raises a brow. “did you believe her?”

you slide on one glove. “used a pink one for a week.” that does it. he laughs—quiet and caught-off-guard. it’s the kind of sound that used to make you turn in your chair without thinking, that used to pull you back from deadlines and caffeinated spirals. you nudge the cabinet drawer open with your knee. it groans like it hasn’t moved since the 60s. “so we’ve been played.”

“badly,” he murmurs, stepping beside you. close enough to notice the lip color you’d second-guessed that morning. not close enough to say anything about it. you don’t say anything either. just hand him a pair of gloves. and when his fingers brush yours, you flinch—but you don’t pull away. silence settles thick between you. not uncomfortable, just full. his shoulder brushes yours every now and then as you both dig through decades-old files. it’s almost like nothing’s changed. almost.

you flip through a dusty binder, pretending to read it. “you ever wonder how much of what people say in here ends up being true?”

clark hums, tilting his head. “you mean the reporters or the people we write about?”

“either,” you shrug. “both.”

“i think sometimes we try so hard to find the story that we forget we’re part of it.” he says it gently, like it’s not meant to hit. but it does.

you stare at the page in your hand. it blurs. “that why you didn’t fight for us?”

he stills. slowly lowers the file he’s holding. “…what?”

you laugh under your breath, humorless. “i just remember wondering, waiting for you to say something. anything. but you didn’t. and i took that as an answer.”

“it wasn’t.” the words are quiet and rushed. he sets the file down with more force than necessary. “i didn’t know how. i didn’t want to say the wrong thing and make it worse.”

“so you said nothing.” your jaw tightens. “do you know how that felt?”

“no,” he says, eyes meeting yours, voice suddenly firm. “but i know how this felt.” he motions with his hands. “you leaving with no warning or conversation.”

“i gave you a dozen chances, clark. you just stood there.”

he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, but not with you—with himself. “i was scared, okay? i’ve never-” he exhales, soft and trembling. “i’ve never been in love before. not like that. and you…you made it look easy.” you stare. the words land like stones in your stomach. “i kept thinking if i held back a little, maybe you wouldn’t see how deep it went. how much i wanted you. how much i still-” he stops himself.

you don’t. “still?”

his eyes search yours, and the shield he always wears at work—the composed, mannered mask—cracks. “yeah,” he whispers. “still.” you don’t realize when you start moving, but he does. he’s been waiting. your gloved hand slides over his, squeezing his much larger hand.

“i thought you didn’t care,” you say quietly. “i thought i was the only one hurting.”

“you weren’t.” his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “you never were.” you hesitate, then step closer. the basement hums with the buzz of old lights and ancient wiring. the past surrounds you in shelves and boxes. but clark’s gaze is right here.

“so what now?” you murmur.

his breath catches. “well,” he says, a little sheepish, a little smug, “i think i have something of yours.” he pulls the notebook out of his jacket pocket. your fingers curl over his where it rests between you, and something in your chest unclenches.

you grin. “guess we’re even.” and maybe it’s the dusty air, or the leftover adrenaline of the confession. maybe it’s that he looks at you like you’re made of stars. maybe it’s that you never stopped loving him. whatever it is, it pulls you forward. his lips meet yours like he’s remembering. like he’s home. you pull back just enough to breathe. “you still love me?”

he smiles against your mouth. “always.”

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[twiceasbright]

AHHHH THIS IS SO SWEET 😭😭

OPERATION: YOU [ 3 + 1 ]──CLARK KENT!

3 times clark “helped” + the 1 you said thank you

2025!clark kent x reader 2.2k hurt/comfort (?)

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

prev part ; next part

A new week presented new opportunities and Clark was determined to get in good graces with you. Not because he felt he deserved it, but because a part of him—a large part of him—couldn’t stand only knowing you under the veil and short hours of night. 

Just as Jimmy said, "Forgiveness can be an uphill battle.”

[ 1—the replacement recorder ]

If you weren’t in a consistent state of being annoyed by Clark’s presence before, you definitely were now since Clark ruined your prized possession of a recorder. One that he eventually came to find out was the first one you bought, the moment you started at The Daily Planet. He remembered when Jimmy told him, you were glaring at him from the corner of your eye, pretending to be too busy to care about Steve guffawing in Clark’s face about the whole ordeal. 

Lois said she’d never seen him so red in the face and as much as he wanted to disagree, he knew it was true. 

So he spent the rest of the week hunting down the exact same version you had, even down to the color. And while it was hard, it wasn’t impossible. 

He wrapped it up nicely, folding its box into your favorite colors and held it with the utmost care as he made his way into the Daily Planet, this time standing just a little bit taller and smile shining a little bit brighter. 

But the moment he walked through the elevator doors, he knew something was wrong. Call it a gut feeling. When he rounded your desk, Cat and Lois stood around you, marveling at something you were presenting to them. 

“My sister-in-law just surprised me with it! I guess she heard my cries all the way from back home.” 

Peeking over Cat’s shoulder, he saw the shiny new recorder in your hand, even better than the one you originally had and likely better than the one the man bought you. 

“Oh! Clark,” Cat exclaimed, shocked to see him standing over her. “When’d you get here?” 

With a plastered-on smile, he tucked the gift behind his back. “Just now,” he breathed. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

His eyes naturally fell on you, watching as you narrowed your eyes at him ever slightly. “What’s wrong with you Kent?” 

Of course you were somehow the one to immediately pick up on his strange behavior, no matter how well he managed to cloak the disappointment in his eyes. 

But he only shook his head and took a stumbled step back. “Nothing,” he pushed out, his voice rising the octave. “Just curious I guess.” 

[ 2—the flower fiasco ]

Clark’s next attempt on you possibly seeing him in a better light included a flower shop not too far from where he lived. 

“Do you um, do you have any that say ‘I’m sorry” while also saying “Please don’t hate me.” 

The store was filled on every surface with various shades of different flowers and while Clark seemed to tower over the whole store, even when hunching down his height, he moved past each one with a gentle hand, terrified it would wilt at a single touch. 

“Well,” the employee smiled. “My first line of advice is to tell your partner that they’re right. Even if they aren’t, they are now.”

Clark’s eyes widened, quick to come to his own defense and failing as he stumbled over his every word. “What? No, no, it’s not, it’s not like that. It’s more like, it is like a coworker.”

She lifted a brow at the man, nodding in amusement. 

“Right,” she drew out. “ Well if you’re looking for something more in the apologies department then these should deliver the message.” 

Clark’s eyes almost sparkled when he set his eyes on them, wanting to reach out and touch them, but drawing his hand back. 

“Do you do deliveries?” 

When Clark arrived the next day, the flowers were already sitting on your desk, blooming somehow even brighter than they did before. But once again, your desk was empty. 

As he settled down, beginning on his own work, he watched as you made your way from one end of the office to the other and back, all morning long. 

“Jimmy,” you called as you passed your desk, scratching the nape of your neck. “Do you have the transcripts from the recent LutherCorp press conference?”

“Got it,” he called from his space. “Sending it over now!” 

“Actually,” you paused, coughing into the back of your hand. “Can you send it over to the printer? Perry needs it stat.” 

“Gotcha.” 

For the first time that morning, you plopped down at your desk, another cough forcing itself past your chest, making you hunch over as you caught your breath. 

“Woah,” Lois expressed, slowing down at your desk. “That cough doesn’t sound good. Are you coming down with something?” 

You shook your head, once more scratching at your neck. “Not that I know of. I was fine until this morning,” you wheezed.

Lois frowned, reaching for your hand and pulling it away, revealing the irritated rash growing on your neck. “Holy shit, your neck!” 

Your eyes widened wildly, freaked out by the woman’s sudden outburst. “What?! What’s on my neck?” 

With a quick but fumbling hand, Lois pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of it. “Are you allergic to anything,” she asked as she presented it to you, flagging down a nearby assistant. 

“Only–,” you cut yourself off, finally resting eyes on the vase situated on your desk. “When did that get here?” 

A younger boy you’d seen around the office was suddenly at your side. “Delivered to your desk this morning.” 

“That’s what I’m allergic to,” you wheezed out, your eyes watering. 

“Oh my god,” Lois muttered. “Call security to get rid of them.” 

“No need,” the boy said, swooping up the flowers and already walking off with them. “I’ll trash them now.” 

Turning back to you, Lois began to gather your things. “Here, take a break, go get some air.” 

You shook your head, stubborn as ever despite literally struggling to breathe. “I’ll be fine, it clears up fast.” 

But the woman wasn’t taking it. “Nope, go home, take extra time for lunch, whatever I don’t care. Go get some air and don’t come back until it’s cleared up.” 

Clark could only watch as she ushered you out of the building. With a frown, he wandered to the scene that just played out in front of you, seeing a note from the flowers.. 

‘Hope you don’t hate this apology as much as the first’ —Clark.

[ 3—celebrating superman ]

Clark had steered clear of your path since ‘the flower situation’ as he liked to put it. Maybe Jimmy was wrong about his approach to you, after all for every other woman giggling in his wake, there was at least one who hated his guts. After a while Clark tended to notice that as good as Jimmy was at starting bonds with people, mending them was not as easy for him. 

So he gave up. Not everyone liked him and he couldn’t control that. 

That’s what it meant to be human, right?

The end of the day was barralling in fast, most people wrapped up with their tasks for the day and preparing for the next few assignments for the next few weeks. That meant a meeting with all of your favorite people (note the sarcasm). 

“And finally,” Perry wrapped up. “Next week marks 18 months with Superman seemingly serving the people of Metropolis and to the mayor’s request, we’re doing a special piece to commemorate him.” 

From the corner of his eyes, Clark saw how you perked up to attention, excitement clear in your eyes at the new possibility. 

“We’ll need all hands on deck for this,” Perry continued on. “18 months, 18 quotes, 18 interviews. All with witnesses or people Superman saved personally. For the brilliant suggestion, Clark will be leading this project, any questions?” 

On a typical day with so many eyes on him, Clark likely would’ve given that smile that only read as humble and embarrassed, his ears going pink at the tip. But this time, all he saw was you from the corner of his eye. It was subtle, but that excitement in your eyes dissolved; reducing itself to a pursed smile and disappointment in your eyes. 

Clark was very rarely an impulsive person, more often than not thinking through his every action. But at this moment, he abandoned that notion. 

“Actually,” he coughed into his fist. “The idea was all their’s,” he motioned to you, confusion immediately flashing in your eyes. “I only spread the word. All credit should go to them.”

Clark looked to Perry first, measuring his options before speaking. “Very well. y/n? Will you be able to take the reins on this?” 

Your mouth fell open for just a moment before immediately collecting yourself. “Yes. Yes sir.” 

“Good. On that note, you’re all dismissed, details on the meeting for any one who misse…”

Perry’s words faded as Clark looked over to you, shocked to see you already looking at him, so many emotions dancing in your eyes. Confusion, gratefulness, confusion, pride. Confusion. 

Clark only humbly nodded at you, wordlessly telling you ‘don’t mention it.’

[  +1—breakroom breakdowns ]

The next few days had been…cordial. You weren’t having fun conversations with him, whispering instead of working, but you also didn’t seem like you wanted to storm out of a room he was in. It was progress. Ironically enough, accidental progress. 

He hadn’t been thinking of how he could make some great show of making it up to you. He just did. And you seemed all the happier from that last minute decision of his.

“Clark!” 

The man poked his head up, Perry standing above him with impatience rolling off him in waves, just as he always was. 

“Yes sir,” he exclaimed, his voice cracking as he pushed his glasses up his nose. 

“Where are they,” he questioned, motioning to your empty desk. 

He paused, recalling when he saw you leave last, coming up with nothing. “I’m, I’m not too sure.” 

Perry sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Go find them, I need the both of you in my office, preferably five minutes ago.” 

Clark turned to Jimmy once the man walked away. “Did you see where they went?” 

“Ummm,” Jimmy paused, thinking for a moment before his eyes landed on the break room. “I think they got a phone call not too long ago, so probably in there.” 

“Thanks Jimmy.” 

Now, Clark didn’t try to use his super hearing often, especially when he was Clark, but as he neared the breakroom, he couldn’t help but overhear you. First he heard the faintest sound of crying, like someone trying to hold it back desperately but failing. 

Then he heard a particularly loud voice over your phone. She sounded older and upset. 

“You’re selfish,” she shouted. “You always have been and I’m sick of you pretending you are some great hotshot with your fancy job that was handed to you. Your brother actually worked to get where you are. All you did was write until some newspaper decided it was mediocre enough to hire you as an assistant. God,” she scoffed, “You probably found some special way to get to your current position too.”

Clark hadn’t meant to just stand there and listen. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it until your eyes went wide seeing him standing there. 

Like a reflex, you turned away from him, immediately hanging up the phone. “What do you need Kent?” 

Clark bit the inside of his cheek, his words reluctant on his tongue. “Perry….Perry wants us in his office.” 

You sniffled. “I’ll be there in a minute, go without me.” 

Clark had always been stubborn. Without thinking, he approached you, pulling a tissue out of his suit pocket. “Are you okay,” he offered. 

You looked up at him with wide eyes then down to the tissue, tentatively slipping it from the man’s grasp. “Do you always have a perfectly good tissue in your pocket,” you joked. 

You were deflecting, Clark could tell, but it didn’t stop his heart from stuttering, knowing that it was the first time you hadn’t replied to him with some level of sarcasm or formality. 

“As fate has it, only when it’s needed.” 

And you smiled at him. It was short, quickly tucked away by the tissue as you wiped away any sign of your tears. 

“Let’s go,” you ushered, starting for the exit of the breakroom. “Before Perry blows a fuse or something.” 

He followed in step with you. From the corner of his eye as the two of you travelled to your destination, your head hanging lower than it usually did, your shoulders tight and your posture as a whole closed off. 

He’d never seen you make yourself so small. 

Approaching Perry’s office, he let you through first, hearing the quiet words you uttered to him: “Thank you, Clark.” 

He froze, his brain short circuiting as he processed your words. He felt his heart slam against his chest at them. Not because it was the first time you told him thank you, but because it was the first time you didn’t call him Kent.

prev part ; next part

is it obvious i don't know how journalism works?

thank you so much for the love and support

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[twiceasbright]

who's calling my phone? ˏˋ°•*⁀➷✆

Clark Kent x receptionist!Reader (gn!!!)

summary: clark has a crush on the daily planet's receptionist.

note: i realized halfway through the daily planet probably does not have several floors but ohhh well.

The shrill ring of the Daily Planet's front desk phone was beginning to irritate Clark's eardrums. His right hand rose to pinch his nose bridge as his other slightly crinkled the papers he was holding. Sure, he could just stop listening so intently - the sound was coming all the way from the first floor, after all - but he didn't want to miss anything. To him, the front desk was the hub of the Daily Planet; of course, most of the action was on the upper floors, where the staff resided. But all of the important things existed at the ground level. It was where information came in, where the latest news went out, and - most important to Clark - where you stayed.

While Clark's eyes had been glued to his computer screen for far longer than could be healthy, his ears had been trained on you. He could stand the piercing peal of the phone because every call meant another chance to listen to your melodic voice answering it. His fingers twitched over his keyboard as the 67th Hello, you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you? of the day reached his ears.

It wasn't the most practical thing, but Clark's activity at work had largely been dictated by you. When he would finally make progress with his tardiness, he'd come a bit late on purpose just so you could greet him instead of the security guard. If he was stuck on the prose of an article, he'd imagine you reading it out to him. It always sounded better that way. The most egregious of them all was when he'd occasionally force his floor's printer to jam. It gave him an excuse to come down - still, strangely, passing other levels on the way - and talk to you while using yours. At first, it was met with confusion; the Daily Planet was almost exclusively digital at this point. But eventually, everyone moved on. Clark was always strange and insisting on a paper format was the least of his quirks.

Today though, Clark couldn't really afford to pull any tricks to get to see you. He needed to figure out this article or the only face he'd see was Perry's stern scowl. Clark sighed and collapsed backwards into his desk chair, dispelling the hunch he'd been sporting for what felt like hours. As he raised his arms above his head to extend his spine, he let out a dramatic groan. Jimmy took the sound as his cue to spin around in his own chair to face Clark.

"Need a break, buddy?" Jimmy nudged, slightly condescending, but still friendly. Instead of speaking - that would drown out the call you were having about sending a reporter out to some community event - Clark simply groaned again.

"You two can go grab me some coffee if you need enrichment time," Lois hadn't even lifted her head from the copy she was skimming, but the men weren't surprised she was listening. Lois was always listening. Jimmy scrunched up his face at the prospect of being sent on an errand.

"Why would we leave when there's a coffee maker," Jimmy squinted one eye as he gauged the distance, "ten feet away?" Lois sighed and turned in her chair with a look that implied Jimmy was stupid for asking. Clark was largely checked out of the conversation, still too consumed in eavesdropping on yours to care about where Lois' coffee came from.

"Because Perry is being a cheapskate this month and won't buy the kind I like." Lois clicked her pen as though it punctuated her statement. "And you guys love me."

"Is that love reciprocated?" At Lois' playful nod, Jimmy exhaled theatrically. "Okay. Fine. A large from Mocha Mill?"

Before Jimmy even finished or Lois could respond, it was like Clark had returned from the dead. His eyes shot up from burning a hole into the floor to staring Lois down intensely.

"We're going to Mocha Mill?" Jimmy would have laughed at Clark's fervor if it didn't unnerve him.

"Well, you were so out of it I thought it was gonna end up being just me. But, sure, we're going to Mocha Mill."

"It's my favorite coffee spot," Lois raised an eyebrow.

Clark shot up, their words hardly registering in his mind. Forget Lois, it was your favorite coffee spot. Or so you’d told your friend on the phone during a break last week. He adjusted his glasses, primed his curl, and marched towards the elevator, leaving behind a messy desk and an addled Jimmy to scramble after him.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|၊၊||၊|။||။‌‌‌‌‌|၊။‌• 3:42 minutes later

You love your job. A lot of people think you're just here because you couldn't make it as a journalist or anything else. But, really, you love it. You love watching the world go by through the ginormous front windows. You love being able to sit back and relax on slow days. You love talking to new people everyday and solving their problems. Your favorite person to solve problems for is that Clark Kent. He's a sweetheart. Even on days when he's running late and surely not having the best time, he makes sure to greet you. It feels like he really means it when he asks how you are, too.

You're not ashamed to admit you have a little crush on him. Your search history would do it for you anyway. Combing through the entire Daily Planet website to find a name to match the face, then clicking on any article with his name on it. You definitely know more about Superman than the average person; he seems to be Clark's favorite subject. Clark writes about the hero with such reverence, it makes you wish he'd write - and think - about you in that way, too.

The sound of shoes squeaking draws your attention, but it's normal for the office, so you opt to ignore it in favor of fantasizing about Clark. You usually don't let yourself fall into these sorts of thoughts, out of respect for him, but today you can't seem to help it. Just look at the man (you do, a lot). His physique is so large - his hands, his muscles - but his heart and mind equally so. He makes it so hard to stay professional when all you really want to do is jump across your desk and take him.

As the squeaking grows faster and closer, you begin to think your imagination is more potent than you thought. The sound of shoes against floor halts as the gorgeous man in front of you comes to a stop. Your mouth hangs open slightly as you zero in on his doing the same, although with more intent.

"We're going to get coffee," Clark states bluntly, with a smile around the words. You compose yourself and dim your computer screen in embarrassment. You still have one of his articles up - something about climate change? - and it's far too old for you to be reading with no reason. Your eyes dart between Clark and Jimmy, who has just appeared, looking disheveled.

"Okay, no worries. You guys have your badges right?" You're prepared to let them back in if they don't, which is probably why Clark decided to let you know. You tense slightly when his brows furrow at you. He goes to speak but is cut off by Jimmy.

"Yup, we'll be back," Jimmy says casually as he slips his badge out of his pocket for proof. He begins walking towards the door, not realizing Clark is still rooted at his spot in front of you.

"Would you like something?" is such a simple courtesy but when Clark says it, you want to melt. He takes your silence as hesitance and tacks on, "We're going to the Mocha Mill." And that's all it takes. He says it with such intention it feels like he looked into your soul and found the way to get there.

"Oh my goodness, yes, please! That's my favorite coffee shop," You worry he thinks you're more excited about the coffee than just talking to him. He doesn't seem to mind, though. His beautiful lips quirk into a smile and all you want to do is kiss it bigger. You glance behind him briefly to see a frustrated Jimmy waving wildly through the windows. He rolls his eyes and stomps off out of view, presumably towards the coffee shop. You focus your attention back on Clark who is beaming down on you.

"I know." You're not sure how he does, and Clark is quick to catch himself. "I'm pretty sure you told me once. I came down here when the printer was, a-uh...broken." He tries to keep his tone nonchalant as to not to spook you, but rethinks it immediately. He wants you to know he cares. Just maybe not so intensely.

"Oh, probably," you say, thinking nothing of it. You like your conversations with Clark; he disarms you. You tell him so. "I really like talking to you. You make it so easy, that's probably why I spill my guts." A coffee shop preference is hardly "your guts," but everything feels bigger with Clark.

"Hey," Clark begins, hesitant. He's stupid for saying that, he thinks, you two were already talking. There's no need to start over. The regret fades immediately when he sees how you perk up at the single word. He continues, "I know you're on the clock, really we both are, but maybe some other time we could grab coffee? Together, I mean." He stumbles through the request. It's endearing

"Ahh, I don't know," you tease, sure you've got him now. You feel a bit bad at the way he deflates and amend your words. "Maybe lunch instead? I'm kind of tired of our talks being so brief. Y'know?" It takes a second for Clark to realize you do want to go out with him, but when he does his grin is dazzling.

"Oh. Yeah. Okay." He doesn't know what to do with himself and, frankly, neither do you. You're trying to find a comfortable way to rest your arms and ultimately settle on splaying them across your keyboard. It's awkward and not at all ideal. Luckily, you don't have to hold it for long. Clark, having long forgotten Lois' coffee, takes it upon himself to circle around to stand behind your desk.

You realize, in this moment, he's never been so close in your space before. Information is relayed and supplies are passed over your desk. You think you would be more nervous if Clark wasn't so...him. His presence is so naturally comforting, it feels like he belongs in your space. You like the feeling.

He leans himself against the desk right next to your computer. You're grateful you darkened the screen when you had. Clark's placement means you have to crane your neck to look at him from your seated position. Your eye line lands right at his sturdy arm that props him up against the table's surface. You want it. You want him. Jeez, you think, take him out to dinner first. Or lunch. Which is what you're doing. With him. On a date. On a date? Are you going on a date with Clark Kent? He said okay. What does okay even mean? Fuck.

Apparently, you voiced your line of thought, or at least part of it. Clark releases a rumbling laugh at whatever you had said, crossing his arms as he does. The act only puts more emphasis on his already bulging biceps. You think you could die right here. You wouldn't mind this being your last sight, Clark smiling and flexing and just being beautiful.

He was talking again. You tried to listen this time. You're successful. You listen so well you don't realize how time is passing. Neither does Clark. Before either of you know it, Jimmy comes back with four coffees - he took the courtesy of grabbing you one - and drags Clark away from you and back to his work.

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You let out a gentle sigh as you set the phone handset back onto its base. The clock on its display reads 8:56. You don't have to be here much longer. You're not really sure when you have to be here; you start at 7 AM, but the end time is always a little fuzzy. On days you have nothing better to do, you wait for Clark. You've never left together, but you at least see him when he does. This is one of those days.

Just as you settle into your chair again, the phone blares at you. You huff. Yes, it's your job, but nobody needs to be calling this late. You brace yourself to use your customer service voice before lifting the handset.

"Good evening-" emphasis on the evening, "you've reached the Daily Planet. How can we inform you?" If they need information, you think bitterly, they should just try Google. As soon as you hear the voice on the other end, though, you know you'll tell him anything he wants to know.

"Yes, hello. This is Clark Kent," he declares, feigning professionalism. "Journalist, reporter, champion, hero to the people-" You stop him there with a snort.

"Yea, right. And who have you saved?" He doesn't say anything for a moment, but you can faintly hear him snickering into the phone. After a few seconds, he clears his throat.

"Well, not a who, but I have saved our evening." Clark sounds more nervous now. You think it over and assume he means saving the two of you from boredom by heading home. You're not surprised he knows that you await his departure most evenings.

"Oh, finally," you play up the drama. "My hero has arrived. I'll start packing up." You're ready to hang up the phone when you catch Clark's voice again.

"Okay, perfect. Would you rather have Italian or Chinese?" Huh? You'd said that out loud, you realize, and it sounded very bewildered. You can almost hear the confidence seeping out of Clark's voice. "Well, I just- I thought, since we're both still here, we could move up our lunch date. To tonight. Sorry, I thought we were on the same page there." You immediately feel bad. But also amazing. He wants to go on a date with you, right now. You try to redeem yourself.

"Uhh, surprise me," you can't keep the giddiness out of your voice. Clark lets himself chuckle again at that. To make sure he knows you want to as much as he does, you tell him, "I can't wait."

"You don't have to," is his immediate reply. "I'll be down in a minute. Not even. Bye."

"Bye," you say, and neither of you hang up. You bite the inside of your cheek at how cute it is. Then you realize he's probably on his cell phone and just forgot to end the call. Not that gently, you replace the handset on the base and flutter around your workspace to collect your stuff.

Of course, Clark meant it when he said he'd be down soon and makes it to you before you're ready. Always the gentleman, he helps you finish cleaning and swings your bag over his right shoulder next to his own. He reaches his left hand out to you and beams when you take it. You love his smile. He likes making you smile.

Clark leads you through the glass double doors, using his right hand to hold one open for you. He waves good night to the security guard using his left hand, meaning your right hand comes with. The wave turns into more of a Look at us! and both of you preen at the thought.

You have each other's phone numbers by the end of the night. You tell Clark to promise not to call your cellphone during work hours. He agrees, but the number of calls the Daily Planet gets from a certain wireless number skyrockets.

[twiceasbright]

bad friend ┃ clark kent x reader

next part

summary: your best friend asks you to set her up with clark kent, who's your work crush. despite your feelings for him, you agree- for the sake of your friend. but things go awry when you panic and end up accidentally asking him out yourself. now you have to find a way to fix it before things go too far.

pairings: clark kent x reader

tags: fluff, angst with a semi-happy ending, sfw, daily planet shenanigans, it's all a big misunderstanding, gn!reader, no use of y/n

word count: 5.1k

a/n: i saw superman and it instantly changed my brain chemistry. this is the result. please bear with me, this is my first time writing for this fandom. i hope you enjoy, and feel free to leave any thoughts or comments!! xoxo

You’re a bad friend. A very, very bad one.

When your co-worker, work bestie, closest thing you have to a sister, tells you about her crush on Clark, it’s a shock. You’d spent months commenting on him—his sweetness, his looks, his clumsiness. You never went into detail about how deep this little infatuation went, but you were sure it was obvious. Sadie’s been victim to more than a few tangents about ‘how can one man be so perfect?’ Of all people, she knows how you felt.

And yet here she is, telling you about her feelings for the journalist you’d been mooning over for what felt like forever. You know exactly what this means. You know what she’s going to ask long before the words come out of her mouth.

“I know you guys are close, like… friends or whatever,” she tells you, acrylics tapping nervously against her coffee mug. She keeps avoiding your gaze. “I just- well, I wanted to ask if maybe you… you could put in a good word for me. Maybe set us up or something?”

You smile at her, even as your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. It’s not her fault. You’d never made more than fleeting, shallow comments about Clark. There was no way for her to know how actually, desperately much you like him. You have no reason to feel betrayed.

Besides, you love her. You’d do anything and everything for her. Including—God help you—setting her up with the guy you fantasize about falling asleep with every night.

This makes you a good friend. The bad friend part is what happens next.

You approach Clark’s desk with thinly veiled resignation. Not the usual happy, skip-like gait you adopt when you decide it’s time to bother him. Which, much to his sure frustration, happens a lot. Sadie is your twin flame at work, but Clark is… he’s a companion. His desk is right across from yours, and the two of you have become each other’s support systems.

You’d hoped that one day it would turn into more. That feels foolish now. Especially when you’re on your way to pimp him out to your best friend.

“Heyyy buddy…” you greet him—terribly, awkwardly. You lightly punch his shoulder, which makes it a million times worse. You cringe so hard internally that you don’t get a chance to admire how firm his muscles are.

Clark looks up at you, raising an eyebrow as he pushes his glasses up with a finger. He’s just as bewildered by this as you. It doesn’t stop the amused curve of his lips or the way his dimples deepen. Your knees slightly buckle under the power of that smile. God, he’s so crazy beautiful.

“Hey there,” he responds, his voice like heat in your veins. Deep, smooth, calming. You want to strangle him with his stupid (charming) tie. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, waving him away. You sit on the edge of the desk, avoiding the half-full mug of coffee next to you. You cross your legs and clear your throat. “How are you doing?”

“I’m a little worried you’re having a stroke, to be honest.”

That sobers you up a little. You press your lips into a thin line. “Yeah, sorry. That was weird.”

He’s amused, clearly, but there’s a tinge of concern in those beautiful blue eyes. Of course, he’s concerned. Of course, he’s sweet and gentle and compassionate and everything you could ever want. How the hell is this your life?

“What’s going on, jelly?” he asks, and the nickname is a little like a punch to the gut.

It’s a bit from when you first started, a teasing comment from Jimmy or Lois or someone you can’t remember. You took such an instant liking to Clark, the two of you clicked so easily, that it became a joke amongst your friends. You two go together like peanut butter and jelly. Such a silly thing to say, and even sillier that you found it so meaningful. You kept it going, hoping no one realized how important it was to you.

How important he was to you.

Now, just shy of working together for two years, you use the titles more than your actual names. He’s your peanut butter, you’re his jelly. It’s stupid and inconsequential, and you hope he never stops calling you that. No matter what happens.

“Ah, you know me so well,” you joke, and it doesn’t sound the least bit convincing. So you just smile at him and push forward. “I, um… I have something to run by you.”

You can tell his interest is piqued as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his sports coat bulges against his biceps, and you’re very much staring. You hope to God that Sadie isn’t watching this right now. Or Lois or Jimmy. Or—you shudder just thinking about it—Cat.

“I’m listening,” he coaxes you to speak. To do what you came over here to do. You suck in a breath and let it out slowly.

“So, what’s your policy on dating co-workers?” you ask, because it’s easier to delay the inevitable. You’re a coward; what can you say? In your personal life, you’ll always avoid the uncomfortable moments.

It’s probably what makes you such an excellent journalist. Because you channel it all into work and don’t leave a single line you’re not willing to cross.

Your question takes him by surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, and you swear the tips of his ears turn the tiniest bit red. Something ugly twists in your stomach. He’s thought about this before. Someone here has captured his interest.

He hums for a moment before responding. An attempt to gather his bearings. “Well, I- I don’t really see a problem with it. As long as it doesn’t get in the way of us both being able to do our jobs, at least. Why do you ask?”

“Here’s the thing,” you exhale, grabbing a paperclip from his desk so you have something to do with your hands. You force yourself to meet his gaze, trying desperately not to get lost in the sea of blue. “Do you… Are you free tonight? Or any time this week?”

“I’m free tonight,” he says almost instantly. That little smile is returning to his lips, matching the glint in his eyes. “Are you asking me on a date, Jelly?”

Your heart stops. Literally stops. And then it starts up again, and it feels like it’s going to jump right out of your chest. You try to speak, to explain, but the words get caught in your throat. Clark’s always been the best at throwing you off your game.

He must take your silence as confirmation, because his smile grows. He leans forward, so close you can smell his cologne. The man always smells so good. It’s intoxicating.

“I accept. I’d love to go out with you,” he murmurs, like he’s afraid others will hear. Knowing how gossipy your co-workers are, it’s probably a smart choice. “I wanted to be the one to ask you, but I… I always got in my head about it.”

You swallow back an onslaught of word vomit threatening to pour out. Is this happening right now? Did you just ask Clark Kent on a date—accidentally—and he accepted? And does he actually look happy about it? Like he wants this? Like he wants you?

Your brain has left the building, so you can only assume your heart is to blame for what you say next. “Then, you’ll just have to ask me on the next one.”

His face lights up. It’s blinding, but you can’t look away. He’s too beautiful. Too encapsulating. He’s the sun and you’re just another lifeform feeding off the energy he gives.

“Deal,” he chuckles, holding out his hand so you can shake it. It’s such a cute gesture, and taking his hand in yours feels like a death sentence. You’ve gotten yourself into such a mess. “Do you just want to go right after work?”

His hand lingers for a moment longer than it needs to. His skin is so soft, so warm, and he’s so large compared to you. It’s the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

“Yeah. Maybe around 6?”

That adorable curl bobs across his forehead as he nods. “That’s perfect.”

“Alright, then,” you confirm, smiling. Panic rises in you. Guilt and shame and a million other things are tearing at your insides. “I better get back to work. I’ll see you then, Peanut Butter.”

Clark’s grin could solve all the world’s problems. You’re sure of it. “See you then.”

You head back to your desk, fighting the urge to scream or throw something or run away forever. You are a terrible, horrible friend.

By the skin of your teeth, you avoid Sadie for the rest of the day. It helps that she’s caught up in meetings and scrambling to meet deadlines, but you scurry to the bathroom twice when you catch her staring. It’s shameful behavior, you know. You feel awful about it. But what are you supposed to say?

You know the situation is wrong. It’s deceiving in every way. You’re so full of regret that you feel sick. You know very well that the right thing to do is to go tell Clark the truth, ask him about Sadie, and then report back to her. But you can’t!

Maybe it’s fear, or something selfish that lives in you, but you can’t do it. You tell yourself a million times to walk over to him, and you stay glued to your desk every single time. His eyes land on you more than once, but you never let yourself look up. You’re just grateful he hasn’t walked over and tried to start up a conversation. You would probably burst into tears.

You want to go on a date with Clark. You want it more than anything. But you don’t want it like this. You don’t want to hurt and betray your friend to get it. Or for anyone to be deceived. You don’t want to be the person you’re being right this very second.

You decide you’re going to fix it. Tonight, when Clark comes to you at 6, you’ll tell him the truth. You’ll break your own heart, probably lose his friendship, and then you’ll go home. And tomorrow, after a night of some well-deserved wallowing, you’ll tell Sadie.

She’ll probably be mad. You just hope that the damage isn’t irreparable.

You make it to the end of your shift without vomiting or tendering your resignation, a feat in and of itself. You even got a draft finished, though there were sure to be mistakes to work on tomorrow. You’d gotten so focused that the last few hours just faded away. As far as anyone at the Planet was concerned, you were dead to the world.

You didn’t notice when Sadie left at 5, sending you a questioning glance. You didn’t look up at 5:30 when Steve knocked over the entire coffee station and everyone shouted in outrage. Hell, you didn’t even make a move when Clark snuck out at 5:45, going God knows where. You were completely captivated.

Now, with the clock showing 5:57, you pull yourself away and gather your things. There’s still a stab of guilt between your ribs, but most of it has fizzled into numb resignation. You know what you have to do. You know what you’re going to lose. There’s no stopping it.

Turning your desk lamp off, you hear footsteps and turn around. It’s Clark, of course, with his hands behind his back and a bashful smile on his face. Not even that sweet expression is enough to pull you from your misery. Not when you know you’ll probably never see it directed at you again.

“Hey,” he greets you, sounding a little breathless. “Sorry I disappeared for a minute. I had an errand to run.”

“An errand?” You ask, because you can’t help it. What kind of errands does Clark Kent run? Where’s his favorite place to shop? What are the staple items on his grocery list? It’s an affliction, really, wanting to know everything about him.

He moves his arm back in front of him, revealing the bouquet clutched in his fist. It’s gorgeous—all bright colors and big blooms. They’re the nicest flowers you’ve ever seen, and Clark is offering them to you with a soft smile. You might cry.

“You got me flowers?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. You’re taken aback by the kind gesture and the wrongness of this situation. It’s a wonder Clark hears you, but he does. He always does.

He shrugs a shoulder, as if it’s no big deal. As if he’s not your dream man in flesh and blood. “This didn’t start how I wanted, with you asking me out and all, so I just thought… I still wanted to make it special.”

No one’s ever gotten you flowers before. No one’s cared like this. You don’t deserve it; you want it desperately. But you can’t let yourself have it.

“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, and they are. You’d keep them alive forever if you could. “But…”

His eyebrows raise, like he knows what you’re going to say. “Don’t worry, I got a vase too,” he explains, hurrying to his desk. He picks up the glass container and brings it over. “I thought you could just keep them on your desk for the time being.”

Your hero, always thinking of everything and coming to your rescue. Superman has nothing on Clark Kent.

You stay quiet as he fills the vase with water and puts the flowers in. He even sets it down on your desk, tucked in the corner, and it looks perfect. It immediately brightens up the space. You didn’t realize how dreary everything was until there’s something pretty to look at.

“It looks so nice there. Like a little… ball of sunshine,” you laugh weakly. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are already on you. They’re warm, adoring—as if you’re something worth looking at. “Thank you, Clark.”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” he waves you off, getting bashful again. He rubs at the back of his neck. “If you’re gonna go on a date with me, I should at least try to make it worth your time.”

Another pang of regret hits your gut. You inhale sharply. “About that-”

“I was thinking we could go to that place down the street, the Italian place? I’ve heard great things,” he explains, nipping your confession in the bud. He’s excited. It breaks your heart. “I’m definitely ready to eat.”

You press your lips together. You’re quite hungry yourself, if you’re being honest. This night’s already going to suck. Might as well get some food out of it. Besides, it’ll make you feel better if you buy him dinner.

“Well, I’m convinced. Lead the way.”

He smiles, offers you his arm, and does just that.

Clark makes conversation the entire block-and-a-half walk to the restaurant. He talks about work, the article on Superman he’s writing, and his plans for the upcoming weekend. You respond where you can. But your mind’s far away. Dreading what you have to do.

“Are you okay, Jelly?” He asks when you’re stopped at a crosswalk. He’s watching you with worry, brows furrowed and lips pursed. “You seem off.”

It’s no surprise that he noticed. The man has a sixth sense for knowing when things are wrong. And as much as you hate it at this moment, it’s always been another thing you admired about him. He’s got such a big heart—all creatures, big or small, are worth saving. You’re honored to be someone he cares about.

“Just… got some things on my mind,” you say with a shake of your head. A flimsy excuse, but you hope it’ll do for now. You’re not willing to spill everything on a crowded sidewalk. “I’ll tell you about it at dinner.”

He’s not pleased with your answer, but he respects it regardless. The light changes, and Clark presses a hand to your lower back as you cross the street. The touch is warm, electric. It sends a shiver down your spine. Everything about him has always—will always—fill you with life.

This is so much more than a work-crush. So much more than some fleeting infatuation. You don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to do this.

You arrive at your destination a few minutes later. Clark gets the two of you a table on the patio and pulls your chair out for you when you sit down. Then he’s across from you. Smiling at the server who brings you water, asking if you want to order wine, commenting on how good everything sounds. The sun sets behind him, illuminating the man in golden light.

He’s beautiful. You think you’re gonna be sick.

“Lois told me they have a really good penne rosa here,” he muses, not looking up from the menu. “She’s the one who recommended this place, actually. I thought we could trust her taste.”

You look down at your own menu, barely paying attention to all the entrees listed. “She’s definitely the safest choice.”

Something in your tone captures his attention. He glances at you, eyes slightly narrowing. “Do you want to talk about what’s going on yet?”

You huff out an undignified exasperated breath. “You’re infuriatingly observant, you know that? Like, weirdly in tune with my emotions.”

Despite your frustration, he quirks a half-smile. “I just know you well. And I’m here to help. Especially when we’re on our first date and you’re obviously miserable.”

A groan slips past your lips. You run a hand over your forehead, up and through your hair. “No, no, that’s not- listen.”

In a moment of bravery, or perhaps desperation, you reach over and place your hand on his. He starts a bit, but doesn’t pull away. Warmth blossoms in your chest. God, you wish this were simpler.

“I’m so happy that you want to go out with me. Seriously. It’s something- kind of embarrassing, but I’ve wanted this for a long time. It’s just… there’s more to the story than you know, Clark.”

He’s happy about your admission, blessedly, but it doesn’t wipe the concern from his face. He puts his other hand over yours, encasing you fully. “Then tell me the rest.”

You close your eyes for a moment. This is it. There’s no more delaying, no beating around the bush. You have to come clean. For the sake of your friend, for yourself, and because Clark deserves the truth.

“Okay, but I… I just wish I could have you promise you won’t hate me after.”

Those gorgeous blue eyes soften, turning your knees to jelly. His thumb rubs circles into your hand. “I could never hate you.”

Part of you believes him. But another part—the journalist, the realist—can’t take stock in his words. Clark is the closest thing to perfect you’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t mean he actually is perfect. No one’s perfect, not even this man you care so much about.

You fill your lungs with air until they ache, and then you open your mouth to let the truth spill out.

Clark glances towards the Metropolis skyline, brows twitching, as if he heard something. He blinks and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Glances at the screen to check for a message. You didn’t even hear it go off, not even a muted buzz. But when he looks up at you, expression a storm cloud of regret, you know what’s coming.

“I’m sorry, but there’s- a family-friend is having an emergency. I have to go,” he explains, pushing himself to his feet. He reaches for his wallet, pulls out a $100 bill, and drops it on the table. “I’m so sorry. I promise I will make this up to you. Please get some food, whatever you want, on me.”

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that. So you stay silent, just watching as he hurries to escape. You think your heart might be shriveling in your chest a little.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll reschedule. I’m really so sorry, Jelly,” he says, and you know he means it. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this upset. Not that it makes you feel better.

Clark turns to leave, pauses, and looks back at you. He deliberates, and then he’s leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. With one more rushed I’m sorry, he disappears from sight. And you’re left alone. At an Italian restaurant, on the patio, across from an empty seat.

You glance down at the money he left. The most expensive thing on the menu is $20.

A mix between a laugh and a gasp leaves your throat. You lay your head on the table with a muffled thunk. You ponder the science needed to make a do-over machine. More than anything, you wonder how you’re gonna force yourself to go to work tomorrow.

You end up eating dinner at the restaurant. Not because you want to, but because your emotions are a mess and you think getting something in your stomach will help. You pay ‌the bill with your own money, and slip Clark’s $100 into your pocket. You’ll give it back to him tomorrow. Alongside whatever confession you can muster.

The 20-minute walk to your apartment building is the perfect opportunity to clear your head, which is exactly what you don’t do. You spiral and second-guess and fall deeper and deeper into despair. Sadie hates you. Clark doesn’t like you like that. You weirded him out. You lost your two best friends.

Obviously, you’re doing very well.

Superman is fighting some sort of alien monster on the other side of town. It’s your one and only saving grace that both your home and your work are outside the battle boundaries. A damaged apartment would surely send you over the edge right now. You still remember when your car got stomped on last year. You still haven’t bought a new one—you don’t want to risk it.

Besides, you don’t mind walking.

The apartment door sticks a little when you try to open it, so you hit it with your shoulder until it budges. You really need to get that looked at. Whenever you miraculously find the time. Or if you can talk your shady landlord into doing it. Considering it’s been three months and your sink still leaks, you find that doubtful.

You hang your bag up by the door, kick off your shoes, and fall face-first onto your couch. Briefly, you consider cracking open the liquor cabinet, but you think better of it. Nothing in there is going to help you right now. What you really need is a long shower, a cheesy 90-minute movie, and an early bedtime. Maybe a treat for good measure.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. A big part of you wants to ignore it. It could be Clark calling to apologize again. Or Sadie trying to figure out what happened. But it could also be Perry, or one of your sources, or Jimmy needing your help to escape a bad date.

Stifling a groan, you fish it out and glance at the screen. Your stomach drops. It’s Sadie.

One thing you’ve learned about your best friend over the course of your friendship is that she’s persistent. If you don’t answer this, she will call again. And again and again and again. If that doesn’t work, she might even show up at your door. There’s no avoiding her for very long.

Pretending like you don’t feel extremely ill, you accept the call and hold the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Please tell me you’re done with your date, and you didn’t answer your phone in the middle of dinner.”

You sit up so fast that it makes you dizzy. “What?”

“Your date. With Clark. Are you done already?”

The air has been sucked out of your lungs. You clutch your phone so tight you fear it might snap. “I don’t- I need you to explain what’s happening right now.”

When she answers, humor seeps into her voice. “Honey, I asked you to set me up with Kent so you could get with him.”

Every ounce of intelligence you had has flown out the window. It’s like she’s speaking in an unfamiliar language, and you’re only picking up bits and pieces. “Huh?”

“Well, at first I thought my asking you would just get you to confess your feelings about him. But it didn’t, because you’re a sweetheart with no self-preservation. So then came Plan B,” she explains, voice crackling over the call. You wonder if Superman’s fight is affecting the phone lines. “I knew if you tried to set him up with me, he’d have to tell you he didn’t feel that way. And then maybe it could spark a confession between the two of you. That didn’t happen either.”

You’re gaping at the wall in front of you. You cannot believe what you’re hearing right now.

“At the very least, if he ended up accepting the date with me out of politeness or whatever, I could bail. Send you in my stead like the evil genius I am and get your relationship moving,” Sadie continues, oblivious to the crisis you’re having. “But you, you beautiful human, you handled it all on your own. You messed it up so badly that you ended up asking him out yourself. You did my job for me.”

“How… how do you know about that?” You ask, finding your voice after a few long seconds. What kind of maniacal plan is this?

“Lois sits right behind him, sweetie. She heard the whole thing.”

Great. Lois is in on it, too. You’re sure she’s not the only one. A headache is forming behind your eyes, and you rub ‌your temples. This is so ridiculous.

“You- what- why would you do this?”

“Because I was sick of watching you two pine over each other for no good reason!” She exclaims, though there’s no malice behind it. “You want each other, and you should be together, and I knew you just needed a push.”

She’s right. You never in a million years would have approached him of your own volition. He’s so out of your league, you didn’t think it possible for him to reciprocate. Still, this entire scheme feels like way too much effort. Not to mention how terribly you screwed it up.

“Jesus Christ, Sadie, why didn’t you just tell me that?” You groan. “Do you know how awful I felt all day, thinking I betrayed your trust? I’ve been sick to my stomach!”

She laughs. She literally, fully laughs at you. You scowl. Even though she can’t see it, it makes you feel better.

“Well, I would’ve if you’d talked to me! You spent the rest of the day avoiding me like the plague.”

She got you there. You had a skill in running from your problems. “This is so ridiculous. I hate you so much.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she giggles. You both know you don’t mean it. Hell, you’re smiling right now. “So how did the date go?”

The relief you felt at Sadie’s explanation evaporates instantly. Despite having the misunderstanding cleared up, the failed-accidental-first-date still weighs heavily on you. He’d left so suddenly. With some half-assed excuse about an emergency you don’t even think is real. It’s quite possible he just wanted a quick escape.

“It… didn’t.”

“What? What do you mean, ‘it didn’t’?”

You sigh, curling up against the couch cushions. “We’d just sat down, and I was about to tell him about the whole mixup when he just- he left.”

“He left?!” she shrieks, and you have to pull the phone away from your ear. She’s obviously invested in this whole thing.

“Yeah. He pulled out his phone like he got a message- which I’m quite sure he didn’t- and then he said he had to go. Something about a family emergency. I don’t know. It was weird.”

“What the hell? That’s so unlike him. What do you think happened?”

“Not sure,” you shake your head even though she can’t see you. “I’m worried I may have scared him off. I was acting pretty strange when I thought I was betraying you.”

“Very sweet, but unnecessary. I was never betrayed,” she comments unhelpfully. “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem like the type to scare easily. Especially with you. He likes you so much.”

You can’t stop the blush that spreads across your cheeks. Clark liking you so much? It’s a crazy sentiment. Damn near improbable. To even imagine it…

“Well, whatever it was, he left in a hurry. After giving me a hundred dollars to get myself dinner. Which I didn’t use.”

“Ugh, he’s such a gentleman. I love it,” she gushes. You agree, though you don’t feel the need to say it. She knows how you feel. “You should talk to him about it tomorrow. Try to figure out what happened, and how to move forward.”

“Yeah, I was already planning on it. He said we’d reschedule.”

“Oh, perfect, he still likes you then! Not that that was ever in doubt, but still.”

You roll your eyes. “I guess so. I just- God, I can’t believe the day I’ve had.”

Even though you can’t see her, you can picture the apologetic look on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would ice me out all day. I was going to tell you.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s okay. It’s not your fault,” you assure her. “I put myself in that situation. And now that it’s over, I am so tired.”

“Alright, you should head to bed then. I won’t keep you any longer. I just wanted to, you know, debrief.” 

“I appreciate that. I worked myself into quite the frenzy.”

“I don’t doubt it,” she laughs. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And we’ll figure out this whole Clark thing.”

“Sounds good,” you smile into the phone. “See you tomorrow, evil genius.”

“Good night, lovebug.”

The call clicks to an end, and you drop the phone in your lap. Letting out a breath, you rub at your tired eyes. Jesus, what a crazy series of events.

Something tells you tomorrow is gonna have just as much in store.

[twiceasbright]

the whole truth || clark kent

summary: when Clark's glasses fall off at work, you learn the truth pairings: clark kent x reader warnings: fluff, confessing feelings, first kiss, sfw, gn!reader word count: 2.9k a/n: this is my first time posting an x reader fic and also my first time writing for this fandom so please be gentle with me lol

You had been at the Daily Planet for a while now, stepping into big shoes. When Lois Lane had left for reasons that no one had been able to yet explain to you, you’d known it would be a tough job to fill the space she had once occupied. Still, you had gotten your head down and put the work in, getting a front page story after only a few months, and making friends with your co-workers along the way.

There was one co-worker, of course, who you had taken a real shine to. It was hard for a man who must have been well over 6 feet tall to make himself look small, but somehow, Clark Kent managed it. Every morning he tripped into the office, quite literally, at least five minutes late, pushing his glasses up his nose and pushing those dark curls back from his forehead when they fell into his face. It was endearing, and since your desks were so close to one another, endearment had turned to affection pretty quickly.

Having a work crush was fun, for the most part. It gave you something to look forward to when you sat at your desk, bleary-eyed from a late night and an early start after whatever interdimensional or cosmic threat had kept you up half the night. Watching him weave through the crowds of bodies, shoulders hunched and twisting as he tried to get through without walking into anyone, made you giggle. After a few mornings of listening to him lament that he was never in early enough to get a hot cup of coffee, you’d taken to making him a cup when you made your own, which you swore was out of courtesy for a colleague and nothing to do with the way those sapphire blue eyes would light up when he saw the mug and turned around to thank you. Sometimes, if he managed to get in close enough to be called on-time, you would still be walking back to his desk just as he arrived at it. Those mornings were your favourite, because of the gentle brush of his fingers against yours as he gratefully took the mug from you.

Whilst those mornings were few and far between, they were enough to keep stoking the embers of your silly office crush. From what you had gleaned around the office, Clark and Lois had sort of had a thing, so you doubted Clark was up for dating or anything. Your office crush would remain just that. A crush, confined to work. But you could dream.

And you were dreaming, standing at the coffee station again, making yourself another mug. Superman and the Justice Gang (terrible name, thank god it wasn’t official) had kept you awake most of the night battling some alien robots that had come to Metropolis to wipe the city off the map and mine for some kind of rare ore. You were admittedly feeling a little groggy, and were hoping a second (or third, or fourth) cup of coffee would serve as a good pick-me-up. And in quiet moments like these, it was easy to get distracted.

How flustered would Clark get if you asked him out? He sometimes blushed just if you turned to look at him or handed him something from the printer, but announcing that you thought he was cute and wanted to see him outside of work? You could picture his expression, the wide puppy dog eyes and the pink cheeks. And how good would he look over a cande-lit dinner at that little Italian place just down from your apartment? You were sure it would make his eyes sparkle, make the curve of his lower lip look ever fuller—

You step back with your cup, ready to get back to work and out of your head, and walk straight into the unfortunate path of an intern, whose arms are piled high with papers. They yelp, jumping out of the way and into a chair, which spins dangerously quickly across the room and directly into Clark’s path as he’s walking by. He catches it, thank god, but the impact of it must have jolted him, because his glasses fly off and skitter across the floor, landing directly at your feet.

“Oh, shoot!” He murmurs, sounding a little more distressed than you would expect over a pair of glasses. Maybe his vision is really just that bad…

“It’s okay! I have them!” You reassure him, reaching down to nab them off the floor before someone can stand on them.

Clark has stepped closer, his head down, black curls falling into his eyes. “No, no, it’s fine, i—“

“Here you are.” You smile as you looked up, still crouched on the floor, Clark crouched in front of you. You hold the glasses out, but when his eyes meet yours, you smile drops. 

That isn’t Clark.

“You’re—“

“Please don’t.” He whispers. He takes the glasses from you, shoving them indelicately on his face and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. You squint, your eyes suddenly hurting. He’s Clark again?

“But—you’re—you were—“

“Please.” He repeats. He murmurs your name gently, reaching out to touch your arm, shaking his head as he brings you both to standing. You look up into his face, bewildered. He looks like Clark again, but you know what you saw. 

You suddenly become conscious of people looking at you; the chair and everything must have caused a bit of a commotion. You swallow down the words in your throat and nod. Now wasn’t really the time, nor the place.

Clark takes his hand away from your arm, and you immediately miss the warmth of it. “H-how about dinner tonight, at my place?” He says, his voice soft in the small space between you both. You hadn’t realised how close you were now, and you have to tip your head back a bit to look up at him. “And I can explain.”

He knew you wouldn’t be able to just let it go. Who could, really? It wasn’t quite the invitation to dinner with Clark that you’d been hoping for the last few months but you nod anyways. “Okay.” You murmur. You’re about to step away when a thought occurs to you. “Do you want me to bring anything?”

The question seems to take Clark by surprise and he smiles despite the anxiety that tenses his shoulders. “Uh— no, no, it’s fine. Just yourself.”

“Okay.” You say again. A smile of your own breaks through and you duck your head, scurrying back to your desk.

You had been to Clark’s place only once before, when he had left his laptop at the office and you had dropped it off for him on the way home. You hadn’t really gone inside or anything, though, so this was new territory for you. You raise your hand to knock, and just as soon as your knuckles hit the wood your hear Clark’s voice call, “It’s open!”

“It’s just me,” You reply as you step inside his apartment, slipping off your jacket and hanging it up on the rack by the door. You don’t know if it was a shoes off or a shoes on kind of home, but decide to leave them on in case you needed to make a speedy retreat.

Not that you’re expecting it to come to that. In the intervening hours between this morning and now, you’d thought about it non-stop, and gone through a lot of different thoughts and emotions. Maybe you imagined it. Just seeing things. Clark was tall, had dark hair, a strong jawline —  in the right lighting he could look like Superman. But if you imagined it, why would he have offered to explain? 

So maybe he was, like, superman’s long lost twin or something. That didn’t explain the glasses, though. They must have some sort of effect on the mind, that was the only assumption you could really make, because how else would they work? To have tech like that…

You kept coming back to the same conclusion, then. Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. 

Maybe you should be worried about knowing Superman’s secret identity, but this was Superman. He saved puppies from burning buildings and scooped children up out of the way of out of control cars. He was a good man, and you knew Clark was a good man too. Despite the knowledge that you maybe should be worried, you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than curious.

You follow the sounds of someone cooking, and find yourself in the kitchen doorway. Clark stands with his back to you, but he turns to look over his shoulder when you say, “It smells good in here. What’re you making?”

You hadn’t assumed he would be much of a cook, for some reason. Then again, you hadn’t assumed he would be as superhero either, so maybe Clark was just full of surprises. 

“Pasta puttanesca.” He replies, giving the pan a stir. He’s still wearing his suit from earlier, but he’s ditched the jacket and the tie, allowing you to see the muscles shift in his shoulders as he works. You take a small breath, still standing in the doorway as Clark finally turns around to face you. “Do you want a drink?”

You kind of do - a bit of Dutch courage might be good right now - but more than anything, you want answers. Your silence makes him smile, and he leans against the counter, arms folded over his broad chest. He’s wearing his glasses, and you don’t know why it surprises you, since he always has them on. You just thought, maybe, he might ditch them tonight. 

“I just… want to know what’s going on.” You say, raising your shoulders in a gentle shrug. “Make sure I’m not going crazy.”

“You’re not going crazy.” He reassures you, his voice gentle, almost hidden by the sizzle of the pans on the stovetop. 

You take another breath in. “You’re Superman.”

Clark’s gaze falls to the floor, arms crossed over his chest. He always wears his jacket in the office, which is maybe why you hadn’t noticed just how muscular he really is. Plus, now that he’s at home, he doesn’t seem to be hunching half as much as he normally does. He seems taller, more statuesque, and you know for certain that you weren’t seeing things earlier. With the glasses on he still looks different, but the way he carries himself? That’s a super hero.

“They’re, uh, hypno-glasses.” He taps the frames with one finger, finally looking up at you again. “They make people see what I want them to see. It’s not super strong, or anything, more a trick of the mind sort of thing.” 

You nod. It’s strange, but it’s sort of an easy concept to follow, if you don’t dig into the specifics too much. You take a few steps forward, and nod at the glasses. “May I?”

He shifts a little, but he nods. “Be my guest.”

You reach up slowly, as if tending to a wounded deer, and slip the glasses off his face. You aren’t often so close to him, but now you can feel his breath fanning your face as your hands hover by his temples. Again, as you remove the glasses, your eyes hurt. You blink a few times and there he is: Superman, standing right in front of you. 

“Trippy.” You murmur, your eyes wandering over his features. His jawline is just a touch stronger, his nose a little bit straighter. You wouldn’t say that Clark was plain, not at all, but compared to Superman… well, he’s a heartthrob for a reason. 

You look down at the glasses in your hands, realising you’ve been staring at Clark for at least a minute in silence. “Will they work on me?”

“I don’t see why not. Not on me, though.”

“No.” You agree. “Because of the supervision?”

“Right.” Clark nods, smiling at you in a way that makes the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter. 

“Why not just wear a mask?” You ask him, hoping it’ll distract you. 

Clark turns, stirring the sauce in the pan again. You had almost forgotten about it, but you’re glad that he hasn’t. Maybe this isn’t the first date you’d dreamed of, but you���d still quite like dinner. 

“People in masks can be… scary.” He says. When he’s content with the sauce he turns to look at you again, leaning once more against the counter. “I’m an alien with super strength, super speed, laser eyes– I should be terrifying. But I don’t want to be.”

It’s a sweet sentiment. One that seems very Clark, and very Superman, all at once. Which makes sense now, given what you know. “Is that why you wear your underwear on the outside?” You tease lightly.

Clark laughs. “It is, actually, yeah. I don’t want people to be scared of me. I just want to help.”

God, it’s no wonder most of the world is obsessed with Superman. His words and the sincerity in his voice… you know he means it. And he’s right, Superman should be terrifying. A being that powerful? He should be locked away or put down, lest he try to take over the world. But Superman has never wanted to do anything but help, but save people. He’s a good man.

“The glasses just help me to blend in a little.” He continues. “Help people notice me less–”

You can’t help it. You snort as you try to hide a laugh, and you raise your hand to cover your mouth. He looks at you, bewildered. “What?”

“You–” You shake your head, smiling. Not laughing at him, just… amused. That he would ever think no one would notice him. You slip his glasses back into place, and whilst it no longer makes your eyes strain, your head does feel a little funny as he becomes the Clark you know. Though, you’re sure you can see a bit more of Superman in his features, now… 

“Clark, you might not look like Superman– like yourself with the glasses on,” You correct yourself. “But you’re still you. You’re kind, and helpful, and– yknow. Cute. Tall.” You smile. “Half the office has a crush on you.”

He still looks a little bewildered, and there’s a blush spreading over his cheekbones that you want to follow with your fingertips. “Huh.” He murmurs. He stares at a spot over your shoulder for a moment, and you smile at his oblivious he may have been. But then his bright blue eyes flick back to you, and without hesitation, he asks, “Do you?”

Sometimes, you forget that Clark is also a journalist, so he knows when to ask the right question, and he’s not too afraid to ask them. Which is why it takes you off guard, and your smile shifts, becoming a little more sheepish as you duck your head, and say, “Well, sure. Of course. I’ve had a crush on you since the day we met.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you wonder if it was wrong to admit it. What if he doesn’t feel the same way, and you’ve made work incredibly awkward? It’s a big office, but not quite big enough to avoid Clark forever. Before he can say anything either way, though, an alarm goes off.

“Darn it.” He murmurs, spinning around to tap his phone and turn the timer off. He takes the pans off the heat, tipping the pasta into the strainer in the sink. You watch him, your heart still in your throat. 

“Y’know, if I’d known this was a first date I might’ve made something more impressive.” He says, shaking his head at himself as he fetches two plates.

A smile spreads over your features. “This is a first date?” You ask.

He turns to look at you, and now it’s his turn to look a little bit sheepish. “Well, y’know – if two people who like each other have dinner then that’s a date, right?”

You purse your lips to keep from grinning. He likes you. Clark Kent - Superman - likes you back. You feel like a teenager again, and the joy makes you feel almost lightheaded. “I think it’s only a date if you agree that it’s a date.” You say. “But… I think we can call this an unofficial one.”

He grins, flashing a smile so bright that it dazzles you for a second. “That sounds fair.” He agrees.

“And Clark–” You step forward, putting a hand on his arm. As much as you want to eat, you need him to know that everything you’ve learned tonight stays with you. You might be a reporter, but this is one story you won’t be writing up. “I’m not going to tell anyone about– you know.” You look at his glasses. He hasn’t taken them off yet, and you find you’re glad. Superman’s great, of course, but you’re here to have dinner with Clark. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank you.” He murmurs. 

“If,” You continue, smiling coyly. “You kiss me. That’s the cost of my silence.”

He laughs gently, but he turns to face you, his large hands settling on your hips, sliding around to the small of your back as your arms wind around his neck. “Seems fair.” He agrees, leaning down to press his mouth to yours. His lips are just as soft as you had imagined them, full and warm beneath yours, which part on a soft sigh. He pulls you even closer so that your bodies press together, and as his tongue slides along yours you think you might be willing to forget about dinner entirely.

Your stomach, however, doesn’t agree. It rumbles loudly, and you pull back an inch to laugh as Clark does the same, though his hands remain pressed to your back, and your arms don’t shift from around his neck. At least until you reach up with one hand to push the curls off his forehead, saying, “We should probably eat.”

“Seems like it.” He agrees with a chuckle. “The table’s set, if you wanna sit down. I’ll bring it through.”

You nod, rocking onto your tiptoes to press another brief kiss to his lips, unable to stop yourself. As you head to the table you suppose you’ll have to talk about what dating a superhero actually means, but not now. For now you’re content to spend the night with Clark, and take the rest as it comes.

[twiceasbright]

clark, who perks up when you call his name the way dogs react to hearing the word walk. pleasantly startled, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy in a six-foot-something frame.

clark, who insists on carrying all the groceries. so now you just walk beside him, one arm looped through his, watching him play pack mule with unconcealed joy.

clark, who sits beside you at the fountain, tearing bread crusts into little hunks for the doves.

clark, who taps your knee when he spots a squirrel in the park. stops mid-step and whispers, “look, look,” with the same excitement of one pointing out a comet—never mind it’s just a rodent with a peanut.

clark, who sets his lockscreen to a selfie of you both. candid, taken mid-laugh. your head resting against his shoulder, his smile half-formed, cheek pressed into your temple. he carries a printed copy in his wallet, too.

clark, who texts you pictures he’s taken. things that remind him of you, or things he knows you’d like. a cat loaf in a patch of sunlight, a diner chalkboard advertising your favourite pie, or a silly meme he figured you’d laugh at.

clark, who always ends up the big spoon, no matter how you start. even if you fall asleep facing him, curled into his chest. by morning, you’ll wake up with his arm around your waist.

clark, who really knows how to cook. real food, too—not just bachelor chow reheated in a pan. i’m talking soups from scratch or stews that simmer for hours. he doesn’t let you lift a finger unless it’s to taste-test something off the spoon.

clark, who hums commercial jingles around the apartment while doing chores, such as lifting the entire couch (with you still on it) so he can vacuum underneath.

clark, who carries you bridal-style to bed.

clark, who packs little sandwiches in wax paper when you work late. your name written in block letters across the front.

clark, who leaves post-it notes behind cabinets, in the pockets of your jackets. blue ink scrawled sideways. “i love you,” “you looked really pretty this morning.”